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The memory forever burned into my subconscious. I’d been terrified of what I’d have to tell my mom. I’d been devastated knowing that what I had thought was my happy, stable family was all a lie. In the end, I didn’t have to tell my mom anything.
    He’d confessed everything. B ut obviously, only because the conversation was inevitable at that point.
    I hadn’t realized that just thinking about it was upsetting me so much. My eyes were burning and my skin was p rickling. My chest was heaving and my breaths were coming a little too quickly. I fought the urge to burst into tears.
    Tristan put his hands on my shoulders. “Britta,” he said softly, “take a deep breath. You’re going to start to hyperventilate or something.”
    “You don’t understand,” I said as tears started flooding my eyes. I blinked them away.
    “Okay,” he admitted, “maybe I don’t.”
    Willow was right. He had grown over the past year. Quite a lot. I had to tilt my head to look up at him. He looked older, too. Not so much like a kid anymore. Actually, not at all like a kid anymore. He’d grown his hair out. It wasn’t in the nice, neat cut it had always been in. It was longer and bit floppy across his forehead. I…liked it.
    I pushed those realizations away and brought myself back to the real issue.
    “Nobody gets it!” I complained. Why can’t I just be mad at him? What was so wrong with that? I wondered. “ Nobody gets it!” I repeated. My voice was full of frustration.
    “Maybe not,” Tristan said as his hands slid off my shoulders. “But do you really want to spend the rest of your life being mad at him?”
    I wanted to say that yes, yes I did. I realized how childish that would sound so I said nothing.
    “Look, Britta, all I’m saying is that you and your dad used to seem so close. He’s obviously trying. He must want to fix things. I do get that it must be hard…But you must miss him a little bit, don’t you?” he demanded. His dark brown eyes were scrutinizing.
    I turned away from him because he was right and I didn’t want to admit it. I straightened a stack of books that I had on my desk. I was sure even if I didn’t deny it; he’d see it written all over my face. I did miss him. I didn’t want to. But I did. It was frustrating to have such conflicted feelings. I wanted to hate him. A lot of the time, I thought I did. Then there were the days that I didn’t.
    And those days, I felt guilty for it.
    “So why were you and your mom talking about it? If you don’t mind that I ask,” he tacked on. “Doesn’t she want you to see him?”
    “No,” I said as I turned back around. “Just the opposite, actually. She thinks I should go. She hadn’t realized that I’ve been avoiding him. But he was so pushy the last time we got together. He was just…too happy or something. And he asked too many questions. I felt like he was trying too hard to pretend like nothing was wrong. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Since then,” I said with a helpless shrug, “I just haven’t wanted to see him. It all just felt like it was too much. Too fake. But I hadn’t told my mom so she just found out tonight. She wasn’t happy about it.”
    “So she wants you to have a relationship with your dad?” he carefully asked.
    My shoulders heaved in a resigned sigh. “She says she does.” Or possibly, she was just saying that because she thought it was the right thing to do. And unlike my dad, my mom usually tried hard to do the right thing.
    “Then she probably does,” he decided.
    “Maybe,” I muttered.
    “Not that you want my opinion,” he began, “but I think you should talk to him. Or at least, try to talk to him. The sooner you do that…maybe things can get back to normal for you. Maybe you can get past the awkwardness. I really think you’d be happier.” He paused before adding, “I mean…you couldn’t be un happier about the situation at this point. Could you?”
    “Probably not,” I