Chapter 2

"Bran muffin?" my father asks, giving me a brave smile. He doesn't know why I'm at his apartment for breakfast, other than that I no longer have a job that requires me to show up at 7 a.m. every morning. For me, it was inevitable that I'd come here. Whenever anything big happens in my life, my father is the person I go to. Always. I don't see why that should be different now, when the something big has to do with my parentage.

Even if my mother were in New York City and available, I never would have gone to her for the truth. Truth for her was always a fluid thing, something that could be influenced by her feelings or mood.

"Yes," I say. The last thing I want to do right now is eat, let alone eat something that tastes like sawdust, but Lainey's right—I can't seem to say no to anyone, even when I'd really like to. That's why it took me six months to break things off with Doug.

Maybe it's my father's fault, because he's a people pleaser like me. Or maybe this Richard Ricci was a people pleaser, too, and I got the disease from him. An unpleasant shiver goes down my spine, because I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the possibility that this man I never knew, and never will know, provided half my genetic material.

I take a deep breath and slowly let it out as I lower into a chair at my dad's round, lemon yellow kitchen table, and watch him serve us muffins that smell like mulch.

My dad had a reality check at his last physical, and his baking has taken a turn for the healthy. I want him around forever, so I'm glad he's taking his doctor's warnings seriously. Still, it's been a hard adjustment. Butter and sugar are the love language of my soul, one he taught me. In fact, I stayed up until four in the morning making Bronuts last night like some kind of manic house elf. Bronuts, a cross between brownies and donuts, are my signature bake. They're essentially fried brownies, crispy on the outside and gooey and chocolatey and soul-affirming on the inside.

Lainey decided on the name, which will absolutely be changed in the unlikely event that I ever get to open my dream bakery. She got the idea when we were drunk, because of the infamy of the cronut, the croissant-donut smashup creation that made Dominique Ansel's bakery a famous New York institution, with a line out the door every morning.

The baking might have relaxed me more if I'd been alone, but Lainey stayed up with me, Googling Marshall—small town in the Blue Ridge Mountains, nineteen miles from Asheville, population of 792—and my maybe-father. I think she meant for it to be comforting, but each thing she said made my nerves prickle more.

"The obituary doesn't say what he used to do for work. It's actually weirdly vague, don't you think?"

"It doesn't say anything about who he left behind, either. Don't they usually say stuff like that?"

When I got up this morning after a few hours of sleep, I checked my emails and found a message from Nicole that lacked any kind of greeting or signoff—

I booked you a flight on Sunday from JFK. The info's below. I figured that would be enough time for you to get over your existential crisis. They say to arrive an hour early, but that's mostly bullshit. Bring a big bag.

My mouth fell open at the audacity. I was tempted to send a scathing reply—who was she to order me around and buy a ticket without even consulting me about my schedule? Admittedly, I had no schedule and nowhere to be, but somehow that only made it worse. I even pulled up a message box, but I kept looking at the blinking cursor and not writing. It took me a minute to realize why…

I knew I was going to get on that flight, and I didn't want to find myself face-to-face with this intimidating woman after telling her off online. Because even if I had no personal connection to Richard Ricci, I wanted to know more about him.

Frankly, I also couldn't afford to cover the ticket myself—another reason why I couldn't chew her out for buying it without consulting me. But maybe, just maybe, my money troubles were over. If I'd inherited this guy's house, I could sell it. It might not give me enough startup funds to open my bakery, but at least I could afford to live in my shitty apartment for a while without worrying about where I'd get the rent.

I wanted to show Lainey the message this morning and ask her what to do—there's nothing like passing the buck when you're emotionally drained—but she was still asleep after our all-night-baking-and-worrying session. So instead I'd texted my dad and asked him if I could come over to talk.

And here I am now, struggling to think of what to say, or how to say it.

Dad sits down across from me and pats his belly, glancing at the framed photo of my mother on the wall, the same way he does about five hundred times a day.

Mom left a couple of years ago to visit an ashram in California. She was supposed to come back in six weeks, but six weeks turned to six months, and then two years. The last time we heard from her was at Christmas about seven months ago, when she called to tell us the guru had ordered everyone to give up their phones. She'd miss talking to us, but we were on different paths anyway. She was one of the chosen, and since we'd neglected to give up all of our worldly possessions and join the ashram, we were celestially fucked.

Dad had tried to get her to come home. He'd contacted the cops, who'd told him they could do nothing, and a private investigator, who'd joined the ashram undercover and then chose to stay. So, ultimately, Dad had needed to accept she wasn't coming back this time.

This wasn't the first time my mom had left home to find herself. There'd been yoga retreats, girls' weekends that had extended into girls' months, and a couple of years before she left for the cult, an affair with her "twin flame"—a fast food "chef," her word, who was only two years older than me, white, and had cornrows. Given what I'd learned yesterday afternoon, I was guessing she'd tried to find herself in North Carolina twenty-nine years ago.

"Your mom's like a cat," my dad had told me when I was a kid and she'd missed some major life event. "She loves us, but she doesn't love the same way we do."

Because, it went without saying, both of us are dogs.

It hurt—watching her hurt him, feeling her push me aside like I was an overly demanding pet—but it didn't hurt as much as it might have, because I had him.

My dad was the one who took care of me. Mom brought me to the occasional yoga or art class, but she wasn't reliable. Dad was the one who'd bought me my first box of tampons, hugged me while I cried about stupid boys being stupid, taught me how to bake, and wrote my resume before I sent it to Agnes Lewis, adding ten bullet points about all of the supposed marketing work I'd done for his event planning business.

My father was everything to me, and he'd never really been mine.

Or at least that's how it felt right now, with the injustice of the whole thing pounding through my veins. My mother had let him raise me even though she knew I wasn't his kid.

"You sounded upset on the phone, bug," Dad says, his brow furrowing. "I'm sorry about your job, but maybe it was for the best. Agnes was always so demanding. I didn't want to say so while you were working for her, but she might not be a very nice sort of person."

I almost laugh. For my dad, this is the same as saying she's a secret devil worshipper who spends her night dancing nude around a bonfire. Instead, I sigh and say, "Yeah, you might be right about that."

"She sure didn't seem inclined to help you out. Maybe you could work with me for a little while, honey. I can always use help at—"

"Dad, I'm not here because of Agnes," I blurt, because I can't let him offer to help me, again, without saying what I came here to say. I suck in a breath and hold it, worry pounding through me. Will he still think of me as his daughter if he didn't know about Richard Ricci?

I'm hoping he did, that my mother was honest with him in this, at least, but that would also mean he's been lying to me for my whole life. It would mean it's true.

I take a quick bite of the muffin, buying myself half a second, because suddenly I'm terrified. I regret the bite, but I chew and swallow it, sucking in more air.

Not enough.

Suddenly, I feel like I'm choking. I let out the breath and suck in more air, but it doesn't feel enough. It feels like an anvil is sitting on my chest, and I can't breathe. I can't function. I can't—

I've had panic attacks at work, so I recognize what's happening and lean forward, putting my head between my legs and trying to slow my breathing.

"Bug," my dad says in alarm. "Is it the bran? I knew I put in too much. They were dry, weren't they?"

He pushes a glass of water toward me so aggressively it falls off the lip of the table and nearly hits my head, dousing my feet instead—and as soon as I catch my breath again, I find myself laughing. Laughing in the hysterical way people do when they're in serious trouble.

"Claire, what's going on?" Dad asks, standing in front of me.

That won't do. The laughter dries up, and I get up to grab some paper towels and mop up the mess. "Dad, take a seat," I tell him as he hovers. "We need to have a serious talk."

"You're making me nervous," he says, but he does as I ask.

I sit down too, and force myself to just come out and say it. "Dad, someone got in touch with me about a guy named Richard Ricci. Do you who know who that is?"

The look of horror on his face tells me he does, and also makes me worry about his heart health. Can any amount of bran counter the effect of something like this?

"He got in touch with you?" he says, looking down and pushing his muffin around like it might magically become edible.

"No…he's dead."

He looks up, eyes wide. "Really?"

"I saw his obituary. Dad…you obviously know who this guy is. Did Mom tell you…" My voice starts quavering, but I force myself to continue. "Is he my father?"

"I'm your father," he says firmly, his brown eyes holding mine. And even though I'm upset and on edge and really screwed up, I feel my eyes heat.

"Of course you are. But he's my, he's… The other half of my DNA comes from him, doesn't it?"

His jaw tightens, and he gives a slight nod. "Your mother told me as soon as she found out she was pregnant."

So at least she's only a partial piece of shit.

"But Dad." I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the tears coursing down my cheeks. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you pick up so much slack for her when you knew I wasn't even—"

He grabs my hand and holds it tightly. "Didn't you hear me, bug? I wanted to be a dad, your dad, and I am. I was there from the moment you were born, and I haven't missed a minute. I'm notgoing to miss a minute. That's what being a parent is."

"But Dad…" I'm full-on crying now, and he sighs and gets up, surprising me when he comes back with two snifter glasses with an inch and a half of bourbon each.

"It's eight thirty," I say through my tears.

"So long as neither of us go on a morning talk show, I think we'll be just fine."

I laugh as he hands me the bourbon and then a napkin for my waterworks, pausing to squeeze my shoulder. Comfort courses through me, because thank God. I didn't think he was going to throw me out on the street and cross my photo out of all of his albums, but it would have been painful if he'd looked at me, for even half a second, as if I were a stranger.

He sits across from me and lifts his glass, and I hoist mine up to clink it against his.

It only occurs to me after we drink that he may be toasting Richard Ricci's death. I'm guessing he wasn't on friendly terms with the man who cuckolded him.

"Dad," I say haltingly. "Did you ever meet him?"

"No," he says, his tone is about as salty as it gets. "I didn't have that pleasure. But your mother told me he didn't want to be a father, honey. I'm sorry if that's hard to hear."

It wasn't. When I thought of Richard Ricci, I felt nothing but the confusion attached to his existence, and maybe regret that I'd never get to ask him any questions, especially since my mom was almost equally out of reach.

"Not really," I say. "I have you." I clear my throat, then tell him about the strange communications I've received from Nicole.

By the time I finish, we've both downed our bourbon, and I feel a bit tipsy, because the only other thing in my stomach is a bite of bran.

"What do I do, Dad?" I ask.

He smiles at me. "You go. Can Lainey go with you?"

For some reason I hadn't even thought of this possibility, but now it seems obvious.

"Shit, I don't know." I lift my hand to my mouth. "Sorry. I blame the bourbon."

"You're twenty-eight," he says with a soft smile. "You can swear around me."

"She probably wouldn't be able to come right away," I say, considering, "but maybe she could borrow her parents' car." Why they have one is anyone's guess—my father doesn't. It's cheaper to pay for deliveries and taxis than to keep a car in the city, and juggling city parking is an exercise in insanity. But Lainey's parents aren't the kind of people who'd let that stop them from having a luxury they can't really afford. "I'll check out what's going on, meet with the executor, and if I have to stay for more than a few days, I'll ask her to join me."

"I think you should." He pauses, studying me. "Unless you'd like me to come?"

I consider, then shake my head slowly. "No, Dad. I don't think that would be right. I don't want you to have to go through this guy's things or whatever."

I mean, for all I knew, he'd kept photo albums or videos of all of his conquests. While I'm not exactly excited by the prospect of finding a stash of nudes of my mother, it would be worse if my dad found them.

"I respect that," he says. "But I'm here if you need me."

He obviously means it, and again, I let myself soak in his goodness. My life might be pretty messed up right now, but at least I have a dad who'd do literally anything for me. That's a pretty good thing to have going for you as a person, and I'm determined never to take him for granted.

He hugs me for a solid minute, and then I go home and pack. And drink some more bourbon.

Lainey sleeps like the dead, so I don't worry much about waking her, and by the time she finally stirs, I'm on my third drink of the day. It's ten o'clock.

"Did I sleep until evening?" she asks, rubbing her eyes and yawning as she glances at my tumbler glass.

"No, I get drunk during the day now. It's a thing."

Understanding dawns in her eyes. "You talked to your dad."

I nod slowly. "Yes."

"And Dick's your bio dad."

"Unfortunately, yes. I have something to show you." It takes me a few seconds to pull up the email on my phone, but then I shove it toward her face. "That Nicole woman got me a plane ticket for Sunday."

Lainey studies the screen, then scrolls down, her brow furrowing. Her gaze darts up to meet mine. "Claire, this is for today. For twelve o'clock."

"Twelve p.m.?" I ask stupidly.

"Yes."

I heave a breath of relief. "Okay. I wasn't banking on a middle of the night flight, but at least I have time."

She shoves my arm. "Twelve p.m. is in two hours, you day drunk."

Well, shit.