I give him a blank look. “Dad.”
He returns my stare, but his is softer, more knowing. Wiser. “I’m sure it’s scary how overwhelming it all is. I’m sure it’s scary to feel like you have to split your attention between two things you love. You don’t want to lose either of them. You don’t want to leave either of them. And you’ve known Razor longer.”
I look back to the pan, flipping the bread and egg over neatly.
“You did something dumb, and instead of Oliver being the strong, steady rock you’re used to, he did what you suggested and gave you a break. He went out on a date to prove a point.”
I can feel him lean closer, elbows on the counter. “Do I have the situation figured out?”
I poke at the food with the tip of the spatula, ignoring what I’m sure will be a smug smile on his face and hating the way this conversation brushes over the raw little edges left from my fight with Oliver at the bar. “Yeah.”
He stands, walking to the cabinet to grab a plate. “But at least he did it when you told him to, so you weren’t surprised.”
I cough out an incredulous laugh. “Are you implying that I intentionally sabotaged this thing with Oliver?”
Dad shakes his head. “I’m just saying you’re complicated. You’ve got relationship baggage and no matter how much you think you’ve got it all together, you don’t. I always worried you’d have abandonment issues—and you do.” I look up at him, mouth agape while I mentally compile a tirade for the centuries, but he continues: “Thing is, it occurs to me you’re not afraid of being abandoned, Lola, you’re afraid you’re going to abandon the things you love.”
Something rattles loose inside me. “Dad—”
“So you’re preemptively abandoning them. Or, if I know you as well as I think I do, you don’t let things get too deep in the first place.”
I work to swallow past the heavy swell in my throat, easing the spatula under his breakfast and sliding the food on the plate he’s holding in front of me.
A quick glance up, and my eyes snag with his.
“You aren’t your mother, baby,” he whispers.
My throat grows tight. “I know.”
“No,” he says, holding the plate with one hand so he can reach forward, cup my cheek. He forces me to meet his eyes again. “Listen to me. You aren’t your mother.”
I nod—quickly, wordlessly—blinking back tears.
“Figure out how to balance Oliver with a career you’ve wanted your whole life,” he tells me. “Because you’ll end up with neither if you think you have to choose.”
* * *
I STEP OUT of the elevator and see London at the other end of the hall. She’s in shorts and a tank top, and I can make out the ties of her bikini where they’re knotted behind her neck.
With the door locked she straightens, and sees me over her shoulder. “Hey, stranger. I tried to call but you didn’t answer.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I was at Greg’s.”
She nods and drops her keys into her small bag. “I figured. Your toothbrush was missing and you weren’t with Oliver.”
I nod, hitching my bag up my shoulder. “Ellen broke up with him so I went over to see how he was doing.”
She makes a face that perfectly captures my own ambivalence; she knows I wasn’t a fan. “Is he okay?”
“He’s okay.” I chew my lip, trying to make sure I don’t sound crazy or jealous or . . . anything when I ask, “How did you know I wasn’t with Oliver?”
London’s dimples are the cutest dimples in the world, and when she smiles at me in easy reassurance, I want to hug her. “Oh, I ran into him at the Regal Beagle.”
Oliver without me at Fred’s? My heart immediately sags. “You did?”
“I went to talk to Fred about a job,” London says, “and when I came out of his office, Oliver was sitting at the bar.”
I avoid meeting her eyes by searching for my own keys. “Was he . . . with Finn or Ansel or anyone?”
London gives me a knowing smile as she crosses her arms and leans back against the wall. “Nope. Just sitting there by himself, all sad sack and pathetic. We hung out for a few minutes, and when I said you were out for the night, he asked if I wanted to hang out.”
“Oh.” The image of Oliver needing company makes me sad. I’m immediately grateful London was there, with her easy humor and ability to deflect drama. London is Drama Teflon.
Her hair is pulled back from her face and piled high on her head. She nods and the little wispy ends that have come loose move with her. “I think he just needed some company and didn’t want to drink alone. Which was fine, because we all know I didn’t have any plans anyway.” She laughs, and then tilts her head to our apartment. “He’s still here, by the way.”