"So," Dad starts, scouring the shelves for a bottle of something or the other, "you're Lisa's nephew, then?"

At the mention of the cover story, Eric freezes, and Oreo dust falls from his tense grip. He avoids my eyes quite intentionally, but I nod as covertly as possible, and cross my fingers under the table, hoping he catches it.

"Um, ye-es. Yes," he manages to say. Lucky for us, Dad's always got an agenda, and today he's getting to it quickly.

"So, you went to Oxford as well, then?"

Thank God Eric knows the answer to that one.

"Yes," Eric says with a light laugh of relief, "yeah, I studied English Lit. Pembroke College, Class of 2016."

Dad turns around with a wry smile and I already know what he's going to say next. Dear God.

"English Lit? That's a bit wishy washy, isn't it?"

Eric turns on the charm when he laughs and drapes a hand over the back of the booth. For a moment, he looks at ease.

"It gets a lot of flack, but it's a solid course – a lot of cultural scrutiny, classic literature."

Dad's already shaking his head. Despite having studied Engineering and ended up a pub owner, Dad is entirely pragmatic when it comes to my university career. He insists I'll go to Oxford and study Economics or something equally boring,  graduate, and be the next [insert most famous female economist here. Are there famous female economists?]

For peace's sake, I never correct him. Really, it's easiest to just smile and nod for a few hours on Christmas and Easter then go our separate ways.

"My Angie's applying there — for Economics. Aren't you, Ange?"

He's wearing his 'proud absent father' beam, and I feel Eric's confused eyes on me. I smile and nod.

"Mhm."

"Actually, have you made all your applications? Some of the Brighton students at the bar were talking about applications the other day."

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I hate when he pretends to be involved in my life – our lives.

"Yeah, Dad," I sigh, "deadline was a month ago – January 15th."

"Right, obviously," he laughs as though he has a clue, "and what Oxford college was it that you applied to again? St. Anne's?"

I try and look focused on the careful separation of the Oreo biscuit from the cream, hoping he'll think I didn't hear him and move on. But, of course, he doesn't.

"Ange?"

"Hm?"

"Oxford college – which one did we apply to?"

Looks like there's no way around this one. I drop the biscuit and drum my fingers on the oak table.

"We didn't apply to Oxford, Dad."

He looks at me for a moment, with his thin lips tugged to one side, waiting for me to say I'm kidding. When he realises that I'm not, his semi-smirk drops, and his mouth falls open.

"Wh- Angie! Have you told your mum? That you didn't apply to Oxford?"

I shrug. "She knows, Dad."

"Jesu- well, thanks for filling me in!" When he starts stammering and throwing his arms about, I hope that he doesn't get any more dramatic than this. The university question is already complicated enough, and now Eric's watching us like a tennis match, hands folded in discomfort as his eyes flit to-and-fro over the centre line.

"Tangerine, why not?" Dad slides into the space beside me in the large booth, his voice softening as he makes his pleading enquiry. "What happened?"

Poor Dad looks genuinely confused, bless him, but I'm not in the mood to explain to Dad that he doesn't actually know me, or that a phone call once a month doesn't mean he has a say in my life. So, I shrug again, tapping at my phone's black screen.

"Don't know, Dad. Oxford's just not for me, I guess. Do you have a charger? My phone's dead."

"No, I don't have a charger. I'm asking you a question, Evangeline, why didn't you apply to Oxford like we talked about?"

Like the trip of a light switch, the 'dutiful daughter dearest' act snaps, and all the questions, the why's and why not's become too much.

"Oh my God, Dad," I flinch as I yell, feeling the questions overwhelm me like crawling insects, "I don't even know if I want to go to uni!"

His hunched posture of concern straightens. He's so in shock that he looks across the table to Eric, as if to confirm he's really heard it. Eric silent and wide-eyed too.

"Angie," Dad says as he wraps his heavy arm around my back, murmuring like he's talking me off the ledge, "Angie, don't say that, sweetie. Why are you saying that?"

Everything just got a lot more real than I was prepared for, and when I take a deep breath out, I tremble. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. Not here; not now.

I want to look at Eric; let him hold me until all the tears are gone, and tell me everything's going to be just fine. But I can't.

"I don't know, Dad, I just... I like how things are now. I'm happy now, at home, with... Mum and Aug and stuff... I don't want to mess it up."

"Angie, Angie..." he says, pandering with intention behind his gentle eyes, "there's a whole new world waiting for you at university – one you'll never have the chance to discover if you don't let yourself! Sweetie, I'm sorry for exploding, alright?"

I'm staring at an old delinquent's graffiti in the table - it says 'wanker', I think - anything to avoid looking him in the eye right now, but Dad leans in, bending into my line of sight, giving me no choice but to look at him.

"It's fine, Dad," I exhale.

"No, it's not." When he runs a hand over his clean-shaven head, I know things are getting serious.

"Sweetheart, listen. Life is very long. Even longer when you make the wrong decisions, or say no to something that could have changed your life. Home will always be here for you, but how d'you know you won't get bored of this kind of happiness? This kind of routine? There's so much more out there for you, darling."

I wish his words meant something. I want, so badly, for them to somehow be the magic words, the perfect answer, that make everything clear. But, as usual, Dad doesn't have a clue. Not about Dublin, not about Eric, not about me.

Eric's staring just as intently, with a disciplined hand on the table, desperate to reach out.

"I just want what's best for you, sweetheart."

Dad's heavy on the pet names. Part of me thinks he relishes when I let myself get emotional around him – he gets to be a 'proper dad' even though he doesn't really deserve to be. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, Dad," I sigh, but he's still hunched, waiting for a confirmation he can believe in. So, I stretch my lips into a smile and give him the best dismissive nod I can muster,

"I'm alright, Dad, heh. I think I'm tired. Might just need an early night."

Finally, he sits back, relieved. Tired is something he can deal with.

"Yes. Okay, yes, I think an early night is a great idea for everyone, in fact – you've had a long day. Come on, sweetie, we'll get you some cocoa before you sleep."

⏤⏤

Cocoa was always Dad's speciality – a quick fix in place of actual parenting. I suppose that's why we worshipped him when we were kids. When Mum was abroad or away for the weekend, she'd come back to two little girls with sore tummies and wide smiles, having had the chocolatiest hot chocolate with every meal for days straight.

As soon as I take the last sip of mine now, Dad, whose stood at my door, takes my empty mug from my hands.

"You didn't have to wait for me to finish it, you know. It's sort of creepy." I whisper, teasing. "I'm fine, Dad. I was just a little stressed earlier. Nothing your cocoa couldn't fix."

He eyes me with playful suspicion, making me giggle. "Well I'm glad your old dad can still be of some use then. Can I turn this off?" He asks, with a hand on the light switch.

"Yes please."

It's late-ish, but the summer evening still casts its light through the pink curtains in my room. 'My room' is really me and August's room, with two matching beds on either side, reserved just for us when we come to stay over. We bought all the quirks, the pink polka dot nightlights and Strawberry Shortcake curtains and whatnot, when we were much younger. I've never had the heart to change it. Plus, in some weird way, I sort of enjoy this look Dad gets when he draws pink cartoon curtains shut and kisses us goodnight – like we're still little girls. His little girls.

He's hovering now; I can hear his heavy feet shifting.

"You're going all creepy again, Dad."

"I can tell, you know."

"You can tell what?"

"Tangerine." The rose-tinted light floods the room again. "I'm your father. I know you."

I meet his smug look with a blank one as I sit up in my bed. "And what is it that you know about me, 'father'?"

His cheeky smile doesn't falter as he takes a seat by me on my bed. "You... have got a crush on that Eric. I can see it."

For a moment, in blind panic, my mind goes blank. "What?"

Dad seems to be rather enjoying himself, shaking his head as he chuckles.

"Don't deny it, Angie, I've seen how you look at him when he's talking. Like the sun shines out of his backside."

Even though he's right, my cheeks burn as I blush and look away. "Oh my gosh, Dad, I do not."

"Laughing at all his boring jokes."

"No, Dad."

"It's sort of cute, really."

"Dad. Get. Out."

With a grunt and final hearty laugh, he lifts himself off of my bed, turning the light off again.

"Fine, fine. But let's maybe set our sights on someone a little closer to your age, hm, sweetheart? Save me the aneurysm."

In the darkness, he can hardly see me, but I hide anyway, throwing my duvet over my head and burying my face in my hands.

I can still hear the taunt in his tone as he chuckled his goodnight. "Sleep tight, Tangerine."

"Mhm," comes my red-faced, muffled response.

Once I hear his steps retreat down the hall and down into the pub, I open my eyes again. Jesus, that was more embarrassing than I was ready for.

When I exhale, it's the loudest sound in the room. I've never been here without August before. Looking at her bed, empty, and hearing nothing but drunken revelries from the pub through the floor, I check my phone before getting back out of bed.

I press an ear to the door, and listen out for Dad on the stairs.

Nothing.

With the coast clear, I tiptoe, barefooted and with utmost stealth, down the hall to the guest room, careful not to make a sound on the creaky old floorboards.