“Iggy?”
I look up from my book—yes, I, Iggy, am reading a book—and take in Emery, who’s shifting her weight from foot to foot, chewing her lower lip, and making fists and releasing them again. I smile at her to try to set her at ease. “Yeah?”
“Are you too busy to talk?”
“Of course not.” I dogear my page and close the book as Emery throws herself into her chair by the kitchen table. She traces the embossed title on the book’s glossy cover with her finger and pointedly ignores looking at me while she wrinkles her forehead, creating deep trenches on her face.
After dating her dad for almost a year, I’m pretty familiar with her expressions by now. This particular one means she wants to talk about something she can’t, or won’t, talk about to her dad.
I stand and pour water in the kettle. T
