Evelyn ushers us into the formal dining room as Daniel and Bridget argue in hushed whispers—probably about what Daniel said to me. Which only makes August stifle a snicker under his breath. He's clearly amused by the whole situation—Daniel going from clueless to realizing I'm the very popstar he'd been hating on.

Honestly, it was a little refreshing, even though his face turns bright red every time he looks at me now.

"Stop laughing," I whisper, poking at August's side, a smile twitching on my own lips. "I feel bad for him. He didn't know."

"Sorry, I can't help it," August murmurs, his hand resting on the small of my back where the slit of my dress exposes bare skin. His thumb brushes over it—once, twice—like he can't help himself. Then he leans in, lips grazing my ear. "He's looking at you like you're some kind of unicorn."

I snort, grinning up at him, the weight in my chest easing just slightly as I see the seriousness from the sitting room has faded from his eyes.

I settle into the chair August pulls out for me, and he slips into the one beside me while Bridget and Daniel sit across from us. Evelyn sits at one end of the table, and the place meant for my dad waits empty. By the time we're all situated, wine glasses filled, he still hasn't shown up.

I glance toward the mahogany grandfather clock on the far side of the room. He's now about thirty minutes late. It's nothing new. He always shows up late, making some grand excuse about traffic, hospital nurses being completely inept, or a surgery running longer than expected because of the underprepared OR.

I shouldn't be surprised. This is normal. This was exactly what I was hoping for—him showing up late. Less time for awkward small talk between him and August. Less time for August to realize just how little my dad actually knows about me. Less time for forced smiles, avoided eye contact, and those uncomfortable exasperated sighs. The sooner we can slip out, the sooner we can get to Friendly's for sundaes like August promised.

It's just... well, it's just that—what if he doesn't show up at all? I didn't consider that. I didn't think he'd do that again.

It's fine, I tell myself. This is fine. Everything is fine.

"I'm sure he's almost here," Evelyn says when she notices my eyes fixed on the clock behind her. I glance at her as she checks the time on the delicate watch on her wrist. "Let's give him a few more minutes."

I force a small smile back, nervously adjusting the antique-looking silverware, straightening the gold, scalloped-edged charger in front of me. My fingers smooth over the cream cloth napkin before I carefully place it on my lap, trying not to let it get to me.

Everything looks so perfect, like it's been set for royalty—like they're hosting the Queen of England, not just sitting down for a family dinner. The delicate vine-embroidered tablecloth, a glass vase overflowing with white flowers and eucalyptus, the crystal candle holders on either side. It always looks this way every single time. I can't help but wonder if every meal is this formal or if they ever just grill hot dogs on the deck. I doubt it. I can't picture Evelyn even holding a hot dog.

It couldn't be more different from the dinners I had growing up—sitting on the floor at the coffee table, Mom and I eating takeout while we watched reruns of Gilmore Girls. That was my definition of a family dinner.

I glance over at my father's chair, tuning out the small talk that floats around the table—the same kind of questions and updates they exchange every year. How do you like being a book editor, August? And, Did you hear Mom is the new CMO at New Haven Hospital? Or, Bridget performed her first resuscitative thoracotomy last week. She did phenomenally.

It's not until Evelyn clears her throat that I realize I'm still staring at the empty chair.

"So, Maisie," she begins, carefully topping off her wine glass for the second time. "How are things going with, um... your work?"

"Oh, it's, uh, good. Yeah." I offer her a small smile, scratching at my eyebrow, a little surprised she's even asking. Neither Evelyn nor my father has ever really shown any interest in my work before—we usually stick to safe topics like the weather, whatever new recipe she's tried for dinner, or how the drive from Boston was. "Busy. Lots of traveling, I guess."

"She's about to go on tour," Bridget adds from the rim of her wine glass.

"On tour?" Evelyn repeats, her eyebrows shooting up. "Like... gigs?"

"Um, well..." I bite the inside of my lip, my eyes lifting to the ceiling, searching for the right words to explain that gigs are not exactly the term I'd use to describe a year-long international tour.

"They're concerts, Mom," Bridget interjects, setting down her glass. "Big ones. In stadiums with tens of thousands of people. Sold out worldwide for, like, a year straight."

Surprised, I glance at Bridget; her cheeks are pink, like she's embarrassed to have just admitted knowing that amount of information about me and my tour.

"Oh," Evelyn nods, her expression softening—amazed, maybe even a little... pleased? She clasps her hands under her chin, looking at me. "So, things are going well, then? I thought maybe I might've seen you in a magazine the other day when I was at the store."

"Probably me, yes."

"Mom, you were listening to her in the car on our way to the mall the other day," Bridget sighs out.

"Was I?" Evelyn's eyebrows knit together, glancing past Bridget as if trying to remember.

"Mom's never really been big into, um... pop culture or social media. The hospital keeps her pretty busy," Bridget mumbles, fidgeting with the edge of her napkin before quickly changing the subject and turning to her mom. "Is, um... is Dad going to join us at any point tonight?"

Evelyn takes a deep breath, and with a fortified smile, she says, "Why don't I go give him a call?"

She excuses herself, disappearing into the kitchen, and the room is swallowed by an awkward silence, save for the steady tick of the grandfather clock that only seems to be mocking me the longer we sit here to wait for my dad to come.

I reach for my wine as Daniel opens his mouth like he's about to say something, then shuts it. He does that twice before blurting out, "Well, I landed a class action defense for a cloud computer service provider today."

"That's great, babe," Bridget says, her face lighting up with a proud smile as she touches his shoulder. Then, with a scrunch of her nose, she asks, "What exactly does that... mean?"

As Daniel dives into an explanation of class action defenses and then to cloud computing, my attention drifts to the doorway, where Evelyn paces, phone pressed to her ear. Her face is strained, jaw clenched, lips pulled into a tight line as she mutters something into the phone. She shakes her head listlessly, disappearing out of view again. She's upset.

"Maisie," August says softly, his hand finding the only slit in my dress, slipping through and gently pressing against my thigh. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through me, and I jump, nearly spilling the wine in my hand, the red liquid sloshing dangerously close to my cream-colored dress.

"Hmm?" I hum, turning to him. He is biting back a smile from my reaction.

"Bridget asked you a question."

"Oh," I mumble, setting my glass down before I cause any casualties to my dress, and turn toward her with a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

"I was just saying that I'm, um," she says, adjusting the fork and knife in front of her, eyes dropping to the table. "I'm actually going to your concert next weekend. The one in Jersey, Friday night. I'm driving down with a group of my friends from work."

"Oh—" I begin, but Daniel lets out a rough cough, interrupting. We all turn as he chokes on his wine and wipes his mouth with his napkin, before whispering to Bridget, "That's the concert you're going to?"

"Daniel," she huffs, throwing him a quick glare before turning back to me. "We have floor seats, actually. Maybe, um, you'll be able to see us from the stage."

"Wow, that's..." Not at all what I thought she was going to say. I have no idea why she would want to come to my concert, so much so that I'm momentarily speechless. And the first thing that slips out is, "That's... really expensive."

Her cheeks flush pink, and I immediately regret saying it. I didn't mean to make her feel awkward—I just hadn't expected her to care about anything in my world. Dad never seemed interested, so I just assumed no one else in his family would be either.

"Um, yeah," she says, reaching to tuck her hair nervously behind her ears. "Well, we're all big fans. I mean, who isn't these days?"

"I know I am," August says, and I peek over at him. There's a stupid grin on his face, his warm eyes flickering with mischief as they meet mine—like he's thinking back to that couch in the studio. My cheeks flush, and he adds, "Huge fanboy over here."

I snort as Bridget laughs, and the tension seems to slip from the room just a little.

"Will you be there too, August?" Bridget asks, turning to him. "At the concert, I mean?"

I find myself holding my breath, waiting for his response. We haven't really talked about the tour or what happens when my tour starts—when this whole fake dating thing is supposed to end. I know I offered him tickets, along with Lucy and Clara, but I'm not sure if he decided he actually wanted to come. He sure isn't obligated to; our agreement will be over.

"Of course, I'll be there," he catches me staring from my seat, and a smile quirks the edges of his mouth. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Warmth spreads through my chest as he leans in and presses his lips to my temple.

Daniel clears his throat, pulling our attention back to him. He, on the other hand, looks even more nervous than before, tugging at his dollar. "I just want to formally apologize for what I said about your music. I didn't realize Bridget's sister was, uh, a famous singer."

"She is my step-sister," Bridget corrects quietly.

"Your music is really just, um..." He shakes his head, pushing up his glasses and glancing around the room like he's searching for the right words before he settles on, "Great."

"Daniel," Bridget sighs, turning to him. A whole silent conversation passes between them while August huffs a laugh into his wine glass.

"Thank you," I say to Daniel just as Evelyn walks back into the room. Her eyes are glued to her phone, and when she finally looks up, there's a weak smile on her face.

"Well, it seems your father's been called into surgery last minute," she announces.

It takes a moment for her words to sink in, as if there's more coming—like she's about to say, but he'll be here in ten minutes, or he asked another doctor to cover for him, and he's on his way.

But when nothing follows, the realization slowly hits. "Oh... he's not—my dad's not coming?"

"No," she shakes her head with an apologetic tilt of her head. "He won't be able to make it after all. He sends his apologies."

It's embarrassment, I think, that settles in my stomach like a ball of iron. Evelyn and Bridget are used to this—they've witnessed it for years, the string of excuses, the constant disappointments that come with my father. But for August to see it, and some guy I just met thirty minutes ago, it feels like being exposed in the worst way. Like I'm being cracked wide open, all the vulnerable parts of me laid bare for them to see.

I nod slowly, biting the corner of my lip, pushing down the stinging behind my eyes as I focus on the place settings in front of me. I swallow hard against the ache tightening in my throat.

This is the second year in a row he hasn't shown up. Which means the next time I see him—next year, at this same dinner—it'll be three years since he's spoken a single word to me. Maybe this is it. The missed dinners, the way he only communicates with me through Andrea now. Maybe he's been pulling away on purpose, and I've just been too naive to see it. I held on too tight, didn't keep him at arm's length, and now I've lost whatever little bit of him I had left.

And it's fine. Really. I've spent most of my life not speaking to him, so why should this be any different? Why should it matter now? I can handle it.

I allow myself to wallow for all of five seconds before pulling together the brightest smile I can manage and turning to Evelyn. "That's all right."

Evelyn nods. "I'm sure you'll get a chance to meet up with him for lunch instead—just like last year."

"Lunch, yeah," I echo, nodding again. The lunch he'd texted about but never actually followed through with. I guess he never told Evelyn we didn't actually meet. "Perfect."

She glances toward the kitchen. "Why don't I get dinner now? I'm sure everyone's hungry."

Evelyn disappears through the doors again, and I don't even need to turn to know August's eyes are on me. I fight the urge to let my shoulders curl in, my jaw tightening against the swell of disappointment and embarrassment pressing up my throat. I exhale slowly through my nose, piecing myself together before turning toward him.

He's staring, and I stare right back, but his face gives nothing away, and for once, I can't read him. His palm drags over his freshly shaven jaw, then his hand squeezes my thigh again, but he doesn't say anything. I blink away from his attention because he's reading every little detail of my face, and it feels like too much.

Just as I look away, Evelyn places a plate in front of me on the golden charger. I pick up my fork, adjusting the plate, trying to ignore the way August's eyes linger on me. With a quiet sigh, I finally look at my meal. It's as fancy as always—a small salad on the side and risotto, I think—accompanied by sautéed greens and topped with... scallops?

I stare at the plate, unsure if I'm actually looking at a scallop or if it's just oddly shaped chicken, before I poke my fork at it and say, "Is this...?"

"Brown butter scallop risotto," Evelyn says as she settles into her seat. "Your father's favorite."

Of course, my father's favorite food would be the one thing I'm allergic to—shellfish.

"Oh." I poke at it again, debating whether or not I should just eat around it and take a shit ton of Benadryl the moment we leave or tell Evelyn I can't eat this. Andrea would have an absolute meltdown if I showed up to the first concert of my tour with hives all over my face, yet I'm still leaning toward just eating it.

The last thing I want is for Evelyn to think I'm ungrateful. She took time out of her busy schedule at the hospital to make dinner, she welcomed me into her home, and I can't risk her reconsidering the tiny sliver I've been given in this family, especially if these past two years of my dad not showing up turn out to be a fluke.

"Do you want my salad?" August whispers, nudging his bowl toward me. I turn to him, and suddenly, I'm unbelievably grateful he's here with me, so much so that tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I manage a small, watery smile, and he gives me an I'm sorry press of his lips.

I don't think I could love August Williams more than I do at this very moment.

"Is something wrong with the risotto?" Evelyn's voice cuts in.

"Oh, um..." I shake my head, eyes dropping back to my plate. "No, everything's—"

"Maisie actually has a shellfish allergy," August says, and I blow a soft breath through my lips, grateful that I wasn't the one to have to say it. "She can't eat scallops."

The room falls silent as everyone stares at me. Daniel freezes, fork halfway to his mouth, Evelyn's brows knit together in confusion, and Bridget looks stricken, eyes wide with disbelief, before she says, "No, you don't."

"I do, actually," I say, poking at one of the scallops before setting my fork down. "I get hives and puffy eyes."

Evelyn hums softly, shaking her head with a bemused smile, looking almost at a loss for words. "Why don't I grab another bottle of wine and that pie you brought over, hmm?"

tysm for reading, commenting, and voting ❤️