Page 172 of Lessons in Chemistry

“If you look out the window, you might be lucky enough to see a pig flying past,” I say.

Casey rubs his eyes. “Haha. You guys kept me awake half the night.”

“You kept me awake,” I say.

The doorbell rings again, reminding me that someone—probably Dad—is waiting for me to answer.

Swearing under my breath, I climb over Casey, tug the curtain back a fraction, and peek out the window. Dad’s car is outside. Fuck. My clothes are crumpled, and I’m probably a bit smelly. I glance in the mirror. My hair is more dishevelled than usual. I push it out of my eyes, but it flops back down. I’m a mess, but I have to answer the door.

“Stay here,” I tell them.

I can’t explain why my tutor and study partner are here first thing on a Sunday morning, wearing yesterday’s clothes. Neither of them looks happy about my request, but they nod and snuggle up together, watching me as I leave the room. I would love to stay with them and ignore Dad, but I have to face him, and this time, I need to do it alone. As amazing as it was to have Casey and Emory stand up for me, I need to be able to do it for myself.

I almost trip over my own feet on the way down the stairs. I’m about to open the door when I realise Emory’s and Casey’s rucksacks are still sitting in the dining room. Fuck. I dash through, grab the far-too-heavy bags and hide them in the cupboard under the stairs. The doorbell rings again. Fuck. He must have seen me walking right past the door. I make one last effort to tame my hair, take a deep breath, and then fling the door open.

“Dad.” I push my hair off my face again.

He looks me up and down.

“I fell asleep in my clothes. Late night study session. You woke me up. Do you mind waiting while I have a shower and get dressed?”

“No need. Can we talk?”

“Uh, yeah.”

I gape at him as he walks inside and goes into the sitting room. Has he had a personality transplant overnight? I expected him to make a snide comment about how disgusting I am right now.

By the time I follow him, he’s sitting on the sofa, hands clasped between his knees. Wait. Is he wearing the same clothes as yesterday too? Shit. Unlike me, he’s pulled a comb through his hair. His hands are clenched so tightly that the whites of his knuckles are visible, and he’s twiddling his thumbs. He gestures to the armchair. I sit and stare at him. What do I say?

“You and your friends gave me a lot to think about yesterday,” he says.

I hold my breath.

“Which is what I’ve been doing since I left. Thinking.”

“You didn’t sleep?”

He cracks a slight smile. “I got a few hours. It’s nice to know you care.”

“I do care. But it felt like you never cared about me.”

His throat clicks as he inhales sharply.

“Nannies, boarding school. You weren’t even around most holidays. You and Mum were always working. At least Mum had the excuse of being out of the country most of the time. I assume that’s why she’s not with you now.”

“She’s in Japan for a climate conference.”

“Lucky her,” I mutter.

Dad stretches his fingers and stares at the backs of his hands. “I’m sorry you felt that way. I was taught that to be successful, you have to prioritise. My father built the company up from nothing. And he did it by focusing on work.”

“So you thought it was okay to do the same?”

“It was what I knew.”

“And Mum? What’s her excuse?”

“She loves her job.”