Amelia paces the living room nervously, pulling the drapes away from the balcony window and peering out into the night several times. With every minute that passes, she grows increasingly more agitated.
“Amelia, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” I tease as she looks out the window again. I chuckle as I lift the lid on the steaming vegetables and toss them. “I doubt you’ll see him from this far up no matter how many times you check.”
She releases the curtain and walks away from the window. Instead of pacing, though, she comes into the kitchen and grabs one of the empty wine glasses and fills it with some of the Pinot Noir we had picked up on our way here. She takes a big sip.
“What do you think he’s going to say?”
I shrug. “Hard to say. He’s barely spoken to me since he found out, so I couldn’t even fathom a guess.”
Amelia sighs. “God, this is so nerve-wracking.”
I turn toward her and cradle her face in my hands. “Everything will be fine between you two.”
Her eyebrows pull up in concern. “I know,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “But what about the two of you? God, Owen, you’ve been friends almost your entire lives, and our relationship has put that in jeopardy.”
I shake my head. “No,” I assure her. “Our relationship didn’t…my dishonesty did.”
“Our dishonesty,” she amends. “We both lied to him. For weeks.”
“But you’re his daughter. That bond means more, and I’m okay with that—should he decide to not forgive me.”
The timer on the oven sounds, so I kiss Amelia’s forehead and go to remove the sheet of beer-battered fish. I’m just setting it on the stovetop when my phone rings. It’s the front door. Amelia looks panicked, but takes several deep breaths as I answer the call.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Alan responds, his voice sounding nervous and rough.
“Come on up.” I buzz Alan up and set my phone on the counter next to Amelia’s after shutting it off; I don’t want any distractions.
While we wait for Alan to knock on the door, Amelia rushes to finish setting the table, and I put the fish and vegetables on a couple of serving platters. It’s not the most elegant of meals, but it is Alan’s favorite, and I’m hoping to butter him up a little. Once the table is set, there’s a hard knock on the door. Amelia closes her eyes and takes a few more deep breaths before nodding for me to answer the door.
She waits behind in the kitchen as I make my way for the door. With my hand on the knob, I pause, suddenly needing my own moment to prepare myself in case I’m met with another fist to the face.
Not wanting to make Alan wait, I pull the door open and offer him a smile. My gesture is not returned, but it’s not met with contempt either. It’s progress.
“Please, come in,” I say, stepping out of the way and holding the door open so it doesn’t close on him.
Alan steps in cautiously, looking at me and then ahead where he finds Amelia in the dead-center of the kitchen, wringing her hands.
“Hey, Dad,” she greets quietly. “How was the drive?”
Alan’s eyes move back to me, and he sighs. “Long.”
Awkward silence fills the air. I close the door once he’s inside and wave my arm in the direction of the dining room. “Well, you have impeccable timing. Dinner just came out of the oven.”
Alan approaches the table and eyes the food before choosing one of the chairs at the end of the table—where he usually sits when he comes over. Amelia grabs the wine from the counter and moves to his side.
“Do you want a glass? Or…I could get you a beer?”
“Wine is good,” he says, his tone quiet. “Thank you.”
Amelia pours him a glass before refilling her own and then mine. She sets the bottle in the center of the table and then moves to her chair. Out of habit, I reach for the back of it to pull it out for her, but one look from Alan and I reconsider. Is it too much? It’s just me pulling a chair out for a woman; it’s not like I plan to throw her down on the table in front of him and make love to her. This was an innocent, chivalrous gesture.
I decide to go with it and pull out her chair, pushing it in as she sits down.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
Alan doesn’t say anything, but he looks like he wants to. Instead, I offer to let him dish up first, and hope that he’ll open up the lines of communication first. It isn’t until the three of us have full plates that Alan speaks
“I’m not going to even pretend to understand whatever”—he waves his fork between the two of us as we stare at him—“this is. But I’ve had some time to process what I’ve heard, and I’m willing to…I don’t know…entertain the idea.”