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sleeping alone tonight. I miss you.”
    “I miss you, too.” And I do. I miss the way he leaves little notes scattered around our apartment just because. Or how his pillow still smells of him long after he’s left for work. Or when he surprises me at the office with takeout from our favorite Thai place if I’m stuck in the middle of a project. But above all that, I miss the easiness of him, of our life together.
    We talk for a few more minutes where he rehashes his day and I complain about Ben before wishing each other good night. I put the phone back in my purse and push open the front door to a roaring crowd singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh-inning stretch. My father is asleep in front of the Rangers game, an arm flung over the back of the couch, a foot resting on the coffee table. From my vantage point, I can see a big toe peeking out from a hole in his sock. The television flickers, and shadows dance across the ceiling, casting the living room in a faint glow.
    My father stirs and mutters under his breath nonsensical snippets about balding watermelons and fuzzy raspberries. Laughing, I cover my mouth and creep toward the couch. By the time I bend down next to him, he’s rolled onto his side and started snoring, the sound as jagged and harsh as a steak knife. Tucking a blanket around him, I notice how he seems more like a scrawny boy I would punch on the playground as a little girl than the man who taught me to chop an onion and used potato-peeling duty as punishment. The diner has not been kind to him these past five years, and I imagine his knee giving him trouble has only added to wearing him down.
    Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I tiptoe upstairs to my childhood room. The space feels strange and smothering now, as if the pale yellow walls are closing in around me with no chance of escape.
    Boy band posters are plastered over the mirrored closet, staring me down. Medals from baking contests I won drape over the corner of a bulletin board cluttered with pictures and ripped concert stubs. The dresser and nightstand now look like dollhouse furniture next to the queen bed crowding the room where my twin used to be. I expect to find a fine layer of dust covering the desk and bookshelf, but they’ve been polished so they gleam, the scent of lemon cleaner heavy in the air. My father’s obviously been preparing for my arrival.
    I hear the television turn off and heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. A floorboard creaks outside my room, followed by a knock on the door.
    “Baby girl?”
    “Yeah?” I say, preparing myself for another one of my father’s infamous surprises.
    “Oh good, you’re here.” He pokes his head around the doorway. His graying hair is sticking up at all angles, and the skin around his eyes is dark and wrinkled as a raisin. “You know better than to run off like that. The Spoons doesn’t wait for anyone.”
    “Neither does my career.”
    “Then it’s time you reprioritize. And don’t think I didn’t recognize Wes tryin’ to distract me. I may be aging, baby girl, but I’m not stupid. Now before you get buried under quicksand with all this diner business, mind doing your old man a favor and meeting me at the lawyer’s office tomorrow afternoon? There’s some paperwork I need you to look at.”
    I sigh. “Sure. Leave me a note with the address.” What’s the point of arguing? He doesn’t listen to me anyway.
    “I scheduled myself for the early shift tomorrow, and there’s some banana pudding in the fridge if you feel so inclined. Sleep tight.” He winks before shutting the door with a soft click.
    “Don’t let the sour candies bite,” I finish, reciting our old nightly bedtime ritual as I listen to him pad down the hallway.
    Outside, the moon hangs low in the sky. The overgrown oak tree scratches against the bedroom window, the wind rustling its leaves. My eyes land on the stone mansion beyond the fence where Nick used to live.
    Do you want to