I watched as a family of four headed down toward the water. Mom and Dad, Junior and Girl Junior. They splashed and played, Mom looked amazing in a bikini, and Dad was good looking too. They kissed once while the kids were busy building a sand castle. Dad’s hand migrated south, grabbing a handful of buns and squeezing, making Mom laugh and pretend to slap his hand away. The kids saw them kissing and made a great show of pretending to be disgusted, but laughed the entire time. Then Mom and Dad grabbed the kidlets, and into the water they all went once more.

Good-looking couple. Good-looking kids. Happy family. Pretty didn’t have to mean fake. It just did where I was concerned. My family had been pretty, and bickery. I knew full well how something could look pretty on the outside and be wasp-nasty on the inside. After my parents’ divorce, the energy my mother had put into bickering with my father was channeled toward me, and making sure I was always on top of my game. Stage mother, not technically. But pushy, yes. Determined, yes. She never remarried, she never even dated, and bitter she became. It didn’t happen overnight, but it happened.

And a life with Charles would have become a Day in the Life of the Bickersons. Oh, not right away. First would be the pretty. I saw my life line up in front of my eyes as if it had already happened. Marriage to Charles would give me everything I’d been brought up to want. A handsome husband. A beautiful home. A new car every two years. A membership to the right country club. A position on all the correct social committees. Three children spaced exactly two years apart. Then the obligatory “mommy job” where I went in for my tummy tuck and boob lift to keep everything exactly the way it was “supposed” to be. With vacations every summer, Christmas, and spring break, who could ask for anything more?

But I wanted less. I wanted so very much less. And while there were tiny bubbles of “is this what you really want?” all along, I was in denial about it until about forty-five minutes ago. Pretty led to bicker, bicker led to divorce, and divorce led to bitter. I didn’t want pretty, then separated. I didn’t want bitter; I wanted forever. I wanted swoony, sparky, maddening, sexy love. And if we were going to fight, we’d fight, not bicker. Bickering’s the worst.

My phone rang again. Charles. I stood up, dusted myself off, walked down to the water’s edge, and heaved my phone as far into the Pacific as I could.

Then I got back in my car and drove to my father’s house.

When my parents divorced, I was a freshman in college. I was old enough that I didn’t have to pick a side. But in the small ways, which become bigger over time, I unofficially picked my father. Easygoing, nonpushy, quick to bear hug and even quicker to laugh—when I was with my dad, I was a different daughter. Stop slouching, stand up straight, don’t you think the fruit cup is a better option—those were all statements my mother would murmur without a thought. With Dad I was more likely to hear: you looked great up there, you’ll get ’em next time, tiger; you can eat prunes when you’re old—go ahead and get that Big Mac now.

My dad loved me—and that was it. So in the middle of a breakdown and in need of a safe haven? Where else would I go?

He wasn’t home when I arrived, so I pulled my car around back, then curled up in the hammock on the back porch, keeping my mind away from anything too major. I heard his car pull into the driveway, stopping short at the sight of my car.

He walked toward the porch with a concerned look on his face. And after taking in the nightgown and the sand still clinging to my bare feet, he quickly understood more than even I knew at that point.

“Oh, Chloe,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” I answered, then gave a kick to get the hammock moving again.

He stood there for a moment, watching me swing. “Okay,” he finally said, and took out his phone. I listened as he told my mother that yes, he’d found me, yes, I was fine, and no, I wasn’t getting married that day. And that he’d bring me home when I was ready. And no, she couldn’t come over right now. When I heard her screech about sending Charles over to collect me, he told her exactly what he thought about that idea. It may have involved an ass and a kick. Then he disappeared into the house, came back with two beers, and we sat next to each other in silence.

And they weren’t even light beers. I seemed determined to ingest every calorie in California in one twenty-four-hour period.

Sounded pretty fudging great to me.

Chapter two

As a general rule, my family avoids conflict. I’m not talking about squabbling over the remote every night when our family unit was still intact but about the big stuff. The giant problems, the huge glaring mistakes human beings make, the actual issues behind the remote control—we avoid those conversations like the plague. If we ignore them, or if we only talk quietly about the “incident in question” for the shortest amount of time possible, maybe we can avoid anything unpleasant.

So when I saw my mother barreling up the driveway, I knew she was prepared to go to a very civilized war.

Having thrown my phone into the ocean, I was incommunicado. So my father’s phones were ringing off the hook like command central. When he finally unplugged the house phone and turned off the ringer on his cell phone, it was only a matter of time. My mother pulled into the driveway just as I finished my second beer.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she whisper-yelled, ever aware of the neighbors.

“I am just beginning to understand what I’ve done, Mother. How about you?” I replied, reaching down to the cooler at my feet. “Beer?” I offered, holding up a dripping bottle.