Page 6 of Collide

He called it a pipe dream. A waste of time.

What he meant was, I won’t bankroll your life unless it fits the image I want.

Even now, the thought of seeing him again fills me with dread.

The father who didn’t want me.

The man who thought gifts could replace love, throwing money at me like I was a scratch he couldn’t quite buff out.

The more I think about it, the hotter it burns. My jaw tightens.

Let him try and play nice.

He can take his fancy apartment and shove it straight up his pretentious ass.

I spit out the toothpaste and rinse my mouth, teeth grinding as my frustration simmers beneath the surface. Determined not to let it consume me, I grab my brush and dryer, methodically working through the tangled waves of my hair. If I don’t, I’ll wake up looking like I crawled out of the Amazon.

Once satisfied, I throw on my favorite pair of distressed denim shorts and an old, oversized band shirt. A quick swipe of tinted lip gloss, a few strokes of mascara to frame my eyes—his eyes.

I’m ready.

I know he’ll hate this. The way I dress, the way I carry myself—it’s everything he disapproves of. Unlike my sister, his polished Manhattan princess, I am the unruly, untamed disappointment. Maybe it’s childish, but I don’t care. Let him see what he missed out on. Let him choke on it.

When I emerge, I hear two voices. I pause, listening—then breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not my father. Has to be Andrew.

Even though he’s engaged to my sister, we’ve never met. They got together two years ago, shortly before Mom died. While their relationship bloomed, I was drowning in grief. I pushed everyone away. Frozen in place while life moved on without me. Standing here now, I feel like an outsider in my own family’s story.

I walk into the living space and spot him sprawled across the lounge, sweaty in gym clothes, auburn hair damp and sticking to his forehead. I’d seen a few photos Philippa sent—good-looking, nerdy investment banker type. Not unattractive. Just…expected.

His eyes light up when he sees me. “Oh, hey!” he says, pushing himself upright. “Nice to finally meet you.”

I force a smile. “You too.”

Philippa walks in a beat later and stops cold. Her eyes land on Andrew, narrowing slightly. A flicker of disapproval crosses her face. Her lips press into a tight line as she takes in the full picture—sweaty gym clothes, his back against the pristine white sofa like it was made for him. Her grip tightens around the tea towel in her hand. Classic Philippa—never one to raise her voice when passive-aggressive silence would do.

Andrew, sensing the shift in the air, lifts his head and grins, completely unfazed, as if he’s used to this exact reaction from Philippa. There’s an easy confidence about him, the kind that suggests he enjoys pushing her buttons just enough to amuse himself. It’s a dynamic I recognize instantly—one built on teasing, on knowing how far to go before she snaps. Exactly like my stepfather would do to my mother.

“What? I ran five miles,” he says, stretching lazily as if daring her to scold him further.

Philippa exhales sharply through her nose, her tone clipped yet laced with familiarity. “Andrew…Get cleaned up,” she orders, her voice carrying the same authoritative warmth our mother used with Jack. A bittersweet pang settles in my chest.

He chuckles and rolls his eyes, peeling himself up off the lounge.

“I won’t be too long.” He kisses Philippa’s forehead, making his way down the hall. She whips his backside with the tea towel she was holding, reminding me again of something my mother did with Jack.

“Wow, you’re exactly like Mom.” I smile.

“Hmm, I miss her.” Philippa’s face softens, echoing my sentiment. “Feeling better?” she adds.

I miss her too.

“Yeah.”

“Nothing a good shower can’t fix. He should be here soon.” She offers a kind smile, reassuring me.

“Cool, what are we eating?” I ask, patting my stomach.

“Lemon herb chicken with a summer salad.” She beams, silently mouthing the wordyum.