I haven’t seen or heard from Andrew since we parted ways on Friday after lunch. On one hand, I’m not that surprised, because although my schedule doesn’t change much from weekdays to weekends, he’s never shown up for the usual five A.M. showdown on Saturdays or Sundays.

I guess somehow I thought yesterday might be different, though. I’m a little embarrassed to say that after staying up way too late watching Outlander at Marley’s place, I dragged myself home at 4:45, then hung out in the lobby way too long hoping he might make an appearance.

He didn’t.

And you know, I wish I could tell you that I got the hint. That I just quietly decided to bide my time until our inevitable Monday morning meeting. But nope.

Remember how he left me his phone number on the flower card?

Yeah, well, I texted him.

I texted him!

I never text guys first, not unless I have something witty and clever, and this was not one of those texts.

I said, and I quote: Hi.

I groan out loud, just thinking about it, and my dad gives me a weird look. “Want to talk about it?”

I take a sip of the mimosa. “Not so much.”

He shrugs and opens his paper.

“Where’s Mom?”

“On the phone with the London manager,” he says, not glancing up. “Or maybe Paris. Tokyo. I forget.”

Forget, or don’t care?

“So how are things with you guys?” I blurt out.

That has him looking up. “Meaning, like, is my blood pressure back down, and did she finally schedule the mammogram you’ve been bugging her about?”

“No. I mean, well, yeah, that. But, like . . . how are you guys? Together?”

My dad precisely folds his paper before setting it aside and studying me over the cup of his coffee. “What’s going on, sweetie?”

“Nothing. I just . . . I don’t know, I feel like you guys are so disconnected. I feel like I’m only ever talking to each of you individually, never as a couple.”

“Yes, well, we’re both busy. Our schedules don’t always overlap.”

There’s a touch of defensiveness there that has me even more worried. My dad has always been one of those completely confident guys who never gives a crap about other people’s criticism. He only defends himself when he knows there’s a sliver of vulnerability.

“But you guys are happy, right?”

“Sure, of course.”

He holds my eyes, but it feels deliberate, like he’s trying too hard to convince me. Or convince himself.

“Besides, I don’t think it’s your parents’ romantic life that has you holding that champagne in a death grip,” he says, lifting his eyebrows.

I smile wanly. “Nice deflection.”

“Talk to me, Georgiekins. Who’s the boy?”

My smile is real this time. The boy. Such a dad thing to say.

And maybe a little advice can’t hurt. I decide to go for it. “Okay, you’re a smart guy,” I say.

He smiles. “Thank you, daughter.”

“You’re welcome, Father. And as a smart guy, and someone who’s coming up on his thirtieth wedding anniversary . . . do you think it’s possible that opposites really can attract, or are opposites just . . . opposites?”

“Well.” He sips his coffee. “I know for your mother and me, it was our similarities that attracted us. We were both driven. Focused. Both wanted a darling daughter named Georgie—”

“Naturally,” I say, miming a sitting curtsey.

“As for whether opposites can attract, certainly they can. But whether they can last . . .”

His gaze goes kind of far away, an expression I’ve never seen, and I lean forward, eyes wide. “Dad,” I whisper. “Are you thinking about an ex-girlfriend right now?”

He laughs, but it’s too quick, and it’s nervous.

I gasp in mock horror. “You are.”

His eyes dart toward the door, but my mom’s still in her home office talking to Europe or Asia or wherever.

“Spill,” I say. “I won’t tell Mom.”

“Oh, she already knows. I was dating someone else when I met her.”

“Scandalous!” I say. “Who!”

“Nobody you know.”

“Well, I should hope not—that would be weird. But come on, details. I had no idea you were a ladies’ man.”

I swear to God, he blushes, just a little. Adorable. “Her name was Heidi. We dated, just for a year or so. And then I met your mother and decided she was a better long-term match.”

My heart twists a little as I realize his voice goes just a touch flatter when he talks about my mother than when he talks about this Heidi.

“What was she like?” I ask, after looking guiltily over my shoulder at the still-empty doorway. I feel dreadfully disloyal to my mother, yet wildly curious.

“She was colorful and . . . delicate,” he says, looking uncomfortable with the word.

“Like a rainbow,” I say.

“Uh, I guess. Heidi was a dreamer, always talking about the things she wanted to do and the places she wanted to go, but no one dream ever lasted for more than a day before it was replaced by another. It was exhausting, and yet . . .”

“Enchanting?” I say, putting my chin on my hand and batting my eyelashes.

He laughs. “I suppose. Anyway, we weren’t really suited. My place was here in the city, taking over the family business. She wanted to see Bali and Paris and Reykjavik—”

“Iceland?” I ask, surprised.

He shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “Like I said, she was colorful.”

“What about the delicate part?” I ask, not really sure why I’m so interested in this woman.

My dad stands and refills his cup, taking just a bit too long to do so, as though gathering his thoughts. “Perhaps that wasn’t the right word,” he says finally. “But I always got the sense that she needed me, just a little bit. Like a little part of her happiness would always be wrapped up in me.”

He shakes his head and turns, his expression closed. “Anyway. It was a long time ago.”

I force a smile and take a sip of my mimosa even though I’m dying to ask more questions. I want to ask if my mom ever needed him, but I suspect I know the answer.

“So who’s your opposite?” Dad asks.