Page 41 of Play Nice

“Please. You love this,” I say. “Quality time with your favorite daughter.”

“I don’t have a favorite. You’re all my favorite.”

“Sure.” I wink at him, and he bursts out laughing.

“Subtle,” he says, shaking his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

On the drive back, we have a sing-along to some Journey, some Whitesnake.

A half hour later, we pull up to 6 Edgewood.

“You sure you don’t want to come over for dinner?” Amy asks.

“I have leftover spaghetti in the fridge,” I say. “And the other half of my sandwich from lunch. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Dad says, parking and getting out to open the door for me. He helps me carry my spoils into the house. Amy stays in the car.

“Never took Amy for superstitious,” I say to Dad, punching in the code to the front door.

“It’s not that. You know she doesn’t believe in that crap,” he says. “This place caused a lot of pain and suffering. She was the one who put us all back together. Your sisters, especially.”

Daphne and Leda confided a lot in Amy. I loved her, but most of the time growing up, she just felt like my dance teacher. One who happened to live in my house and be married to my dad. Maybe because I was a legitimately talented dancer and did it competitively and spent more time with Amy in that capacity than my sisters did.

My relationship with Amy is about as deep as a baby pool. But it’s sweet and easy, and I think I prefer it this way.

I pop my gum.

“Don’t do that,” Dad says. “I hate that.”

I do it again.

We carry the rest in, and he says he’ll come by tomorrow during his lunch, then he gives me a big hug and leaves.

I paint some swatches on the wall in the living room, but there isn’t enough daylight left for me to determine a favorite. I pick at the other half of my deli sandwich and drink a bottle of kombucha while sitting on the couch, editing and posting the antiques store photos.

The knock at the door is so jarring I just sit there after it happens, wondering if it actually happened, until it happens again.

I check my phone to see if Dad called. Maybe he accidentally left something or has something to drop off? But no missed calls. No texts—not from him, anyway.

Phone in hand, I step cautiously down the stairs. I see someone through the glass panel in the door, but the flower obscures them. Is it a delivery? Did I order something and forget? It’s a little late for UPS.

I open the door just enough to poke my head through.

“I knocked this time,” he says. It’s Austin. He’s got a six-pack of beer and a tray of cookies.

“You’re learning,” I say. “How’s your nephew?”

“A narc,” he says. “Try to be the fun uncle and suddenly you’re a bad influence.”

“It’s a thin line.”

“Exactly.”

“You want to come in?” I say, stepping back and holding the door open.

He looks past me into the house.

“Unless you’re too intimidated,” I say.