Mom and I look alike.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“It didn’t seem relevant,” Dad says, even though I can’t imagine a scenario where it wouldn’t be. “I can’t tell you how to feel, but—”
“Don’t try to shrink me.”
Behind me, Mom laughs. I turn and give her the meanest look I can muster.
“Sorry,” she says.
I look back and forth between both of my parents. “You lied,” I accuse Dad before turning back to Mom. “You were never going to call about an audition, were you?”
“Don’t blame your dad,” Monica says.
“It’s okay, Mon.”
“No, let me,” Monica Whistler says. “I wasn’t very good to your dad. I left him, and this town, because I was selfish and thought my dreams were the only thing that mattered. They weren’t. And I regret how I acted. I’m sorry.” She says the last part to Dad, and they’re both looking at each other as if they’re the only ones in the room.
“Hello?” I say. Clearly, they both forgot we’re talking about me here.
“Cecelia,” Dad says again. I can tell his patience is wearing thin and he’s starting to look tired. He’s always tired. “I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt, but some things are private.”
“But you’re my dad.”
“I’m also my own person.”
I stop and roll that thought around in my head. He’s got a point—but so do I. “And you’re my dad.”
“Your dad tells me you want to be an actress?” Monica says. Someone really has to teach her there’s a right and a wrong way to change the subject.
“Mon.” Dad shakes his head. This is so weird.
“I’m just saying, we’re casting for a girl who’s just in town for the weekend. It’s a bit part, but I can pull a few strings.”
“Shut up!” I say.
“Cecelia,” Dad says sternly.
“I mean, that would be the most amazing thing ever!”
“I’ll give your dad a call later to confirm details,” she says.
Behind me, I hear the front door open.
“You coming?” Beau asks, probably wondering why it’s taking so long to get a stupid towel.
“Now’s not a good time, Beau,” Mom says, like it’s him she’s mad at.
Beau looks at me, clearly confused. And then he looks in the living room and sees what I saw. “Whoa.”
“Monica, this is Beau,” Dad says.
She tilts her head, almost like she’s studying his face. “He looks just like Adam.”
“He’s Adam and Jill’s son.”
“Now’s not a good time, Beau,” Mom says again, like a robot who’s only programmed to say one phrase.
Beau shrugs and opens the door but pauses before leaving. “Is something burning?”
“Shit,” Mom says. “The cookies.”
“Cookies?” This day keeps getting weirder. “Who are you? I don’t know either of you!”
I storm up the stairs, wanting to get as far away from them both as I can. Halfway up, I realize I might not get an opportunity like this again, so I quickly retrace my steps and pop my head back into the living room. “It was really nice to meet you,” I tell Monica Whistler.
I don’t have the courage to glare at my dad when he’s looking so sad and sick, but I stop smiling so he knows I’m not happy. I stomp back up the stairs, and for good measure, slam my bedroom door.
“MONICA FREAKING WHISTLER.” I open my laptop and start googling.
Monica + Whistler + Destin. Sure enough, she’s from here. She graduated from Crestview High. How did I not know that?
I can’t believe I never asked Dad if we were related—I always assumed we didn’t have any relatives since he and Mom are both only children. And my parents aren’t married to each other, so why in the world would I ever think to ask if they’d married anyone else? I wonder if Mom has a secret husband hidden somewhere that I don’t know about . . .
Focus, Cecelia.
I change my search: Monica + Whistler + Tommy. Nothing. I change Tommy to Thomas and add the word “wedding,” and sure enough, there’s a link to an article from the Northwest Florida Daily News.
The headline reads: CELEBRATIONS: VESELOVSKY AND WHISTLER TO WED.
No wonder she kept my dad’s name. I scroll down more and see a picture of them, standing in a prom pose on the beach. Dad still looks like Dad, just a younger, nonsick version with a head almost full of chestnut-brown hair. Monica looks younger, but not really prettier. Her boobs are smaller and her hair isn’t as perfect. She looks pretty, just not as drop-dead gorgeous as she is now.
I keep scrolling and read the article:
Boris