My father returned from his business trip with the same energy as a man who just discovered Bluetooth for the first time and wanted to tell everyone about it.
"Check this out," he said, tapping the side of his new wireless earpiece like he'd invented it. "Crystal-clear audio. Changed my life. I took three meetings in the car and only mildly endangered one pedestrian."
"Great," I muttered, holding the door open.
He wheeled in his suitcase like a dad-shaped hurricane. "Did you remember to water the fern?"
"We don't own a fern."
"I know. That was a test. You failed."
Behind him, Elena stood in the kitchen wearing a polite smile so strained it looked physically painful. I couldn't tell if she was glad to see him or just trying not to throw a spatula.
"Welcome home," she said.
He walked over and kissed her cheek. "There's my girl."
I looked away so fast I nearly pulled a neck muscle.
"You two survive without me?" he asked, clapping me on the back like a proud team coach. "Didn't burn the house down?"
I forced a laugh. "No fires. Just a minor psychological crisis."
He laughed. "That's my boy!"
I wasn't sure if I wanted to scream or move to Canada.
Elena caught my eye from across the kitchen. For a second, her smile faltered. Just slightly. Enough for me to know she was also internally screaming.
"Let's do dinner tonight," Dad said, dumping his suitcase by the stairs. "Family dinner. My treat."
"Tonight?" Elena asked, too fast.
"You two been eating cereal and frozen pizza all week, right?"
I opened my mouth to protest, then remembered the single spoon I'd eaten dry cereal with in the laundry room.
"Dinner sounds great," Elena said, her voice tight.
Fantastic.
A forced family dinner with my father and the woman I was actively trying not to have romantic thoughts about.
What could go wrong?
At the Restaurant
We ended up at a place called Trentino's, which sounded fancy but looked like it hadn't been renovated since 2007. The menus were sticky. The candles were fake. The music was weirdly loud and included at least three Michael Bublé remixes.
Dad ordered steak. I ordered the cheapest pasta. Elena ordered a cocktail the size of her head.
The conversation was… rough.
"So," Dad said, cutting into his filet, "Elena tells me you're taking a break from school?"
"Temporarily," I said.
"Just don't lose momentum. You take too long off, you'll never go back. Like a treadmill."
I blinked. "What?"
"You stop running. You forget how. Next thing you know, you're forty, bald, and working in logistics."
"Wow. Uplifting."
He turned to Elena. "What about you, babe? How's the house treating you? Aaron hasn't driven you completely insane yet, has he?"
Elena laughed. But it sounded more like a cough. "He's been… fine."
"Just fine?" Dad joked.
She sipped her drink.
"You've got a good kid," she said finally, not looking at me.
Dad beamed. "Yeah, he's alright."
I stabbed my pasta like it had insulted my ancestors.
Twenty Minutes Later
Somewhere between the second bread basket and the moment the waiter spilled water on my lap, everything officially unraveled.
Dad excused himself to take a work call — "Bluetooth revolution!" he said proudly — and disappeared into the parking lot, still chewing steak.
Which left me and Elena. Alone. Across from each other at a candlelit table like the beginning of a very questionable date.
We sat in silence.
Then she leaned in.
"If I blink twice, fake a seizure so we can leave."
"Tempting," I said. "But I think they'd charge us extra for the cleanup."
She picked at her salad. "He didn't even ask about my work. I started freelancing last week."
"He didn't know?"
"I told him. He nodded. Then asked if we needed more dish soap."
"Oof."
She looked up. "He just talks at me, you know? Not to me."
I hesitated. "You don't have to stay with someone who doesn't see you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that advice or a confession?"
"Just… an observation."
"You should stop making observations."
"Why?"
"Because I start thinking about things I shouldn't."
I swallowed.
The air between us went sharp. Tense.
Elena tapped her glass. "You've been avoiding me."
I looked at her. "You've been impossible to avoid."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's a problem."
She leaned in again. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Jasmine and guilt.
"Then do something about it."
I didn't say anything.
Because just then, my dad returned. Slid into the booth. Slapped his Bluetooth back into his ear.
"What'd I miss?" he asked, wiping his mouth.
"Nothing," Elena said, her voice instantly sweet again. "We were just talking about how great the bread is."
Dad smiled. "Told you. Trentino's has the best carbs in the city."
We both nodded.
And chewed.
And smiled.
And lied.
The Drive Home
The ride back was silent. Dad drove, humming along to Bublé on the radio. I sat in the backseat even though there was room in the front. Elena stared out the window like she was watching her life from the outside.
When we got home, Dad yawned and headed upstairs with his suitcase. "You two clean up dinner trash?" he called.
"We didn't cook anything," I muttered.
"Love ya!" he shouted back.
Elena and I stood in the dark kitchen, lit only by the streetlight outside.
Neither of us moved.
"Goodnight," she said finally, turning to go.
"Elena."
She stopped.
I didn't know what I was going to say until I said it.
"You deserve someone who listens."
She didn't turn around.
"Thanks," she said quietly. "But it's not your job to be that person."
And then she was gone.
Again.
That Night
I stared at the ceiling until 3 a.m.
I wasn't supposed to care.
I wasn't supposed to feel this way.
But I did.
And I didn't know how much longer I could pretend otherwise.