“Not going?” my dad repeated, staring at me. “What do you mean?”

I took a breath before telling him, planning out what I was going to say. I’d start with the phone call, then what happened with Dr. Rizzoli, and at least I’d be able to follow it up with the good news about my job.

“Why isn’t there any food in the fridge?” my dad interrupted, having pulled the door open again, leaning in closer, an irritated look on his face.

I didn’t reply, just waited for him to remember that he’d asked me a question and that I still hadn’t answered it. He shut the door and pulled open the freezer, then opened the fridge again, his face suddenly brighter in the refrigerator light. “There’s no milk or bread or fruit. . . .”

I could hear how annoyed he was getting, and I realized he’d totally forgotten about my program, had moved on to other things. I knew I could interrupt and tell him why, exactly, I wasn’t going, and that it was his fault, but I dismissed this plan before I even found the words. I wasn’t about to start begging my dad to pay attention to me.

“Well,” I finally said, about to answer his food question, which was clearly the most important thing right now. “Joy would sometimes pick stuff up. Or I’d get what I needed. . . .” The fact was, we almost never had that stuff in the fridge. I ate about four things, so it had never been an issue for me to keep myself fed. I took a breath, not really sure if I should point out that he was an adult who was capable of shopping for himself, when I realized a moment later that maybe he wasn’t. He had a housekeeper in D.C., along with interns and assistants who probably made sure he had everything he needed.

“I guess I’ll pick some things up later,” my dad said, mostly to himself, as he closed the fridge. He blinked at me again, like he was surprised to see me still there, his brow furrowing like he was trying to put something together. “So did you have another program lined up? Or are you going to be here this summer?”

“No other programs. So . . . I’ll be here.” As I said the words, I felt them sink in as, for the first time, I really understood what that meant. I’d been so caught up in getting my new job and feeling like I had at least some semblance of a plan that I hadn’t thought about what this would mean exactly. I would be home all summer. With my father.

My dad blinked. “Oh,” he said, and I wondered if he was coming to the same conclusion I was—that this was not a state either of us was used to. “Well, that’s—that’ll be nice.”

I nodded, not really trusting myself to say anything else. For a moment I thought about telling him how I’d spent my day—walking dogs, getting a job, seeing the painting, reading what he’d written about me, about us, five years ago. But I couldn’t even make myself picture it. It felt like trying to imagine a world without gravity, or something equally impossible.

I opened the pizza box, then hesitated. My plan to watch bad TV while eating pizza on the couch clearly wasn’t going to happen. I started to turn and get a plate, then stopped and walked back to the island just as my dad opened the fridge again, then closed it. It felt like we were bad actors who’d collectively forgotten our blocking, like what happened to Tom last year during a particular painful performance of The Seagull. I maneuvered around my dad, grabbed a plate, then put two slices of pizza on it. Even though I had a thing about crumbs, I was feeling more sure by the minute that I couldn’t keep standing there, more aware with every forced sentence just how little we had to say to each other. Especially knowing now that this wasn’t something I’d have to endure for only a day or two. This was the whole summer.

“Have some pizza if you want,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the back stairs with my plate, taking them two at a time.

When I got to the top, I looked down. I could still see my dad, standing alone in the kitchen, looking really small from this vantage point and like he was a little lost in his own house. I walked to my room, then closed the door and leaned back against it, my thoughts all circling back and back again to the same question.

How were we ever going to get through this summer?

Tamsin glared at her brother as he lounged in the chair at the other end of the table from her, helping himself to the candied fruit. It was so typically Jack—he showed up after almost a year gone doing god knew what (though she unfortunately did know, and much more than she wanted to, with minstrels writing songs about his most outrageous exploits. She’d heard the groom in the stables singing one yesterday morning, and it had stayed in her head nearly all day) and just expected that everyone would be thrilled to welcome him back.

“What?” he asked, shooting her a grin, the one she was sure had worked on every barmaid up and down the southern coast, all innocence and rumpled charm. It wasn’t going to work on her, and Jack seemed to realize this as he dropped the smile and tossed a piece of fruit into his mouth, catching it easily.

“Are you planning to stay this time?” she asked, folding her arms. She wasn’t sure, to be honest, which answer she wanted to hear.

“My kingdom needed me,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow. “Also, I may have been asked to leave Riverdell. Rather rudely, I’ll have you know.”

“Because I’ve been the one keeping things going here,” she said, trying not to let any emotion come into her voice. “And—”