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Did he? If he did, I don’t remember it.

“I just wanted to give this to Mom—”

My dad snatches it out of my hand, eyes darting over the painting. I wait for something, a weird smile on my face though my stomach is starting to hurt.

“Go to bed, Lillian.”

It’s not even dark out, but I don’t like it when dad gets angry and I can tell he already is.

“But, Mommy—”

“She’s fine. She’s just tired. Go to bed.”

The memory freckles out as I sit on the plush love seat in the living room of my dad’s rented house.

“Lillian?” My dad’s tone is letting me know he’s called my name already and I didn’t respond.

“Sorry,” I say, dropping the pencil in my hand to the side of my curled-up, sock-clad feet. He stands, a glass of cognac gripped in his hand as he steps toward the roaring fire and adds some kindling. “I was distracted.”

He gives me a look—a raised eyebrow on one side, the other slightly dipped.

I copy him, standing and dusting off my skirt, stepping to hand him the paper in my hand.

“It’s our old house,” I say. “I . . .”

I made it for you, I think. But I don’t say it. The words refuse to move my lips, too vulnerable in this stifling warm room.

He inspects the sketch, the waving patterns and swirling style to even the straightened lines. The structure of the house is clear, but it’s the gardens and trees surrounding it that give the movement. There’s a flow to my art that I know resembles the way Van Gogh painted—an almost pointillistic style but with etching. When I paint, it’s marked by a thicker, repetitive brushstroke.

My dad doesn’t say anything, before handing it back to me.

“How are your classes going?”

It feels like I swallowed a hot coal. Or he stabbed me clean through with the fire iron he was handling moments ago.

“Did you retake your math test?” he asks when I don’t answer.

I’m bleeding out and he can’t even see it.

“Not yet,” I manage to say.

“Then maybe you should be working on that.”

“Yes, sir.” I nod, because it feels like I can’t do anything else, other than choke on the fumes of his clear disappointment.

“Carson is good with numbers,” my dad offers then, polishing off his glass. “I’m sure he’d be happy to help you.”

“Toren’s good at math. He helped me in school,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Desperate to cool off the rising irritation I feel from my dad at the mere mention of Toren’s name, I add, “And Carson is really busy.”

I don’t even know if it’s true. What I do think is true is that Carson doesn’t like me. I think, for a moment when we met, he did. But that it all slowly disappeared when he got to know me, or at least as much as he could see. Most people don’t enjoy being around me. Not even my dad, but he’s never abandoned me.

It’s the reason I swallow the hurt and nod as he says, “He’s a junior agent under a guy I set him up with. I’m sure he’s working hard, but he still should have time for you, Lillian. Don’t worry.”

It’s not at all what I was worried about, but I just keep nodding.

“You don’t need to be spending time with Toren.”

“But—”