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“You really quit the paper?” Damon asks.

I nod.

“Even though the law firm admitted to the mix-up in sending that email out?” Holly questions next.

Another nod as I slurp back a healthy dose of strawberry-flavored Cuervo.

“And you’re not speaking to Uncle Nate at all?” Holly prompts again.

I shake my head and continue to wet my dry throat as Damon shifts in the booth and Holly rests her forearms on the table.

“You never told Easton you didn’t file?” She asks.

I reluctantly release my straw. “No.”

“So, you married the most beautiful rock star on the planet—who would basically die for you—and then walked away?”

“If that’s how you see it, then sure,” I spout dryly.

“No,” Damon says, keeping my gaze, “she chose herself.”

Releasing my straw, I nod. “No matter what I did, I was damned. It was like being caught between two immovable boulders while constantly dodging a wrecking ball. I finally just had to let it take me out.”

“Jesus,” Holly says. “But he had a right to be angry.”

“Which one?” I ask as Damon poses the same question simultaneously.

“Tell Easton you didn’t file,” Holly says.

“That’s your solution? Tell my husband that the man he was starting to hatefiled for me?”

“See, baby, that’s the whole point,” Damon cuts in, his explanation for Holly. “Fathers typically give their daughtersawayat a wedding for a reason, which might seem misogynistic in this day and age, but it’s the blessing Nat needs. That was never going to happen, and she couldn’t thrive in her marriage or career because one or the other or both would eventually make her choose. They were already punishing her for it.” Damon shakes his head. “God, that’s so fucked.” He grabs my hand over the table like he did a few weeks ago. “I’m so sorry, Natalie.”

“Technically, your dad wins by default, anyway,” Holly says. “It’s not like you can divorce a parent.” She pauses. “Is that why you quit? To hurt him?”

“No,” my tears threaten and I tamp them down, doing what I have the past week to keep them at bay—letting my anger chase them away.

Anger at the two men who proclaimed to unconditionally love me, but failed to protect me fromthemselves.

“Nobody’s really right or wrong. That’s the most fucked up part,” Damon concludes after a few minutes. I nod as he keeps my hand while his eyes soften.

“So,” I say, directing my question at Holly. “Will you look after my apartment until I come back? You can squat if you want.”

While Holly’s right in that I can’t divorce a parent, Icandistance myself. One day in the future, I’ll forgive my father—but that day isn’t today. Until I do, I’ll be working in Hearst Media’s Chicago office, which I plan on fleeing to with a tequila buzz in a few hours.

Her chin wobbles. “For how long?”

“A month,” I shrug. “Maybe two, maybe more.”

“You’re really leaving?” She asks, sniffling. Memories of the three of us circulate through my mind, running the fields, camping in the stables, sneaking Dad’s beer out, and building bonfires. Family vacations, birthdays, Christmases, graduations, every imaginable milestone, and the less memorable days in between. Sadly, as grownups, we’re supposed to be starting lives and families of our own. I’m just not sure now what that looks like for me anymore.

“I have to, Holly. I have to stand on my own for a while, even if I’m still working under my family’s umbrella and collecting a paycheck. It’s still where I feel I belong. For now, anyway.”

“And your mom is okay with this?” Holly asks.

“See, this is exactly why she’s leaving,” Damon speaks up. “She shouldn’t have to worry about everyone else having a say in her life decisions.”

“Thank you,” I sip my drink. “Thank you for getting it.”

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