DAD LETS ME sleep until morning.
When the sunlight reaching through the curtains becomes too bright to ignore, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My head throbs, my eyes swollen from crying. I’m still wearing my silk dress and tights. Dad confiscated my phone and laptop last night before pouring me into bed.
I’m kind of shocked he did—I’m rarely in trouble, and I hoped Dad would be blundering, out of his element. Turns out, I underestimated him. Without my phone and laptop, I have no way to contact Beckett. No way to ask if he got home okay or if he’s also in trouble. Dad better not have called Beckett’s mom. Nothing that went wrong was his fault.
I push upright and swing my legs over the edge of my bed, head spinning. Someone left a glass of water and two aspirin. Aunt Fee, probably. I pop the pills and guzzle the water. Then I peel off my dress and roll my tights down my legs, kicking them off. I really need a shower, but I pull on pajamas and a sweater.
Down in the kitchen, Aunt Fee’s making acai berry pancakes and Dad’s reading the paper. If I didn’t know any better, it’d be like any other Sunday morning.
“Hey,” I say groggily.
Dad and Fee glance from me to each other. They share a knowing look—the not-so-casual lifting of eyebrows and volleying of unspoken words.
Dad clears his throat, but Aunt Fiona suggests, “Why don’t we have breakfast in the den?”
I agree, and my aunt serves up pancakes, filling a cup with honeyed tea.
We shift into the other room. Me on the couch with a blanket, a stack of pancakes, and tea. Dad’s pacing around the small space, expression unreadable. Aunt Fiona settles in the velvet armchair beside me, the bags under her eyes reflecting my guilt.
I did this. I did this to my family.
“Do you like the tea?” Aunt Fiona asks nervously. “The honey’s from a local—”
“Fiona,” Dad says, exasperated. “Stay on topic.”
Clearly, we’re all on edge.
My stomach’s too hollow for food. I sip my tea so I have something to do, something to occupy my mouth other than words. It’s hot enough to burn my tongue. Good, though.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Dad goes right for it.
“I’m not sure where to start,” I say. “How did you guys know where I was?”
“We found you because we tracked your phone, genius,” Aunt Fee interjects.
Of course they did. I laugh at my failure to be properly sneaky, and even my aunt joins in. The most basic mistake in the book. But when Dad glares at us, we both shut up.
“What happened last night, Caroline?” he asks, clasping both hands behind his head. “Who was that man? Whose money were you gambling with—and why? I just don’t understand why you’d do something like this. Is this what you were talking about the other day? Trying to save Bigmouth’s?”
Another sip of tea tasteless on my burnt tongue. A second to collect myself and I explain. I tell Dad and Aunt Fiona everything. The truth. I only tell one lie. In this version, I approached Beckett—they don’t need to know it was his idea. I insist Beckett never put me in danger, and most of the mistakes were of my own making. Which is the honest truth.
At some point, I start crying. The tears pour. Because I’m clearly unhinged. Normal teenagers don’t do this. They don’t put themselves in danger. Is this what mania is? I drank. I never drink. Mom loved drinking.
I’m starting to lose track of where Mom ends and I begin.
Tea spills as I set the mug on the coffee table and fold my arms over my tucked-in knees. “I’m sorry,” I say between hiccuping sobs. “I wanted to save Bigmouth’s and stay in San Francisco. I wasn’t trying to be reckless. I only drank because I was nervous about losing. It was just one drink, I swear. I thought it’d help take the edge off. Help me focus and win.”
Dad looks away as if he can’t stand the sight of me.
Aunt Fiona remains silent.
“I’ve been so careful,” I whisper to myself, “to not end up like her.”
Dad pauses his pacing. “Like who?” he asks, a crease of confusion forming between his brows.
Snot drips down my chin. “Mom.”
Aunt Fiona takes a sharp inhalation.
“What do you mean, Caroline?” He sits beside me, and the cushion dips toward him.
“Please don’t call me Caroline. I’m not Mom. I thought I wasn’t. But maybe I am? What I did—I wasn’t thinking. I fucked up, Dad. I tried so hard to keep myself in line, I didn’t notice when I swung out of control.”
Except that’s not the truth. Not entirely. On some level, I knew what I was doing wasn’t right. That it was risky, illegal. But that didn’t stop me, because it was fun. Thrilling. I felt so alive. The opposite of depression—I didn’t want to give that up. And I hate that about myself, that I didn’t care enough about my safety to stop.
Dad wraps his arm around me. “Chuck,” he says, and the nickname sounds like a truce, “you would be lucky to turn out like your mother.”
I lean against him, my tears soaking into his shirt. “What do you mean? Mom was—”
“Your mom suffered. She suffered for many years, and my biggest failure was not being able to save her from her depression.” Dad pauses and takes a shaky breath, wiping at his own tears. “Your mom isn’t someone to fear. She was a vibrant, talented, and loving woman. She loved you so much.”
Dad’s voice cracks.
I crack.
Clearing his throat, he continues. “Your mother was the love of my life, and sometimes she experienced too much. She lived in the extremes, and after you were born, when she told me she was taking her medication, I believed her.”
“Why’d she lie?” I manage to ask between my tears.
“I don’t know, and trust me, I’ve thought about it a lot. Too much. Guess she thought she didn’t need it.” Dad’s gaze drops to the floor, forehead creased. “And I was so stressed, with a new baby and taking over her dad’s business, that I never looked too close. For a long time, I told myself I couldn’t control her. But it was never about control—it was about caring. I cared, so much, but somewhere down the line, I stopped showing her how much. That’s why… I didn’t want to tell you the truth about her death.”
“Jack.” Aunt Fiona’s bottom lip trembles, and she tucks it between her teeth. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Sniffing loudly, Dad sits back. “Oh, I know. But back then?” He shakes his head sadly, eyes watery and bloodshot. “I’m so sorry, Chuck, for lying to you about your mom. I didn’t know how to handle my grief and my guilt—”
“Don’t feel guilty. If anything, it’s my fault. She stopped her meds because of me.”
Dad swears, pulling me closer. I curl up against him, crying so hard my chest aches. The literal bones hurt as my shoulders roll forward with each and every sob. “What happened with your mom is not your fault,” he says, rocking me back and forth. “It’s no one’s fault, not your mom’s, not mine, not yours. It’s the same as any other illness. Cancer or pneumonia or a heart attack.
“I’m more educated now, but when you were younger, I never wanted you to think your mom left you willingly. I never wanted you to think she had a choice, that she made a decision to leave us. She loved you. She loved you more than anything. But she was sick. I was supposed to be her support system, and I failed. And I’m sure as hell not failing you. We haven’t done right by your mom, or you, by ignoring these topics, no matter how hard they are. No matter how painful. We’ll talk more from now on, okay?”
I shift away and wipe my eyes. What he’s saying right now? It’s everything I never knew I needed from him. I’m too choked up to speak, but I manage a nod.
Dad’s smile is tentative. “You deserve to know more about your mother. She was such a wonderful person, so funny and talented. I hope you understand that her illness doesn’t make her someone you should ever be afraid of.”
“I know.” Or at least I’m beginning to know. I blow my nose and sink back into the cushions. My chest is light, my head woozy with emotional overhaul. “I’m sorry about last night.”
Dad swipes at his tears, but he can’t hide the shake of his hands. Normally, I’d think he needed a cigarette, but these trembles come from deep within. “You were trying to do a good thing, and you got off track. Despite it all, you amaze me. I don’t condone what you did—far from it—but the lengths you went to save Bigmouth’s break my heart.”
“I didn’t do it just for you,” I admit with a sniff, and ball the tissue up in my hand. “I don’t want to leave San Francisco. You always said if we didn’t have the business anymore, we’d move to Arizona to be with Grandma and Grandpa. I saw the housing listings for Surprise, Arizona, on your laptop. Why the hell is there a town called Surprise—”
Dad cuts me off. “You weren’t supposed to see that. I didn’t want you getting upset before you had all the information. Jesset and I had an agreement. If I paid partial rent, we could stay. A month or two ago, I told him I was looking to close up shop, but I needed time to get everything squared away. I didn’t want to drop this bomb on you, Chuck, and I wanted to secure a new job first. When Jesset moved up the timeline—”
“The conversation last week,” I say, the murky questions in my head becoming clearer now. “That’s what you two were talking about?”
“He found a new tenant, and since I owed over a month of rent, he had legal grounds to evict. I doubt we’re in any trouble as long as I clear the rest of what I owe him. But we have to be out by June. That’s when the new tenant moves in.”
My breath hitches, stuck on the question I’ve avoided for so long, but I need to know the answer. “So… we’re not leaving the city? We’re not going to Arizona?”
“No.” Dad shakes his head. “We’ll find a way to stay in San Francisco.”
Sitting up a bit straighter, I ask, “Why’d you lie, though? Why didn’t you just tell us what was going on?”
Dad swallows, hesitates as his eyes dart around the room. “I shouldn’t have hidden the truth, but you’re at the end of junior year, school’s going well, you’re doing well—I didn’t want to throw a cog in your progress. I knew you’d take the news of Bigmouth’s closing hard. And you, my darling daughter, would’ve tried to find a solution.” He breaks off with a laugh. “I called that one. Anyway, I panicked when Jesset moved up the deadline on me. I was supposed to have until September. And I guess I was ashamed.”
“You could’ve told us,” Aunt Fiona says gently. “Bigmouth’s closing isn’t a failure. If anything, it was a long time coming.”
“Yeah,” I say, agreeing even though I see where Dad’s coming from. He was doing what he always does: trying to save me hurt and pain and anxiety. “It’s okay, Dad.”
“Thanks.” He sniffs. “Arizona was my backup plan,” he admits, sagging against the couch cushions. “Until I met Leigh.”
“What does Leigh have to do with this?”
Dad blows his nose. “Months ago, when business really took a hit, I began looking at housing in Arizona. But it wasn’t until after I’d been dating Leigh for a month or so that I realized I didn’t want to leave. San Francisco was always your mom’s city—not mine. Your mom’s ghost is everywhere. Curled up with a new release at the Booksmith. Buying banana cream tartlets at Miette. Sunbathing at Dolores. It’s always been hard for me.
“Leigh’s experienced her fair share of grief and recommended a therapist. We only met a handful of times, but he helped me come to terms with our situation. I always viewed Bigmouth’s as my last link to the city. With your mom gone, the business gone, I didn’t think I belonged here anymore. But this city is my home now too.”
The tears are drying on my cheeks and my breath is slowly returning to normal. I’d never thought of the situation that way. Like Dad might be running from his ghosts. “What does that mean for us? What’re we going to do?”
“Well, Arizona’s off the table,” he replies. “For now. I can’t promise I’ll always stay in this city, but no matter what, we’ll talk things over as a family. San Francisco means so much to you, and we’ll figure something out. It won’t be easy, but we’ll find our way. As for Bigmouth’s…”
“We can still save it,” I say, blowing my nose. “Maybe we can set up a fundraiser or something? I can help renovate; I was serious about those DIY projects.”
Dad smiles a sad smile. “No, honey. It’s too late for that. Even if you got the back rent, I barely have enough for next month. It’s just too expensive. I never wanted to renovate Bigmouth’s because that’s how it was when I met your mom. That’s how your grandfather ran it, and it thrived. I don’t have it in me to strip it bare and renovate it, just to make a profit. I don’t think your mom or grandfather would’ve wanted that.”
The past week, I told myself if Bigmouth’s closed, we’d be out of San Francisco before the Fourth of July. But staying? My heart floods with tentative hope.
“Even before Jesset threatened to evict us,” Dad continues, “I had been sending my résumé out. Looking at my options. Nothing’s forever, and sometimes you need to say goodbye to move forward. The Wilson family has been treading water for some time now, and I’m ready to take a step into the future.”
“What are you going to tell Jesset?” Aunt Fiona asks, ever the pragmatist.
Dad wipes his hand over his eyes. “That we’ll be out by June.” His smile is sorrowful, but his eyes have this shiny hope to them. “As for us, well, think of this as the next chapter. Not saying goodbye but moving forward. And we’ll do it together. Sound good?” He nudges me.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” I smear away any leftover tears.
Dad forces a smile. Now that all the truth is out there, he seems lighter. “We’ll talk more tonight, okay?” He pushes up from the couch and adds, “I hate doing this to you, but you’re grounded for the rest of the school year and all of summer. You have to return to weekly therapy appointments, and if you ever get near a drop of alcohol again, we’ll be having a much different conversation. Understood?”
I nod. It’s a lenient sentence considering all the shit I’ve done. “Yes.”
Dad squeezes my shoulder. “I love you. So damn much.”
Aunt Fiona leans over to hug me. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she whispers. “And like your dad said, we’ll figure everything out. Wilsons are tough.”
I can’t help thinking I’m only half Wilson. Half of me is my mom, an O’Neill, whatever that’s worth. If it’s strength, or weakness, or something else entirely. But the unknown isn’t as scary as it used to be.
I take a deep breath and ask Dad, “Can you tell me about when you met Mom?”