Forgot my towel,” I say as I push through the front door.
Mom is standing there with two glasses of my new and improved Arnold Palmer recipe. I’m trying to be happy she likes it instead of being annoyed that I have to keep making so many batches.
“What?”
The expression on Mom’s face is weird, even for her. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes keep darting to the living room. My heart drops. Dad?
My eyes follow hers and—what the hell? I blink a few times, but I still see the same thing. My dad. Sitting and talking to Monica freaking Whistler.
I smile a stupidly big smile and wave hello before pushing Mom back toward the kitchen. I have been walking the beach for weeks trying to run into someone from the show and I come home to find one of the biggest stars in my house?
“What is Monica Whistler doing in the living room? Oh my god—did you get me an audition?”
“Ceese,” Dad says.
I look at Mom, waiting for her to say something, but her mouth is hanging open as if she’s a cartoon character.
“Mom?”
“It’s a long story,” she finally says.
“Cecelia?”
Dad never uses my full name except when he’s singing our song. I look down at my outfit—clothes perfect for a morning working at the café and then going to the beach, not so perfect for meeting an actress who could potentially be the key to my big break.
I consider running up to change, but it would be too obvious since she’s already seen me. I run my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath, steadying myself the way I do before stepping onstage.
Mom follows behind me like some weird stagehand. She’s still holding those two fancy glasses—trying too hard like she always does.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say, standing casually in the doorway, acting as though nothing is out of the ordinary.
“Monica, this is my daughter, Cecelia.”
“Everyone calls me CeCe,” I say, attempting to act like I’m confident, and not like I’m freaking out, which I totally am. I take a few steps closer and extend my hand to shake hers, nice and firm the way Dad taught me.
“Hi, CeCe. I’m—”
“Monica Whistler,” I finish her sentence. “Everyone with a TV knows who you are.” She blushes and brushes her perfect hair behind her ear. I don’t know how it’s possible, but she’s even more beautiful in person. “But I don’t know what you’re doing in my house.”
She and Dad look at each other in the annoying way grown-ups do, like they’re daring each other to be the one to speak first.
“Are we related?” I gasp. “Is she, like, your long-lost sister or something?”
“Or something.” Monica laughs and it sounds like flowers and birds and rainbows all rolled into one.
Dad looks over my shoulder at Mom. I almost forgot she’s still here. He looks back at me, but I can’t read the look on his face.
“Someone tell me.”
“Go ahead,” Mom says. Her voice sounds small and strange.
“Dad?” I look to him for the answer.
“Monica and I used to be married,” he says as casually as he would say we’re going out to dinner.
“Shut. Up.” I can’t decide if I’m excited or horrified at this news. “You were married? Before Mom?” I look back at Mom, who is still standing there, holding those two stupid glasses.
“It was a long time ago,” Dad says.
For once in my life, I’m literally speechless.
“She looks like you,” Monica says, as if she could change the subject that easily. And she’s not even right. No one has ever said I look like my dad. Even strangers have commented before about how much Mom and I look alike.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“It didn’t seem relevant,” Dad says, even though I can’t imagine a scenario where it wouldn’t be. “I can’t tell you how to feel, but—”
“Don’t try to shrink me.”
Behind me, Mom laughs. I turn and give her the meanest look I can muster.
“Sorry,” she says.
I look back and forth between both of my parents. “You lied,” I accuse Dad before turning back to Mom. “You were never going to call about an audition, were you?”
“Don’t blame your dad,” Monica says.
“It’s okay, Mon.”
“No, let me,” Monica Whistler says. “I wasn’t very good to your dad. I left him, and this town, because I was selfish and thought my dreams were the only thing that mattered. They weren’t. And I regret how I acted. I’m sorry.” She says the last part to Dad, and they’re both looking at each other as if they’re the only ones in the room.
“Hello?” I say. Clearly, they both forgot we’re talking about me here.
“Cecelia,” Dad says again. I can tell his patience is wearing thin and he’s starting to look tired. He’s always tired. “I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt, but some things are private.”
“But you’re my dad.”
“I’m also my own person.”
I stop and roll that thought around in my head. He’s got a point—but so do I. “And you’re my dad.”
“Your dad tells me you want to be an actress?” Monica says. Someone really has to teach her there’s a right and a wrong way to change the subject.
“Mon.” Dad shakes his head. This is so weird.
“I’m just saying, we’re casting for a girl who’s just in town for the weekend. It’s a bit part, but I can pull a few strings.”
“Shut up!” I say.
“Cecelia,” Dad says sternly.
“I mean, that would be the most amazing thing ever!”
“I’ll give your dad a call later to confirm details,” she says.
Behind me, I hear the front door open.
“You coming?” Beau asks, probably wondering why it’s taking so long to get a stupid towel.
“Now’s not a good time, Beau,” Mom says, like it’s him she’s mad at.
Beau looks at me, clearly confused. And then he looks in the living room and sees what I saw. “Whoa.”
“Monica, this is Beau,” Dad says.
She tilts her head, almost like she’s studying his face. “He looks just like Adam.”
“He’s Adam and Jill’s son.”
“Now’s not a good time, Beau,” Mom says again, like a robot who’s only programmed to say one phrase.
Beau shrugs and opens the door but pauses before leaving. “Is something burning?”
“Shit,” Mom says. “The cookies.”
“Cookies?” This day keeps getting weirder. “Who are you? I don’t know either of you!”
I storm up the stairs, wanting to get as far away from them both as I can. Halfway up, I realize I might not get an opportunity like this again, so I quickly retrace my steps and pop my head back into the living room. “It was really nice to meet you,” I tell Monica Whistler.
I don’t have the courage to glare at my dad when he’s looking so sad and sick, but I stop smiling so he knows I’m not happy. I stomp back up the stairs, and for good measure, slam my bedroom door.
“MONICA FREAKING WHISTLER.” I open my laptop and start googling.
Monica + Whistler + Destin. Sure enough, she’s from here. She graduated from Crestview High. How did I not know that?
I can’t believe I never asked Dad if we were related—I always assumed we didn’t have any relatives since he and Mom are both only children. And my parents aren’t married to each other, so why in the world would I ever think to ask if they’d married anyone else? I wonder if Mom has a secret husband hidden somewhere that I don’t know about . . .
Focus, Cecelia.
I change my search: Monica + Whistler + Tommy. Nothing. I change Tommy to Thomas and add the word “wedding,” and sure enough, there’s a link to an article from the Northwest Florida Daily News.
The headline reads: CELEBRATIONS: VESELOVSKY AND WHISTLER TO WED.
No wonder she kept my dad’s name. I scroll down more and see a picture of them, standing in a prom pose on the beach. Dad still looks like Dad, just a younger, nonsick version with a head almost full of chestnut-brown hair. Monica looks younger, but not really prettier. Her boobs are smaller and her hair isn’t as perfect. She looks pretty, just not as drop-dead gorgeous as she is now.
I keep scrolling and read the article:
Boris and Irene Veselovsky of Crestview proudly announce the engagement of their daughter, Monica, to Thomas Whistler, son of Dorothy and the late Richard Whistler of Destin.
The two got engaged in October and are planning a June wedding.
Thomas is a graduate of the University of Georgia and runs a thriving therapy practice in Destin, where the couple live. Monica is an aspiring model who has been featured in the pages of Coastal Living magazine and the Everything But Water swimsuit catalog.
They’re telling the truth. Not that my parents would lie about having lied to me all these years.
My phone buzzes with a text. Probably from Beau, wondering what the hell he just walked into. I don’t know how to even begin explaining what I don’t understand myself. And even if I did, he isn’t the one I’d want to talk to.
I wish I were talking to Sofia, but ever since she started posting pictures of her and stupid Liam hanging all over each other, there’s no way. She knows that I know, and she didn’t even say anything to me. Whatever.
Maybe I should send this link to TMZ. I can see the headline—PRESURGERY TV STAR! A SECRET WEDDING FROM HER PAST!
Sofia would see it, and she’d come crawling to find out more. Not that I would tell her anything. It would be pretty amazing, but Dad would be furious.
I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask Monica for a selfie. Now no one will ever know I’m the girl whose dad was married to Monica Whistler. They’ll keep thinking of me the way they do now. The girl whose dad is dying.