Neither of them says anything about what happened, and I don’t ask. I think I’m only realizing now that every friendship is an island. Willa and Sydney’s relationship doesn’t have anything to do with what’s between me and Willa or how much I care about Sydney. We are all important to each other in different but similar ways, and that’s all that matters.
At eleven-thirty, I tell them I have to go. They have later curfews than me, but after I hug Willa goodbye, Sydney walks me to coat check and stands with me while we wait for the woman in the closet to grab my jacket.
“Thanks,” Sydney says, and I know she’s thanking me for telling Willa to talk to her even though she doesn’t say it. She nudges me with her elbow. I squeeze her tight before walking out into the cold.
I’m about a block away from the club when I realize my gloves are missing. “Shit,” I say, checking the time. I should still make it home before curfew even if I go back to look for them, but I’ll be cutting it close. I retrace my steps quickly, heading back to the club, scanning the sidewalk as I go.
“Are there any gloves on the floor in there?” I ask when I push inside the club and squeeze through the crowd to get to coat check. “They’re black and leather with a fuzzy fringe?”
The woman says she’ll check, so I look back up at the stage while I wait. My eyes search the crowd for Willa and Sydney too. It takes a minute to find them because Sydney’s back is to the door. But when I do, Willa’s fingers are all tangled in Sydney’s curls, while Sydney’s hand is on Willa’s cheek. They’re kissing, I realize all in a rush, and my mouth falls open. I look away quickly, because everything about the kiss feels private and special—like something I wasn’t meant to see.
But a few minutes later, as I dig around in my purse for a tip after the woman hands me my gloves, and then for the whole ride home, I can’t stop grinning.
* * *
—
When I get to my dad’s, he’s waiting for me. He’s sitting on his small sofa and there’s a pot of tea on the stove. I kick off my shoes and pour myself a cup. I sit down across from him and tuck my feet underneath me.
“So, Baby Girl,” he says, not mincing words. “I won’t be able to sleep until we clear the air. At least a little. So do your worst. Where do you want to start?”
Even though it’s late, I’m wired from the show, so I ask him to tell me everything, from the very beginning. Did he think Ms. Novak was pretty the very first time he saw her? Did he leave Chisholm because he thought his feelings would go away? Why wasn’t he honest with Mom sooner? Or with me at all? Did he realize that they had ruined absolutely everything?
He answers every cruel question I throw in his direction. And he answers honestly. Something about how upset he looks as he speaks lets me know he’s finally telling me the whole truth. He was isolated after Gigi died because I was lost in my grief for her, and Mom worked more than she did anything else.
“It isn’t an excuse,” he says. “But I loved her too, you know. She was your grandmother, and she was Naomi’s mother, but she was important to me too. I felt like I couldn’t be sad because your sadnesses were bigger.” He stands up and pours more tea for both of us. “I was lonely,” he says simply. “Mia made me less so.” He watches me sip with forlorn eyes, and I watch him right back, trying to see past the person I thought he was and straight through to who he really is.
Just before I head to bed, I realize I have one more question for him. “Are you going to pursue a relationship with her?” I ask, thinking more of how this might affect Mom the most. I’m thinking about parent-teacher conferences and school fundraisers. I’m thinking about how Mom would have to bear witness to the painful truth of them being together.
Daddy looks at his feet. He clasps his hands, and then he looks back up at me. “To be honest,” he says, “I’m not really sure. She wants to, but I don’t know what a relationship with her would look like. Especially while you’re still a student at Chisholm.” He puts the tips of his fingers on the table between us, but then he lets his hand fall away. “I don’t want to do anything else that causes you or your mother more pain.”
For the first time, it occurs to me that Daddy might be the biggest loser in all of this. He gave up most of his life—a job, a family, a home—all for a love he may not even get to experience. But the heart is strange and life is even stranger. Sometimes love can devastate.
I tell him about the Cover Girls. It’s a small kindness I feel I owe him for being so honest with me about everything. I tell him about Charm’s gorgeous voice and how tiny the club was and that Willa and Sydney are new friends I hope I can hold on to. He listens and laughs and things feel as close to normal as they’ve felt in days. Then I say the most important thing. I stand up, still cupping my mug in my hands. I imagine this moment as something I’ll keep forever: us exactly as we are, encased in glass, glitter fluttering around us like stars.
“I think I forgive you. And Mom. But I’m still upset. And I probably will be for a while.”
He nods. “I know, Baby Girl. Sweet dreams.”
In my room, it hits me that I’ve always known that I wasn’t perfect. I screw things up all the time. So I don’t know why I expected Daddy or Mom or Layla to be any better than me. Anything more than human.
I text Dom.
You up?
Yeah, he sends back instantly.
Hi.
Hi.
I talked to my dad.
How’d it go?
I send a shrugging emoji.
You know that line from A Midsummer Night’s Dream: “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind”?
It’s late, he sends after a long minute. I don’t know if I can stay with you and your Shakespeare quotes right now but I’ll try.
I laugh a little.
I guess what I don’t get is how you’re supposed to start seeing things more clearly.
No one tells you that, and I don’t want to be blindsided again like I was with Layla. Like I was with my dad.
I want to love the people I love with my eyes wide open.
I can tell Dom doesn’t know what to say, and I guess there’s no easy answer to this. And I wish I could kiss him. I wish I could touch the smooth skin on the back of his hand and along the straight line of his collarbone.
I wish I could kiss you right now, he sends. And then, Tell me about the show.
I grin again, and I tell him everything.