Or now, she supposed, if he had a date.
At least he’d come home last night. He’d cracked her bedroom door just after eleven and looked in while she’d pretended to be asleep. She hadn’t been ready to talk yet, the right words still ordering themselves in her head, soldiers that had refused to get into formation. Clearly, he hadn’t guessed what she’d done, the BMW having been returned to the garage just fine, and with Terrie then asleep, that mouth was on standby.
And there had been more good news as that woman in the LBD had gone home. As her father had reshut her door, Elle had watched the departure from her bed, the headlights flashing across the front of the house as whatever car the date had been driving backed out of their driveway and moved off down their street—
The creaking of the cellar stairs was soft as her father ascended on tiptoes. He was always worried about how much they slept, so he was quiet when he moved around in the early morning.
Elle flushed, her palms getting sweaty, her heart skipping in her chest.
As he opened the basement door, he was in the process of wiping his forehead with a white towel and stopped short.
“Well, hello. You’re up early.”
Basile Allaine was just over six feet tall, with thick dark hair, a face that always had the shadow of a beard no matter how often he shaved, and a now-much-less-dad-bod than before the Peloton bike purchase.
Elle tried to smile. “Just felt like getting a head start.”
“I like the discipline.” He looped the towel around the back of his neck. “If you want, we can get your sister up and I’ll drive you in? That way you won’t have to ride the bus.”
“The bus is good. I don’t want to make you late.”
Her dad frowned. “You okay, Bug?”
She’d been called Bug for so long, she had no idea where the nick had come from. And lately, it had been annoying her. She was sixteen now, and who wanted to be called an insect, anyway? Right now, though, she was hoping it meant he’d go easy on her.
Ties to her younger, cuter, much-less-likely-tojoyride-in-a-car self.
“What’s going on?” Her dad came over and pulled out a chair. “Talk to me.”
Elle spent some time looking at her nails. She’d painted them black last week, and the tips were already chipping.
“Whatever it is, we can work through it,” he murmured.
Which was what he always said.
She looked up. Her father didn’t have much of an accent anymore, but she’d been told by many who apparently knew that he looked like the Frenchman he was and would always be. And hey, he also somehow managed to smell good and be all put-together in his black nylon workout clothes even after he’d been pedaling in the basement for an hour. Which seemed French, she guessed.
He was forty-six, if she remembered right. Was that old? It sounded old.
“We need to talk about last night,” she said.
There was a jerk in his shoulders, and then he sat back. As his eyes dropped to the table, she felt an urge to cry. Somehow, he must have guessed what she’d done. Maybe by the tire tracks in the driveway or—
You were an adult when you took that car out, sweetie, and now you’ve got an adult-level problem.
As the random male voice shot through her mind, Elle hissed and put her hands to her temples.
“Are you okay? Elle!”
She batted away her father’s palms as he reached forward. “I’m fine. Just slept wrong.” When the pain faded, she sat back like he was. “About last night. Dad, I know that you—”
“I should have told you a while ago.”
In Elle’s head, she finished what she’d been about to say: —don’t let me take your car out without permission and supervision.
Out loud, she said, “Tell me what?”
That he’d, like, installed security cameras somewhere and already knew she’d snuck the BMW out for a drive?
“About Megan.” He took the towel off his neck and pressed it to his face. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up, and I was worried about how you guys would feel.”
“Megan?” She pictured the woman who’d come to the door, all confident and perfumed, all . . . sexy. “Wait, the one from last night?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t your first date with her last night?”
There was a pause before he answered. And he lowered his stare and shook his head before he spoke. “No, it wasn’t.”
Elle sat forward. “How long has this been . . . wait, you’re seeing her? Like, girlfriend seeing her?”
“I didn’t know how to handle it all.” He stared across the table. “There’s no handbook for divorce, no blueprint for how to do all of this. And I just didn’t know what was for the best.”
“I’m pretty sure lying to your kids is not on that list.”
He nodded. “That’s fair, and I don’t blame you for being mad. But I’m trying to be sensitive to . . .”
“To Mom? Is that who you’re really worried about?”
“Look, I know that she’s having a hard time. I know that you go over there and it’s hard. I know you worry about her. I worry about her, too.”
Elle frowned. “So Megan is your girlfriend.”
Her father took a deep breath. “Yes, she is.”
As the words sank in, all she could do was sit there and blink. And then she looked at those running shoes by the snow boots and the avocados in with the apples. Suddenly, their little four-top in their new “family” house had a smug ghost sitting in the empty chair.
“Holy shit, Dad, since when has this been going on.” And then she did the math. “Are you even kidding me. All those business meetings? Those overnight conferences when Auntie Bette came over and stayed with us? They were all because you were seeing ‘Megan’—”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m really sorry.”
“So you’ve been lying since for how long?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How long?”
When he didn’t reply, a cold wash of dread went through Elle. “Is she the reason you got a divorce? Oh, my God, did you cheat on Mom?”
“No, of course not.”
They were the right words. But his eyes had dropped to the table again.
“If you’re lying to me now,” Elle said in a low voice, “and I find out, I am moving in with Mom and taking Terrie with me. I don’t care if that apartment is a mess.”
“Elle . . .” He cursed softly. In French. “It was very complicated. Things between your mother and I, especially at the end, were . . . it was all just complicated.”
Elle shoved her chair back, and as she stood up, her parka fell off her lap and onto the floor. “That’s a Facebook status. It’s not an acceptable reason for killing a family.”
For all of her life, her father had been the steady and calm one, the one she could look to for guidance. Now, he seemed as lost as a child.
“Tell me,” she demanded.
“Your mom and I had been drifting apart for a while.”
“Because you were cheating on her!”
“No, that came later.” This was said almost absently, as if he’d meant to keep that to himself. And then he seemed to snap back to attention. “People grow apart, Elle. It’s a sad, terrible truth. We started with the best of intentions, but then . . . things changed. Especially after her parents died in that car accident. She just disappeared into herself, and I don’t blame her for that.”