I Slept With My Boyfriend’s Dad

Della’s POV

The house came into view before Asher said anything about it, which was somehow worse than if he'd warned me. One second we were on a narrow coastal road with dune grass whipping past the windows, and the next the trees broke open onto glass and cedar and a view of the ocean that looked less like a house and more like something out of a magazine spread titled *How the Other Half Summers.*

"Okay," I said. "You undersold this."

"I told you it was nice."

"You said 'my dad's beach house.' That phrase does not prepare a person for this."

Asher laughed, downshifting as the driveway curved up toward a detached garage already holding a car I didn't recognize. "In my defense, I've been coming here since I was a kid. It stops registering as impressive after a while. It's just Dad's house."

"Must be nice," I said, and meant it more than I let on.

"He does well for himself. Tenure track, a couple of consulting things on the side, some investments that apparently panned out better than anyone expected." Asher said it the way people talk about family money they've never had to think too hard about, casual, a little proud, entirely unaware of how each word landed differently on my end of the car. "He's not, like, obnoxious about it. He just likes nice things. Always has."

"Sounds like a guy who has his life together."

"More than most, probably. Sometimes I think that's half the reason I've never fully figured mine out. Hard to compete with that."

I didn't say anything to that, mostly because my brain had snagged on the word *tenure* and was refusing to let go of it, turning it over like a stone I couldn't put down.

He parked, killed the engine, and sat there for a second with his hand still on the key, the kind of pause that made me look over at him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just, you know. Nervous, I guess. Wanting you to like him." He said it easily enough, but there was something under it, some current I couldn't quite name, gone as fast as it surfaced. "He's a lot. Good a lot. But a lot."

"I can handle a lot."

"I know you can." He leaned over and kissed me, quick, grounding, the kind of kiss that was more about steadying his own nerves than mine. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

I told myself the flutter in my stomach was normal. Meeting a boyfriend's parent for the first time was supposed to feel like this, a little sick, a little electric, the ordinary anxiety of wanting to be liked by someone whose opinion suddenly mattered. That was all it was. I'd been telling myself that for the entire four-hour drive, and I kept telling myself right up until the front door opened before we'd even made it up the steps.

He was taller than I expected. Not that Asher had ever described his father's height, specifically, but there was something about the word *dad* that had let me build a smaller, softer picture in my head, gray cardigan, reading glasses, someone who'd hand you a cup of coffee and ask about your major. The man standing in the doorway looked nothing like that. Dark hair, some gray at the temple that looked less like age and more like a choice the universe had made on his behalf because it suited him. A build that suggested he did something active with his mornings. An expression, when his eyes found mine, that started as polite and then, for one full second, stopped being polite at all.

"Dad," Asher said, jogging up the last few steps to hug him. "This is Della."

I climbed the steps behind him on legs that had gone strangely unreliable, and held out my hand, because it seemed like the thing to do, because I couldn't think of anything else to do with it.

"Della," he repeated, taking my hand. His grip was firm, brief, entirely appropriate. Nothing about the handshake itself was wrong. It was the look underneath it that wasn't right, close and searching in a way that had nothing to do with meeting your son's girlfriend for the first time. "Julian."

"It's nice to meet you," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt, which I counted as a small miracle given that my heart had just relocated somewhere up near my throat.

He didn't let go of my hand right away. Just a beat too long, nothing anyone watching would have clocked as strange, except that I was the one whose hand it was, and I felt every extra half-second of it like a held breath.

"Have we met?" he said.

The question landed somewhere behind my sternum and stayed there.

"I don't think so," I said, which was true, technically, in the narrowest, most legally defensible sense of the word *met*, and also possibly the biggest lie I had ever told a stranger on a doorstep.

"You look familiar." He said it slowly, like he was trying the words out to see if they fit, watching my face the whole time in a way that made me acutely aware of every muscle in it, of whether my expression was doing something I hadn't authorized. "I'm sure it's nothing. I meet a lot of people."

"Della goes to our university, actually," Asher said, oblivious, already halfway to the trunk of the car to grab bags, throwing the sentence back over his shoulder like it was nothing, like it wasn't currently rearranging the entire architecture of my chest. "Small world. Maybe you had her in something big, one of those two-hundred-person lecture halls."

"Maybe," Julian said.

He was still looking at me.

I made myself hold his gaze, because looking away felt like it would confirm whatever he was circling, and looking away felt, somehow, more dangerous than just standing there and letting him search my face for something he couldn't quite name. Two years. It had been two years, and a different hairstyle, and God knew how many pounds of unfamiliarity layered on top of whoever I'd been at twenty, drunk and reckless and gone before sunrise. Two years should have been enough. Two years should have made me a stranger even to myself.

"Well," he said finally, and something in his face smoothed back over, polite host reasserting itself over whatever had been there a second before. "Come in, both of you. You must be exhausted from the drive."

He turned and led the way inside, and I stood there for one more second on the top step, watching his back, feeling my pulse do something erratic and unhelpful in my throat.

*It's fine,* I told myself. *He doesn't know. He can't know. It was two years and one night and he barely even remembers it, probably, men like that don't remember mornings like that, they blur together, I'm nothing, I was nothing, it's fine, it's fine, it's—*

"You coming?" Asher called from inside, already through the door, already home in a way I would never fully be in this house, no matter how many summers I spent in it.

"Yeah," I said. "Coming."

The inside of the house was worse, in the sense that it gave me more surface area to be nervous about. Floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water, furniture that looked like it had been chosen by someone with very specific, very expensive taste, a kitchen island the size of my entire childhood bedroom. Asher gave me the tour with the easy narration of someone who'd stopped noticing any of it was impressive a long time ago, this is the living room, this is the deck, you can see the water from basically every window in the house, my dad likes it quiet out here.

I nodded along and made the right sounds and tried very hard not to think about the fact that Julian had trailed a few steps behind us the entire time, not saying much, letting Asher do the talking, watching me with an attention that felt less like hosting and more like cataloguing.

"Your room's this way," Asher said, leading me down a hallway lined with more of those photographs I still hadn't let myself examine closely. He pushed open a door to a guest room with its own view of the water, dropped my bag just inside it, and turned to me with an expression that softened everything in me that had gone tight since the driveway. "You good? You've been quiet."

"Long drive," I said. "And meeting the family is a lot, like you said."

"He liked you. I could tell." Asher pulled me in, forehead against mine for a second, and some small, tired part of me let itself believe that, let itself lean into the easy warmth of him instead of the complicated static radiating from somewhere down the hall. "He gets weird with new people sometimes. Overthinks things. It's not you."

I wanted to tell him he was wrong about that last part. I didn't.

"I'm going to help him get dinner started," Asher said, kissing my temple. "Take your time settling in. There's no rush."

He left, and I sat down on the edge of the guest bed, and for a long minute I just breathed, staring at a watercolor of the coastline hanging on the opposite wall like it might have some kind of answer painted into it.

*Two years,* I told myself again. *You dropped his class within the week. You never saw him again after that one look across the courtyard. Whatever that was, whatever he thought he almost placed on the doorstep just now, it's not going to survive an entire summer of context clues. You're a coincidence. You're a face that reminds him of someone else. That's all you are.*

I almost believed it. I got as far as unpacking half my bag, hanging two shirts in a closet that smelled like cedar and salt air, before I heard voices drifting up from the kitchen below, Asher's easy laugh, and underneath it, lower, harder to make out, Julian's voice, asking a question I couldn't quite catch the words of.

I stood very still in the middle of the guest room, straining to hear, and caught only fragments. *Where did you say she,* and then something lost to running water, and then, clearer, cutting through everything else in a way that made my stomach drop straight through the floor:

"Huh. Small world."

I didn't move for a long moment, listening for whatever came next, some follow-up, some explanation, anything that would tell me whether that sentence had been about me or about something else entirely, a coincidence in a conversation I had no actual reason to think revolved around me. The water shut off. Asher laughed at something. A cabinet closed. Ordinary kitchen sounds, ordinary dinner-prep noise, nothing that should have sent my pulse into the stratosphere the way it just had.

I made myself finish unpacking. I made myself change out of the clothes I'd been driving in for four hours and into something that didn't smell like a car, and I made myself look in the guest bathroom mirror and practice, silently, the specific kind of face a person wears when nothing at all is wrong.

It didn't entirely work. I could still see it in my own eyes, something too bright, too careful, the face of someone holding very still so nothing inside her spills.

By the time I made it downstairs, dinner was already half assembled, Asher chopping something at the island while Julian stood at the stove with his back to the room, and for one unguarded second before either of them noticed me in the doorway, I let myself really look at him. The line of his shoulders. The particular economy of his movements, like he'd made this exact meal a hundred times before and needed no thought at all to do it again.

Then he turned, saw me standing there, and whatever had crossed his face on the doorstep crossed it again, faster this time, gone almost before I could catch it.

"There you are," he said, easy, warm, hosting again. "Hope you're hungry."

I told him I was starving, which was a lie, because my stomach had been in knots since the driveway and showed no signs of untangling anytime soon, and I sat down at the island across from him and smiled and made conversation and spent the entire meal watching him from the corner of my eye, waiting to see if the next thing out of his mouth would be the thing that ended everything before it had even properly begun.