“Why not your dad?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s not feeling well enough to fly.” What shape will he be in when I get there? My email exchanges with Agnes have been focused on travel arrangements, not his current state of health.

“But he knows you’re coming, right?”

“Of course he does.” Agnes said they’d have my room ready and they were so happy I was coming.

Her mouth twists with worry. “What kind of plane?”

“One that stays in the air, hopefully.”

She spears me with a sharp look. “This is not funny, Calla. Some of your father’s planes are tiny. And you’re flying through the mountains and—”

“It’ll be fine. You’re the one who’s afraid of flying, remember?”

“You should have waited for a commercial flight. They fly those Dash 8s to Bangor daily now,” she mutters.

“There weren’t any seats available on whatever you said until Tuesday.” I’m heading to Alaska and suddenly Mom’s a plane-model expert. “Relax, you’re being dramatic.”

“You’ll see . . .” She gives me a smug look, but it fades quickly. “When’s he starting treatment?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find out when I get there.”

Mom huffs. “And you’re connecting through where again?”

“Minnesota, Seattle, Anchorage.” It’s going to be a grueling day of travel, and not even to anywhere exotic like Hawaii or Fiji, places I’d eagerly spend a day flying to. But the flip side is that, twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be standing face-to-face with Wren Fletcher, after twenty-four years.

My stomach squeezes.

Mom drums her fingertips over her knee. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport? I can get someone to start doing the arrangements for me.”

I’m struggling to maintain my patience. “I have to be there at four a.m. I’ll grab a cab. I’ll be fine, Mom. Stop fretting.”

“I just . . .” She tucks strands of her hair behind her ear. We used to have matching hair color but now that she dyes it to cover the invading gray, she’s opted for a darker shade of brown with hints of copper.

I know what this all boils down to. It’s not the long distance or the tiny plane or the fact that I’ll be away for a week that’s got her so unsettled.

“He can’t hurt me any more than he already has,” I say more softly.

The silence in the room is deafening.

“He’s not a bad man, Calla.”

“Maybe not. But he’s a shitty father.” I struggle to tug the suitcase zipper closed.

“Yes, maybe. Still, I’m glad you’re going. It’s important that you meet him, at least once.”

She studies a small wound on her thumb, likely a prick from a rose thorn. “All those years of smoking. I begged him to quit. You’d think he would, after watching your grandfather wither away from damn cigarettes.” Mom shakes her head, her brow—smoother than it should be at her age, thanks to rounds of laser skin care and -fillers—furrowing ever so slightly.

“Maybe he did quit, and it was too late. But if he hasn’t, I’m sure the doctor will make him quit now.” I haul a suitcase to its wheels, dusting my hands for impact. “One down.”

Mom’s hazel-green gaze rolls over me. “Your highlights look nice.”

“Thanks. I had to grovel to get Fausto to squeeze me in last night.” I glance in a nearby mirror as I brush a strand of blonde hair off my face. “He went lighter than I wanted, but I don’t have time to fix it before I go.” I can’t help but notice the dark circles lingering under my eyes, which even a thick smear of concealer can’t hide. The last two days have been a whirlwind—of shopping, primping, packing, and planning.

Breaking up with my boyfriend.

“So, you and Corey are officially over?” Mom asks, as if she can read my mind.

“I cut the shiny red ribbon and everything.”

“Are you okay?”

I sigh. “I don’t know what I am. It feels like my life has been turned upside down. I’m still waiting for the dust to settle.” After I left the club on Thursday, Diana made a point of bumping into Corey “accidentally”—because she would have exploded from indignation otherwise—to let him know that he’d just missed his girlfriend. I’d bet money that she delivered her perfect poison-laced smile as she walked away, satisfied to make Corey squirm.

I woke up the next morning to a voice message from him. His tone was lighthearted as he gave some lame-ass excuse about how he ended up at the club. He didn’t say a word about Stephanie Dupont, or why he was practically draped over her at the bar.

I didn’t respond right away, giving him a dose of the medicine he’s been dishing out recently.

Childish?

Maybe.

But I needed more time to sort out my thoughts and feelings, something I still wasn’t entirely clear on after spending the night staring at the slanted ceiling above my bed as the hours reached for dawn.

I needed more time to face the truth.

Corey did love me at one time. Or at least, he thought he did. And I was so sure I loved him, too, back at the height of our relationship, after the newness wore off but before the comfort began to fray at the seams. We had a good thing going on. We never argued; we were never jealous or rude to each other. If I had to choose one word to describe our relationship, it’d be “smooth.” As in, our relationship has operated without a hitch.