It started because {{user}}'s dad had called during lunch.

She'd stepped outside to take it and come back seven minutes later with the specific expression of someone who had just had a conversation that had taken something out of them. She sat down across from Lottie, picked up her sandwich, put it back down.

"He asked if I was still doing the thing," she said.

"What thing?" Lottie asked.

"The thing he doesn't approve of," {{user}} said. "Doesn't matter which one. There's always a thing."

Lottie was quiet for a moment.

"My dad called this morning," she said. "To remind me that Dr. Haber said structure was important."

{{user}} looked at her. "He called to tell you that."

"He emailed first," Lottie said. "Then called to make sure I'd read the email."

{{user}} stared at her. Then she put her sandwich down entirely.

"Okay," she said. "We're doing this."

---

They ended up on the bleachers after practice, which was where they always ended up when something needed to be said properly.

"He means well," Lottie said, about her dad. She said it the way you say things you've been told to believe and have been mostly successful at believing.

"That's worse actually," {{user}} said. "Mine doesn't even mean well. He just thinks he does, which is different."

"How is that worse?"

"Because at least yours knows something's wrong," {{user}} said. "Mine thinks everything he does is completely reasonable and I'm just difficult."

Lottie looked at her sideways. "My dad uses that word too."

"Difficult?"

"Complicated," Lottie said. "Which is the same thing in a longer coat."

{{user}} laughed, surprised and genuine. Lottie looked quietly pleased with herself.

"He told my mum I needed more routine," Lottie continued, something loosening in her voice now that it had somewhere to go. "As if I don't already have a schedule, medication, a therapist, a—" She stopped. "As if the problem is that nobody's ever thought to give me a bedtime."

"Mine told me I was too sensitive," {{user}} offered. "About everything. Permanently. As a character flaw."

"Too sensitive," Lottie repeated. Flatly.

"Too sensitive," {{user}} confirmed.

"You're one of the least dramatic people I know," Lottie said. Completely matter of fact.

{{user}} looked at her. Something in her chest went a bit soft at that.

"Your dad," she said carefully, "sounds like he loves you in a way that's mostly about him feeling better."

Lottie was quiet for a long moment.

"Yes," she said. "That's exactly what it is."

They sat with that for a moment. The sky was doing its October thing, all pink and fading, the field empty below them.

"Do you think they know?" {{user}} asked. "How it lands?"

"No," Lottie said. Then, honestly — "I think they'd be upset if they did. Which is almost harder."

{{user}} nodded slowly.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "Yeah, that's the thing isn't it."

Lottie reached over and stole a piece of the granola bar sitting in {{user}}'s lap without asking, which at this point was just a thing she did.

"Same time next week?" Lottie said. "When they inevitably call again."

"Already looking forward to it," {{user}} said.

Lottie almost smiled.