Hannah nods, then says, “I was thinking maybe we do a little scouting first—”

“Oh, like a stakeout,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Fun, fun!”

“Not exactly a stakeout,” Hannah says, missing my sarcasm. “More like getting the lay of the land. At least here in Dallas. Dripping Springs is a bit of a haul—”

“We could always put a letter in their mailboxes,” Tyson says.

I nod, thinking. As my heart fills with dread, I feel myself shifting into a reckless mode. “Nah. I say we go right up to the front door.”

“And do a cold call?” Tyson asks, looking wary.

“Yep. We’re in Texas now, baby,” I say, twirling an invisible lasso. “Go big or go home.”

—

Nestled in a grove of trees strung with tiny white lights, the Mansion on Turtle Creek looks more like a private residence than a hotel. As we pull into the driveway in our rental car, I nod approvingly. We get out of the car, a bellman taking our bags, then walk into the lobby.

“It’s gorgeous,” Hannah says. “Nice job, Lainey.”

I smile, then stride over to the front desk, checking us in and collecting our AmEx amenities, including free breakfast and a spa credit.

“Lainey, you should get a massage!” Hannah says on our way to the elevator.

“I’m gonna need it,” I say under my breath.

A moment later, we are rolling into our suite. As Hannah gushes over the décor, I announce that it’s five o’clock somewhere, diving into the minibar and selecting a local IPA.

“Anyone else?” I ask, cracking it open and taking a long sip.

“I’m good for now,” Hannah says.

“Tyson?” I ask.

“Nope,” he says. “I’m driving.”

“How about a little pool time first?” I say.

Tyson glances at Hannah, then looks back at me. “We could do that, but why not just do what we came here to do?”

I sigh, then sit down on the bed, taking another long swallow of beer.

“Guys. I’m really nervous,” I finally confess. “Ashley is not going to be happy when I show up and interrupt her perfect life.”

“Nothing’s ever perfect,” Hannah says.

I give her a look, remembering that’s what Summer said when I first told her about my father. Boy, did that turn out to be true.

“I know. But I just can’t think of a world in which she’s going to be happy to know about me. Her parents just celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.” I open my mouth, insert my index finger, and make a gagging sound.

“You never know until you try,” Tyson says. “And really, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“I guess so,” I say, though deep down, I know what the worst thing is. I know I could be rejected.

“How about we drive that way, check things out, and see what your gut says? If you’re still not feeling it, we can bag it and come back to the pool,” Tyson says.

“Fine,” I say, giving my friends a reluctant nod. “Let me just finish this beer.”

—

Less than an hour later, we are turning down a residential road in some random suburb of Dallas. The neighborhood is nice but modest. Tyson is driving and Hannah is navigating, reading off the numbers on mailboxes, looking for Ashley’s house. I’m in the backseat, feeling sick to my stomach.

“That’s it,” Hannah says, pointing to a two-story stucco home with a yellow front door.

Tyson nods, then slowly pulls over to the curb before putting the car in park.

“Who the hell paints their front door bright yellow?” I say, feeling a wave of negativity coming on.

“I like it. It’s cheerful,” Hannah says.

“It’s hideous,” I say under my breath.

“Well, that probably shouldn’t be your opener.” Tyson looks over his shoulder at me and smiles.

I smile back at him. “You don’t think that works?…‘Hi there. Your door is fugly, and I’m your father’s love child.’ ”

Hannah lets out a nervous laugh as I eye the house, feeling more nauseous by the second.

“You don’t have to do this,” Hannah says. “It’s your call.”

“What do you mean ‘you’?” I ask. “I think you meant ‘we,’ right?”

“Of course. Yes,” she says. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“She might not even be home,” Tyson says.

I sigh, then suddenly make my decision. I’m tired of carrying around this heavy baggage. It’s time to blow some shit up—or at least rip off the Band-Aid.

“Let’s do it,” I say.

“Are you sure?” Tyson says.

“I’m sure,” I say.

He turns off the ignition, but nobody makes a move. Within seconds, the inside of the car is an oven, and I’m sweating my ass off. I take a deep breath, then open my door.

“You know what?” Tyson says. “I think you two should go alone. I’ll hang back.”

“Why wouldn’t you come with us?” I demand.