My dad looked up at me, his brow creasing. “The farmhouse?” he asked, like we had so many other old houses, he needed to clarify. I nodded, not even sure what I wanted his answer to be. There was a piece of me that wanted him to say that he’d been over there. That maybe he went all the time when he was back, and since I had never asked him, I never knew. It would be some kind of proof, at least, that he thought about my mother occasionally, that he remembered the life we’d all had there together.

My dad sat back in his chair, and it was like something crossed his face briefly before his normal expression returned again. “There was traffic on the Merritt, so I got off at the exit by East Loop and drove over here from there,” he said, then shook his head, like he was still trying to understand me. “Why would I go to the farmhouse?”

“I . . . just . . . ,” I said, reaching forward and taking my own paper-wrapped chopsticks, unwrapping them mostly to have something to do with my hands while I tried to sort out what I wanted to say. “I don’t know.” I took a breath and realized that even though I might not know exactly what I wanted to say, I was pretty sure I knew where it was coming from—it was like something had been churned up since the press conference. I wasn’t sure if it was seeing my mother’s painting, or reading what my dad had written, or even if it was just this, the reality of the two of us struggling to talk to each other when there were no distractions to hide behind.

I looked down at the table, wishing I’d never brought it up. Wishing I hadn’t asked. I should have known the answer would be something like trying to avoid the traffic.

When Wanda arrived bearing food, we busied ourselves with our meals until there was just the sound of silverware on plates, and it seemed to take up so much time and energy it was hard to imagine how we would have talked, anyway.

We ate in silence until Wanda came back to check on us and my dad told her that we’d love the check, please—we were ready to go, but that everything had been really wonderful, no complaints, just great.

Chapter SIX

“He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts!” the actors on the stage chanted in singsong unison. I was about to ask Palmer what the hell was going on, when the group continued. “He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts!”

“What. Is. Happening?” Toby said from her seat next to me, her eyes wide and fixed on the stage, where the cast had begun to jump around in circles, chanting, “Red leather yellow leather red leather yellow leather.”

“Vocal warm-ups,” Palmer said with a shrug. “You learn to tune it out after a while.”

I looked at the stage again. Everyone was now lying on their backs, rolling from side to side, and I could swear they were meowing. “Really?” I asked skeptically.

“You can tune anything out,” Bri said with authority from my other side. “I’ve now seen Space Cowboy fourteen times. I swear, I’m not even hearing the dialogue anymore. Yesterday, I watched it just for the cinematography choices.”

“What?” Toby gasped, leaning across me to whack Bri on the arm, but hitting me in the process. “You’ve seen it fourteen times and you haven’t snuck me in once?”

“You know I will, at some point. Just let me work there a little longer before I start breaking the one rule they gave me.”

“I thought the one rule was to always wash your hands before operating the popcorn maker,” Palmer said.

“Well, that, too,” Bri acknowledged.

We were all sitting in the back row of the Stanwich Community Theater, where Palmer’s stage manager table was set up. The three of us had the day off (more or less—Bri was working the evening movie shift and I had to walk Bertie at four), so we’d decided to hit the beach for the first time that summer. When we’d been figuring out our plans over group text, Palmer had been whining about the fact that she had to stage-manage and how she was stuck alone in a theater all day (with her boyfriend, which Toby had pointed out, but that Palmer hadn’t seemed to appreciate). So we’d decided to stop by with lunch from Stanwich Sandwich on the way to the beach. I had not realized that by agreeing to come over with food and hang out with Palmer, I would be watching tongue twisters performed onstage.

“What a to-do to die today at a minute or two to two,” the group onstage started chanting, while bending from side to side, apparently done with their meowing. “A thing distinctly hard to say but harder still to do.”

“So is this your job?” I asked, as the group continued with this one, saying something about a dragon and a drum. “You just have to sit here and watch this all day?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Toby said, leaning forward in her seat and squinting. “That one guy up there is cute. I’m pretty sure. Is he?”

“When are you going to get glasses?” Bri asked her for what was probably the millionth time.

“When they stop making me look like an owl,” Toby said, still squinting at the stage.

“You could always get contacts,” Bri said, leaning closer to Toby and putting her finger on her lens, wiggling it around on her eye, causing Toby to shriek and turn away.

“Stop it,” she said, though she was laughing. “You know I have a phobia of hands-near-eyes!”