“How was the party in the ballroom?” I ask. “People seem to be talking about it.”
The chair creaks as my father sits back, his eyes shining. “The party was wonderful,” he says in a quiet voice. “Things have changed, Audrey. For the first time I know we’ll be all right. The three of us together. You’ll see.” He pauses, and a shadow of melancholy crosses his face. I can’t quite place it, even though I’m sure I’ve seen that expression before. “I hope you’ll see.”
There’s a thumping in my chest, an impending sickness at a thought I can’t reach. I’m glad my father is optimistic, but I’m not going to buy into the idea that we’ll be a happy family by sundown. I’m more cautious than that. I take a sip of water and wait for my nausea to fade. When it does, I talk again, steering us toward lighter topics, trying to shake the uncomfortableness that’s sunk into my skin.
“What did you wear?” I ask. “I doubt you packed your Armani suits.”
He chuckles, warming considerably. “I did leave those behind,” he jokes. “My polo shirts didn’t fit the bill, so the hotel sent up a suit. This, too.” He pulls on the lapel of his jacket. “They’ve practically given me a new wardrobe.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “Maybe mention I could use a dress or two.”
“I will. And,” he confides, “I met your brother’s latest obsession at the party. Cathy is . . .” He widens his eyes.
“A psychopath?” I offer, repeating Elias’s description.
“I’d say intense. Sociopathic, possibly. I could be wrong.” He lifts his hands in a shrug, and I find myself smiling. The weight lifts from around us for the first time since my mother died. Figures that Dad and I would bond over my brother’s terrible taste in women. Speaking of my brother:
“Have you talked to Daniel today?” I ask.
“Not since last night. He left the party early. He and Cathy seemed to be having a fight.”
“Daniel was at the party?” I scoff. “What the hell! He told me he wasn’t going.”
“Language,” my father reminds me, and then raises his finger to the server to indicate we’re ready to order. “Daniel didn’t want to be there,” he continues, partly distracted by his menu. “But I’m guessing he was dragged. Either way, it was nice to see him in a suit instead of a filthy sweatshirt. The ladies certainly seemed to appreciate it, as well.”
“Overshare,” I mutter, and glance at my menu. But I’m not in the mood to eat anymore. Daniel said he wasn’t going to the party, that liar. How is it that both Daniel and my father are invited to a party and I’m not? What sort of bizarro world is this?
Warren arrives and my father quietly orders a club sandwich. I order the crepes. I put my elbow on the table and rest my chin on the heel of my palm, looking over at my dad. I still can’t believe he went to a party last night. Then again, the socializing could be the catalyst for his change of heart. He wants to be a better father; he seems more confident, less in mourning. Who knows, maybe things have changed. He might not take us to Grandma Nell’s at all.
“How did your night go?” my father asks. “I didn’t see you wandering the halls, so you must have found some form of entertainment.”
“I wasn’t feeling great and went to bed early.” That’s . . . sort of the truth. I leave off the part where I hung out on the roof drinking alcohol, sneaked around with a strange boy who I almost kissed, and saw Daniel’s psycho girlfriend in the elevator at sunrise. My father doesn’t need all the details.
“Not feeling well?” he asks. “But you never get sick.”
I turn to him to see if he’s joking, but his earnest expression tells me he’s not. “Dad, I’m always sick. Mono, pneumonia, chicken pox?”
He presses his lips together, looking embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says. “Your mother usually handled that side of the parenting.” We’re both silent for a moment, letting the words sink in. “How are you feeling now?” he asks to fill space.
“Fine,” I say. “Probably just a pulled muscle, but my arm’s better now. I’m not even sure how I hurt it. Slept on it wrong in the car, most likely.”
Just then Daniel walks into the restaurant—his threadbare T-shirt impossibly wrinkled, like it’s been balled up at the bottom of his backpack. His hair is askew, his lips pale. He’s obviously hungover. He drops into his chair and then winces and touches his temple. “Shit,” he mumbles.
“Daniel,” my father warns him. But Dad’s face has brightened, and I think he might be truly happy to have us together for a meal. I used to dream about moments like this.
“Coffee, black,” Daniel says when the server comes by. He continues to moan until he lifts his head, surprised we’re watching him. “Sorry,” he says. “I have no idea how this happened.”