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conversation was headed that direction,” I admitted.
    “Anything you want to talk about?” he hesitantly asked.
    I had known Tristan as long as I’d known Jamie. Since the summer before fifth grade, fourth grade for him. The year we’d moved to the neighborhood. I’d been so excited that there were kids my age to hang out with. Dad had set up the sprinkler for us every single Saturday that summer.
    I shook my head to tell him ‘no’.
    Then, without meaning to, I blurted out, “It’s my dad. He had the nerve to call here to complain to my mom that I blocked his number from my phone.”
    Tristan tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at me. It seemed more curious than accusatory. “Why would you do that?’
    “Why do you think?” I demanded.  I hadn’t actually talked to him about my dad before. But I knew he’d heard the story. I knew he’d overheard at least a few of my many breakdowns. I’d sobbed on Jamie’s shoulder about his horrible choices and the end of my parents’ marriage. So while I hadn’t brought it up with him directly, I knew he was well aware of what had happened.
    “You’re still not talking to him?”
    Why did he sound so surprised?
    “Why would I?” I wondered.
    “Britta,” he said quietly, “he’s your dad. Whatever happened with him and your mom, it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
    “How can you say that?” I asked. My voice was louder than I meant for it to be . I threw my hands up in the air in frustration. “Of course it had to do with me! I’m the one that found him out! If I hadn’t…” I cringed at the thought. “Who knows what would be happening right now. He might still be doing the same thing and my mom would never know!”
    “But that shouldn’t affect your relationship with him,” Tristan said. He finally stepped away from my door. “People make mistakes. If he’s trying to talk to you…trying to spend time with you, he obviously still cares about you. I mean, of course he does. He’s your dad !”
    “Why does everyone keep saying that?!”
    “Probably because it’s true,” he firmly replied. “I didn’t realize that you still weren’t talking to him.”
    “I talk to him. Some. When I have to.” After putting him off for months, I’d finally had to give in and have lunch with him. But that had been weeks ago.
    “And how does that go?” Tristan wondered. “ When you do talk to him?”
    “ It doesn’t go all that well,” I admitted. “I have a hard enough time talking to him on the phone. I don’t like thinking about him. Let alone looking at him.”
    Our last lunch had been strained. It seemed like he was putting in an effort. Almost too much of an effort. It was annoying. Too many questions. Too much of an attempt at carefree banter. But I hadn’t wanted to be there so it’s possible anything and everything he said might have annoyed me. I felt like I was betraying my mom by just sitting across the booth from him. I had nothing to say to him. Nothing I wanted to share with him. He’d asked though. He wanted to know all about my life. Or at least he’d pretended like he had. Or maybe he really did. I felt like I didn’t know him at all anymore. I didn’t know what was real and what was a lie. Regardless, I just didn’t feel like he had the right to pry into my life.
    He’d given that up the day he walked out.
    So I’d given him the shortest answers possible. I’d ordered a side salad, the smallest item on the menu and I’d eaten it as quickly as I could. Then I’d manufactured an excuse for leaving immediately.
    That had been nearly a month ago. Since then, I’d started avoiding his calls completely. I didn’t want to accidentally end up with another scheduled lunch date.
    I’d had a hard time sitting there. Just thinking about him made the nausea roll in. Sitting across from him, seeing his face was even worse. I’d been so blown-away that day when I’d walked in on him. I’d been hysterical.