Better to act distracted, because then they actually try to get your attention. Make them work for it.

“He’s great! We hooked up last week and—”

“You went out on a date?”

“Went out, hooked up...you know.” She blushes.

Oh, no.

Sometimes, my covert information tactics work too well.

Danger, Will Robinson. We’ve ventured into sex revelation territory. Where’s the shotgun when I need it? I take a deep breath and let it out.

Sounding a little too close to Sigh.

“Dad, stahp!”

“What?”

“I know you don’t like Brandon.”

“How can I not like him? I’ve never met him!”

“What was that sigh?”

“It was an old man deflating. Sometimes we need to let some air out.”

“EW!”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Says the man whose favorite bedtime book was Walter the Farting Dog.”

I start laughing at the memory. That really is one of the best children’s books ever.

She peers at me again. “Who is she?”

I choke on my coffee. From farts to women. Elodie can change a topic like no one’s business.

“Aha!”

“Aha, what?”

“That was a shot in the dark. So there’s a she? Finally?”

My front door opens. We peer around the breakfast bar to find another enormous bundle of laundry invading my home. It’s an infestation.

“What are you doing here?” Amelie yells, clearly offended by Elodie’s presence.

“Talking with Dad about his sex life.”

“I do not have a sex life!”

That came out wrong.

True, but wrong.

“That’s the problem!” Elodie fumes.

“The problem is that you are hogging the washer and dryer, El,” Amelie says, frowning at the tornado of clothing poured out on the floor in the hallway outside the small laundry room. She gives me a pouty face and says, “Make her take turns.”

“You are not five any more. You are both twenty-one. If you need your dear old dad to mediate when it comes to laundry, how are you going to get anywhere in the business world?”

Her green eyes flash behind old-fashioned fifties-style glasses, big and rectangular with dark rims. Like her sister, she’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms, but her feet are stuffed into unlaced Doc Martens,.

“It’s that woman you saved!” Elodie shouts, triumphant. She and her twin share one of the thousands of twin-looks that I can never decipher.

“Who?” Amelie looks as confused as I feel, which is small comfort.

“Dad is dating. He has a girlfriend!” Elodie is majoring in Folklore and the Spoken Tradition at her progressive college. It’s a self-crafted major. Highly employable.

“I do not have a girlfriend.”

Amelie turns her full attention to me. Elodie’s plan is clear to me: distract her sister so she can hog the washing machine.

“You do look different,” Amelie says with caution. “More relaxed. Happier.”

“Regular sex will do that,” Elodie announces.

I close my eyes and—yep.

Sigh.

“I am not—” I was about to say having regular sex, but that crosses a line. “I am not dating.”

“You should be.” Amelie scowls at me. She and Elodie are fraternal twins, and everyone in our lives has said she’s the feminine version of me. I wonder if I look that fierce when I’m studying a project at work.

“You need to ask her out.” Elodie has found the good peanut butter, a jar of Nutella, and a batch of Mint Milanos I thought I’d hidden carefully in the pantry, behind the black beans. Guess not carefully enough.

Amelie grabs the cookies and dips one in the peanut butter, then the Nutella, and stuffs her face. I turn away and make myself another espresso. Whatever happened to post-softball-game ice cream cones and fevered discussions about Justin Bieber?

This has veered into dangerous territory. When you become nostalgic for Justin Bieber, it’s bad.

“I’m not talking about this.”

“We worry about you.” They share another one of those looks. Something in my chest tightens and loosens at the same time.

“Why would you worry about me?”

“Because we love you.”

I clear my throat, which has suddenly become thick with confusion.

“And because you really need to get laid.”

“Elodie.” I say her name low and slow. That used to be enough to get her to stop doing whatever she was doing that broke the rules.

“What? It’s true,” chimes in Amelie.

“Chloe!” Elodie exclaims, snapping her fingers, giving Amelie a conspirator’s look. “That was her name. The woman Dad saved from her drunk, half-crazed boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend.”

Four evaluative eyes land on me.

“See? You totally like her,” Elodie declares.

“She’s a work colleague. I don’t date women at work.”

“You don’t date women at all,” Elodie shoots back.

They share another look.

“Does that mean you date men?” Amelie asks, her voice soft with compassion. “Because if you’ve been afraid to tell us, we’re fine with—”

“As relieved as I am to know you’re open-minded, no—I don’t date men.”

“Maybe he’s asexual,” Elodie says at the exact moment that the washing machine buzzes. Cycle over. Has this conversation really lasted that long?

No. Those were my clothes.

“Go!” I hiss to Amelie, who sprints down the hall while I step in Elodie’s way.

“Daddy! Now I’ll only get one load in!”

“Payback.”

“For telling the truth?” Her eyes turn into deep brown triangles, challenging and calculating. Before I can give her a wise response, the storm passes and she is aloof. Untouched.

Chloe. Now that her name has been invoked, I find myself completely overwhelmed by the image of that smile. Her poise. The ramrod-straight posture and the confidence that she holds, as if the world is hers to open. I’ve spent so many years pushing aside opportunities that I knew would just lead down blind alleys, dead ends, and into relationships that would cause more pain than they alleviated. The kids came first.