I rush on with my explanation, “I left him at the park and ran home to find Luka waiting for me. Unexpectedly. We did not have plans that I failed to share with you. And since he was still there when you pulled up, there was no chance to call you and dissect details. End of story.”

I pause, trying to climb inside Carly’s head and offer something that will make her smile and forgive me. Remembering what she said to Kelley and Dee on Friday, I decide on, “But Jackson’s hot.” He is, but he’s more than that. Much more than he originally let me see. “And his guns ought to be licensed.” I close my eyes, remembering that it isn’t just his guns that are beautifully sculpted. His abs, his chest, he’s like a work of art. “And, um, I guess Luka’s hot, too. See you in English.”

I put my bowl in the dishwasher, then freeze as I stare at the beer bottle on the counter. Just one. That’s good, right? I think that’s good. After a second, I reach for it and drag it closer.

“Just one,” Dad says from behind me, his voice too cheerful.

“So I see.” I glance over my shoulder at him. His hair’s wet from the shower. He’s freshly shaved. And he’s smiling at me. Still, something feels off, but I can’t quite pin down what it is. I grab the empty bottle, stow it in the box under the sink, and wipe the counter clean.

“Counter wasn’t dirty,” Dad says.

I swallow and turn to face him. “I know. It’s a habit.”

“You can’t always control everything, Miki.” He reaches for me and takes my hand. He doesn’t bring up last night’s nightmare, but I figure that’s part of what he’s talking about.

“Lately, I feel like I can’t control anything. Not even in my sleep.” I regret the admission the second I make it. Tears sting my eyes. I’m not good at this, at talking to him, at letting my emotions out when I’m with him. With anyone. I feel like if I open even a tiny crack, they’ll all come pouring out, and I’ll be broken and out of control.

I remember the way I lost it with Jackson in the park and again with Luka on the driveway when we came back from the mission and I started laughing like a hyena. That scares me. I can’t be that girl. I need my life to be like an abacus, all my beads in neat rows.

“No one can control what they see in their sleep,” Dad says. “Is this about that boy?”

Depends on which boy he’s asking about. I sigh. “No.”

“Did you and Carly have a fight?” Dad’s voice is gentle. It’s his daddy voice, the one that reminds me of when I was small and he’d pick me up if I fell and stick a bandage on my scraped knee. He doesn’t use that voice often anymore. Now he’s Dad instead of Daddy. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up.

My gaze shoots to his. He’s so clueless sometimes, and others, he sees way too much. “Yeah, we had a fight. How did you know?”

“Yogurt and granola for one. And two days in a row,” he says with a nod toward the dishwasher. He must have seen me put my bowl away. “I can’t remember the last time you ate breakfast alone on a school day.”

It’s true. Carly’s usually here long before now. Half the time she’s the one setting out breakfast while I finish up in the shower after my run.

Speaking of one . . .

“So you . . . um . . . you only had one beer? You’re cutting down?” I stumble over the questions, but since Dad opened the door to a discussion about his drinking, something he’s never done before, I want to try and get him to talk. I’ve done some reading on the internet and I even went to a couple of Alateen meetings a few months ago. If I can just get Dad to talk to me, maybe I can get him to go to a meeting. . . .

“Miki,” he says, still holding my hand. “I don’t have a problem. I just like to have a beer now and again. Lots of people have a drink after work to unwind. My job gets to me sometimes. It’s stressful. Especially now, with the economy . . .”

I know that. Dad works in a bank, in mortgages. Not a happy, happy place.

He focuses his gaze on some unseen spot on the wall somewhere over my shoulder; he won’t meet my eyes. “I don’t have a problem. It’s all under control. I’m not one of those after-school specials, passed out on the couch, with three empty bottles of gin on the floor.”

That’s when I’m certain that something’s off. Three empty bottles. On instinct, I pull my hand from Dad’s, yank open the fridge, and count the bottles on the door. He makes an impatient noise but I ignore him, grab the box of empties from under the sink, and count the bottles there.

Anger and pain crush me.

Dad and I, we’re mostly honest but sometimes not. And this time, it’s definitely not.

“One on the counter,” I choke out. “And three more you put in the box, hoping I wouldn’t notice. Why leave one out at all? Why lie to me? Or why not just leave them all out and ignore my worry like you have been for ages?”

“Four beers over an evening is not a lot for a grown man.”

“A grown man shouldn’t lie about it to his teenage daughter! Who’s the adult here?” I take a deep breath, and then continue in a more even tone. Catch more flies with honey. “You say you won’t drink, and then I come down and find the bottles on the counter. Instead of going to your fly tying group, you stay home alone—”

“I go,” he interrupts me.