“Dad,” he said, “Chelsea wants to talk to you.”
“Does she?”
“She says she needs to explain.”
I stood and walked to the window.
“No,” I said.
“Dad, please.”
“I’m not ready to talk to her.”
“She didn’t mean—”
“Logan.”
He stopped.
I had rarely used his name that way.
Not loudly.
Not harshly.
Just firmly enough to remind him that I was not asking permission.
“I’m willing to meet you,” I said.
“Alone.
Somewhere public.”
“Today?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where?”
I gave him the name of a café near the library.
He agreed.
Before ending the call, he said, “I’m sorry.”
The apology was so quiet I almost missed it.
I closed my eyes.
“Come prepared to tell me what you’re sorry for,” I said.
The café was busy the next day.
Students worked at tables near the windows, an elderly couple shared a pastry, and a young mother tried to keep her toddler from scattering sugar packets across the floor.
