He gives a flimsy grin. “I came all the way here to hear a story.”

I lean around him, half expecting to see an ostrich-feather-clad Starfire and my Canadian-tuxedoed Dad in tow.

Miles glances down at his hands braced against the desk and clears his throat. “Ah. So.”

“They’re not coming,” I say. “Are they?”

He inhales slowly. My stomach’s sinking. I do my best to intercept it.

It’s not a big deal. If anything, it’s a relief. I always feel awkward being observed by nonlibrary people during Story Hour. Now I can finish my workday in peace and meet Dad and Starfire at the axe-throwing bar she was so excited about.

Miles is still looking at me like I’m a puppy whose paw he’s just accidentally stomped on.

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I’m reading a book aloud to some kids. It’s not my Broadway debut.”

“No, I know, it’s . . .” His gaze cuts over my shoulder and back to me again. “You should probably go get set up, right?”

The way he says it, I can feel the gap where something unsaid hovers.

My heart speeds. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It can wait.”

“You’re freaking me out,” I say.

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he says.

“But it’s what you’re doing,” I say. “Just tell me what’s going on, or I won’t be able to concentrate.”

He leans away from the desk, hands gripping the edge, and blows out a breath. “I didn’t think this through.”

“Miles.”

“They left, Daphne.”

“Left?” I say. “Who?”

“Your parents,” he says. “Your dad and Starfire. They got a last-minute invitation to meet some friends up in Mackinac.”

I glance toward my phone. It’s on the desk, face up. No new messages. No explanation.

Of course there isn’t. There never is. The explanation is implied: something better came along.

There is no reason for me to feel surprised. There is every reason to feel nothing. This is what I should have expected.

Last-minute invitation, Miles said.

To meet some friends up in Mackinac.

The “friend” he made yesterday, no doubt. Some guy who owns a hotel and likes the Grateful Dead. At least, that’s my guess, if I have to make one. And I do. Because Dad didn’t tell me himself.

Miles murmurs, “He left you a note.”

I flip my phone face down, searching for today’s Story Hour books among the mess, but my hands feel clumsy, like my brain’s just learning how to operate them.

“I told him to call,” Miles says.

I find the books, the smallest bit of relief seeping into me at the feeling of something solid in my grip. “Not his style.”

Miles reaches across the desk and curls one hand around my wrist, running his thumb over my veins. “I’m sorry. I should’ve waited to tell you.”

I can’t help a snort. “No, really, Miles. It’s better that I know now.”

Otherwise I would’ve kept waiting for him to show up.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

“You should get to work,” I say.

I don’t want to be seen like this.

I want to be left alone with my embarrassment and hurt.

In the end, it was relatively easy to let go of Peter, to accept his actions as proof of the truth: that our relationship, our life together, his feelings for me were never quite what I’d thought they were.

And I stopped longing for him when I accepted this, because how could I miss someone who didn’t exist?

So why can’t I seem to do the same thing with my father? Why can’t I stop missing the dad I never had?

Why is he this constant dull ache in my heart?

I knew he wouldn’t change. But a part of me kept hoping I had changed enough that he couldn’t hurt me, or that this new iteration of me would be the one worth sticking around for.

That I’d fixed whatever’s so broken in me that I can’t be loved.

I clear my throat. “Go to work, Miles. I’m okay.”

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

You can be fine.

His fingers loosen. He steps back. “I called off. I thought you’d . . .” he trails off.

“I don’t need you to babysit me,” I snap, then try to soften my voice: “Trust me, this isn’t anything new. Please go.”