AS FAR AS impulsive decisions went, I made a slew of them over the next couple of days. The first was after my classes the next evening.

I was still reeling from all the events of the last few days, and my body hummed with a static that moved me to do something. Anything that did well enough to distract me from the tension in my core, the episodes of misplaced annoyance, the sudden tiredness and overwhelm, the haze. So I rushed back to the dorms the moment class ended, my skin prickling with awareness as I walked past the basketball court, and didn't give myself a chance to rethink.

I was barely settled in bed when I unlocked my phone and opened my contacts.

Then I called my dad.

It had to have easily been a year since I willingly picked up the phone to talk to him. My mom had very strict rules concerning what she called my recent "attitude." I could disown him all I wanted, spit on the ground at the sound of his name, ignore his calls, and whatever else I felt was deserving, but I had to call him on his birthdays. It was like a holiday tradition. So every September, I pretended I hated him a little less. He'd talk to me like everything was all right, like I was just away at college and he was just away at work, he'd use the pet names he always had, ask me how things were, tell me he loved me. I never said it back.

Today, it wasn't his birthday, neither was it September, but I had the unbeatable urge to stir shit up. So I listened to the dial tone, the muscles in my stomach clamping down on me until I was forced out of bed and into the desk chair. The top of the desk was still cluttered with Kelsey's things, but I found enough space to place my arms.

I was starting to believe he wasn't going to pick up when a crackle came from the other end. Then a still, right before, "Hi, baby."

His voice was the same, and had always been, but the effect never was. I was always affected. The texture was rich and smooth, the tone low, nostalgic. The first few years after he left, I remember being excited on the days Tomi and I got to see him. I remember anticipating him picking me up, tossing me in the air, then walking me through the park while pointing out birds and insects; anticipating him asking what flavor of ice cream I wanted even though he knew my favorite; anticipating even less those last moments on the park bench, curled up to his side as the evening ripened, as the countdown to Mom coming started. I remember asking him every time when he was going to come back home, remember telling him I missed him with tears in my eyes, remember he never answered.

Then the frequency of the visits started to trickle. It was first every other week, then once a month, then one in three months, then it became so sparse that my little brain found it hard to keep up. I'd just wait until a significant amount of time had passed to ask my mom when we were going to see him again. Then she'd call him and say, she's asking for you. Then we'd talk on the phone, and I'd tell him everything I could remember he'd missed. He'd stay quiet, he'd listen, ask if I wanted him to get me anything.

The request was always the same.

I want you to come home.

The one request he couldn't handle.

As I got older, I realized what it was. Divorce. Mom got custody. Dad paid child support.

I pinched my eyes shut and pulled the phone away from my ear for a moment. So I could draw in that shaky breath that always followed. So I could ground myself. Then I placed the phone back against my ear.

"Hi. Micah."

I heard an exhale from the other end, almost like a chuckle. "You're never gonna quit that, are you?"

"You're never gonna stop asking, are you?"

"Désiré," he said, soft, resigned.

"Why did you change your number?" I let a beat pass between us. "And why did you tell mom not to tell Tomi about it?"

"Baby—"

"Stop calling me that. The reason I called is to ask why you're so desperate to forget we exist. I don't want anything to do with you, Dad. You know that. But Tomi adores you. She fights me because of you. And you're just gonna go ahead and drop her like this? You really want her to hate you, too?"

Silence. For a moment, the line went still, and I had to check to make sure it was still connected.

When my dad's voice came again, it was still quiet. He was always the measured one. He never got angry. "Your mom didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Again with the silence.

"Tell me what, Dad?"

The silence stretched on a moment longer, his hesitance obvious. Then he said, "I proposed."

I wanted to feel a bit more than I did in that moment, but I think his sentence didn't settle properly. It didn't settle right. He proposed. Proposed what?

I didn't realize I asked the question out loud until he spoke again. "To Alice, De."

"What?" That was when it sunk, lead in my stomach. "You're getting remarried." It wasn't a question.

"I didn't know how to tell you. Seems your mom didn't, either."

"Dad."

"I'm sorry. It's just—"

"I thought you said you loved Mom," I challenged, but my voice didn't hold much weight. "I thought you said it was still there, that it'll always be there. That—that it was marriage and how suddenly it happened. She got pregnant, and you guys panicked. That it would've been different if you had more time. Right?"

"Yes—"

"Then how can you stand to be with someone else?" That time, my voice was louder, sharper, angrier. Why did this make me so angry? It had been established that I didn't give a shit about him, so why did the thought of him exchanging vows with someone else, starting a family with someone else, strike something deep-seated in me?

"Your mom means a lot to me," he said. "She always will. But Alice does, too. That time I never got, I got it. I've had time to put my life together. I'm not doing this to hurt anyone, I promise."

I placed my head in my hand and let out a breath, pressing my eyes shut so I wouldn't have to feel any of this. It was heavy but dull. A scream behind soundproof glass. You know it's there, but you can't really hear it.

In an attempt to distract myself from it, I asked, "That's why you changed your number?"

"De—"

"You know what?" I cut in, suddenly hit with the realization that I didn't want to know why. I was done with this conversation. "Screw it. Congratulations, Dad."

"Désiré, please wait."

I didn't wait. I hung up and called Tomi instead. Once again, I couldn't sit still, and regardless of how hard I tried not to pace as I waited for her to pick up, it didn't work.

The moment the call connected, I said, "Dad's getting remarried."

She didn't say anything, didn't react with the disbelief or shock I expected from her, and something in her silence made it all click, told me all I needed to know.

"You knew."

"He may have hinted that he wanted to get a ring," she said. Her voice held the same light composure our dad's did. "I . . . may have helped him pick it out?"

For a while, I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure if what I felt was anger or betrayal or even something else, something nameless. Something big. "The hell, Tomi. And you didn't think to tell me?"

"You don't like hearing anything about him, De. How was I supposed to bring that up in conversation?"

"Oh, so now it's my fault?"

She sighed, and the exasperation really came through. "It's no one's fault. Shit just happened—"

I hung up on her, too. All of this was bull, and I didn't want to deal with it.

I told myself that, but as I stood there, hands on my hips, gaze fixed on a spot I couldn't really see, I realized that this was me dealing with it. Focusing too hard. Letting it affect me.

It didn't matter, and I didn't care.

I found somewhere to perch myself, aware that I needed to get away from here, from this room, aware that I'd found more than what I bargained for and now needed something else to do. Before I was forced to confront this all over again.

Eventually, the hum in my veins quietened, and I was staring out the window at what I could make of the court when Kelsey returned.

"I'm so tired," she commented with a chuckle as she kicked off her crocs. "Architectural history has electrified my brain, and I'm tired, but all I want to do right now is research."

She was in the middle of shrugging off her jacket when the idea sprung, impulsive but promising.

I pushed myself off the edge of the desk. "Can I take the car out?" Even to my ears, there was something coarse about my voice. Coarse and thick with emotion. In the end, it didn't matter how hard I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. My body reacted far ahead of my brain.

Kelsey paused and took me in, her features softening the longer she observed. "What's wrong?"

"I just—I just need a drive to clear my head. I'll pay for gas, I promise."

She took a step forward. "De, what's wrong?"

I drew in a breath. "I'll explain later."

She wasn't immediately convinced, choosing to stare me down the same way my sister liked to, most likely hoping something in her gaze would break me. But I'd had years of practice, and in comparison to Tomi, Kelsey was a beginner in silent probing.

Eventually, she sighed. "Okay. Just," she handed me the car keys, "drive safe, okay? And don't stay out too late. If you make me worry, it's over between us."

With that warning in mind, I set off. The sun had just set, and the final rays of natural light, combined with the orange glow of the street lamps, led me through the parking lot to her car. I sorted out the basics first—music. After scrolling through my Spotify library, I figured R&B was my best bet, and I made sure at least thirty seconds of the first song had passed before I pulled out of the lot.

I didn't have a destination in mind; I just wanted escape. So I drove, past Carlton's residential areas and beneath sugar maples, past the faculty buildings, some more modern and accessible than others, until I crossed university limits.

It was easy to forget how busy it got off-campus after sundown. An entire world of its own. The bar signs were lit, music thrumming across the concrete, bells for independent businesses tinkling beneath the buzz, cars pulling up to curbsides and spilling both rowdy party-goers and tired students onto the sidewalk. The air was charged with the static of different conversations, and it was oddly calming—knowing how intently the world continued irrespective of whatever was happening in our lives, a reminder that we really were insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

Years ago, when my dad still stayed in a condo in Oakland, I went to spend a weekend with him, and we went on a drive like this. Occasionally, if I thought hard enough, I remembered the smell of his car. Spicy, but grounded enough for me to want to bury my face in the seats. The same way I used to bury my face in his clothes, like every whiff gave me a piece of him. He'd reached over as I stared out the window at the streetlamps we drove by and run a hand over my hair. Just once. I hadn't looked at him, hadn't known what it meant.

That was the last time I saw him before he moved to Manhattan. Almost three thousand miles away from California.

I think it was that incident that triggered this chain reaction, this cycle of anger and hate. He always did things like this. As long as decisions made him happy, it didn't matter what anyone else thought, how anyone else felt about it. It was Micah Rivers and Micah Rivers alone.

I slammed a hand down on the steering wheel before I realized it, then again, with gritted teeth. Then I pulled the car to a temporary stop by the curb, lowered my head to the wheel, and let out a muted scream until my muscles were all tensed up in that way I'd been craving since I left my dorm room, until I felt blood drain out of my hands.

It wasn't fair. I hated how unfair everything was. I just wanted a break. Was that too much to ask?

The sound was drowned out by the buzz of activity that surrounded me, and I remained in that position for a moment, before slowly pulling myself up, my breathing ragged. Then I released my grip on the wheel and pushed my locs away from my face, drawing in grounding breath after grounding breath. The panic had started to coil tight in my chest, but I wasn't going to let it unspool. Not over him. Not over this.

I didn't give a shit.

Minutes later, I turned onto a quieter, emptier street and decided to slow down, make this moment out with myself last. The gentle notes of Frex's Postcards poured from the speakers and filled the air in the car, and I'd just allowed myself sink into the seat when I spotted a figure lowered to the curb up ahead, in the calm between two streetlights.

I could've gone past him, pretended like I didn't notice, but not when my pulse calmed at the sight of him, a quiet mix of surprise and relief as his frame took a more defined shape.

He was in an oversized Carlton U sweatshirt, his head lowered to the pavement, curls toppled over his forehead, phone on the asphalt between his feet.

I knew I was going to stop several beats before I actually did.

He didn't twitch as the car pulled closer to him, didn't look up at the flash of the headlights, and it took me a second too long to notice the slump in his shoulders, and the fact that his eyes were closed.

Was he . . . sleeping?

I pulled the car to a quiet stop a few inches away from him, then leaned over to the passenger side to assess the situation. Still no movement.

"Sydney?" I called. No response.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car without a second thought. As I walked around the hood, he finally showed signs of life. A finger twitched, then his lashes fluttered slowly. He remained that way for a while, before he looked up, and I saw the shock in his gaze moments before he registered my presence.

His first reaction was a flinch, then he shut his eyes for a second. "The fuck, De." His voice was dropped in an almost-angry whisper.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, still standing on the other side of the hood, my hand on the cool metal. "Hi."

He lowered his head and wiped beneath his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, almost like he didn't want me to see it, and when he looked up at me again, there was something more reserved in his gaze. Withdrawn. Over the next few seconds, as we sized each other up, I noticed first the pallid rings that cupped his eyes. Then I noticed that the aforementioned eyes were red-rimmed.

And it wasn't from sleep.

the latter part of this chapter is one of the first scenes i got inspired for when i started writing this book, and i almost thought it wasn't going to make it in because of the recent direction of the plot, but look at that!

also, music is a huge part of my process, so if i mention a song on-page, even though you're not required to listen to it (especially if you're not a fan of the genre; i completely respect that), it'll greatly add to the sensory experience if you do <3