Chapter 146

[ 978 words ]

Katia’s POV

Dad called on a Tuesday afternoon while I was in the middle of annotating the London infrastructure brief.

I saw his name on the screen and picked up on the second ring, which was something I would not have done six months ago. Six months ago I would have let it go to voicemail and called back when I had decided what version of myself to present. Now I just picked up.

“Dad p>

“Katia.” He sounded slightly out of breath, which usually meant he had called from the garden and walked back inside faster than he intended. “Are you busy p>

“Always. What’s happened p>

He didn’t answer right away, which told me he was gathering himself to say something he was not entirely sure how to say. “Your mother has hired a matchmaker p>

I stopped annotating.

“I’m sorry p>

“A professional matchmaker. She has a website. A portfolio.” He paused again. “Testimonials p>

I put my pen down.

“Testimonials,” I repeated.

“Five stars, apparently. Very reputable.” Another pause. “I thought you should know before she — before any of it reached you without warning p>

I started laughing.

I did not plan to laugh. It arrived before I could stop it – the specific, slightly unhinged laugh of someone who had received information so absurd that the only appropriate response was laughter. A professional matchmaker. With testimonials.

“Dad,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“She hired an actual matchmaker p>

“With a portfolio,” he confirmed. “I’ve seen it. There are headshots p>

I laughed harder. I heard him on the other end doing the thing he did when he was trying not to join in — the stifled sound of a man who found something funny and was doing his best to maintain appropriate paternal gravity and failing.

“I told her to stop,” he said. “Twice. She told me I didn’t understand the process p>

“The process,” I said.

“Apparently there is a process. Compatibility assessments. Initial consultations.” He paused. “I don’t fully understand it either p>

“Dad p>

“I know, I know.” He gave up on the gravity. A short laugh escaped. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny p>

“It’s a little funny p>

“It’s a little funny,” he agreed.

We sat with that for a moment — the easy, slightly surprised quiet of two people who had discovered they could laugh at the same thing. It was new. Not uncomfortable, just new. Like finding a room in a house you had lived in for years that you had never opened before.

“I want you to know I’m not part of it,” he said. His voice had shifted — still warm but more direct now. “Whatever she sends your way, whatever she arranges, it isn’t from me. I think—” He stopped. “I think you have your own life, Katia. You’ve built something remarkable. You have Aiden. You have IG.” He paused and continued. “I think you know what you want and who you want it with, and your mother hiring a matchmaker isn’t going to change any of that p>

I was quiet for a moment.

He wasn’t wrong. He was, in the specific way that fathers could occasionally be, entirely right without knowing quite how right he was.

“She worries about you,” he said. “That’s where it comes from. It’s the wrong way to show it, but that’s where it comes from p>

“I know,” I said.

“And I worry about you too. Just differently.” Another pause. “I think you’re carrying a lot on your own. I think you have been for a long time. And I think — ” He stopped again. The careful fumbling of a man who wanted to say something true and was not sure he had earned the right to say it yet. “I just want you to know that you don’t have to anymore. Carry it alone, I mean. I’m here p>

I looked at the London infrastructure brief on my desk. At the annotated pages and the coffee cup and the photograph of Aiden in the corner of the desk, three years old, laughing at something off-camera.

“I know, Dad,” I said.

“I’m on your side,” he said. “Whatever that looks like. Whatever you need p>

It was simple. There was nothing complicated about it and nothing performed. Just a man who had let his daughter down badly six years ago and had spent that time finding his way to the point where he could say a sentence like that and mean it completely.

“I know,” I said again. “Thank you p>

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “I’m six years late p>

“You’re here now,” I said.

“I am,” he said quietly.

We talked for another ten minutes about nothing in particular – Aiden’s go-kart league, a trip David was planning the London expansion that he had read about in a business article and wanted to understand properly. Small things. The specific small things that accumulated into something larger over time if you let them.

When he hung up, I sat at my desk for a moment.

I thought about what he had said. You know what you want and who you want it with.

I thought about Julian’s office yesterday. About his hands at my face and his forehead against mine and the certainty in his voice when he said, ’I will fix this p>

I thought about Delia.

About the fact that whatever Julian fixed or didn’t fix, whatever happened next, there was a version of the future that was going to require me to look my sister in the eye and tell her something I did not yet know how to say.

I did not have an answer for that yet.

I picked up my pen.

I went back to the London brief.

Some problems you solved. Some you sat with until the shape of them became clear enough to act on.

I was sitting with this one.

For now, that was enough.

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