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I don’t recognize the name or the profile photo, which is a young, black woman with a dark cloud of loose curls covering everything except her smile. It’s one of those snarky ones that makes you want to laugh with the person. Her mouth is stained by a wine-colored lipstick. She has bright white teeth.

We have zero mutual friends. Most of her information is private. The bare minimum facts—student at Agnes Scott College, her birthday, last high school—are displayed. She’s an anomaly. Yet, after I stare too long, something simultaneously like a warmth and a chill spreads through my blood. She seemed vaguely familiar to me. Maybe she knows me from a GSA event. Maybe it’s a mistake. Either way, I swipe away the notification.

After hanging up Clover’s leash and toeing off my shoes by the backdoor, I slide across the kitchen’s hardwood floor toward the fridge. The walk has built a gnarly craving. Ice cream cake.

Birthdays are a huge deal in our house. We each have strict guidelines to ensure our special day is ten levels of awesome. My number one rule:ice cream cake only. Not that there is anything wrong with a thick layer of sweet icing on a sheet cake from Publix, but ice cream cake is my favorite. It always has been. Actual scrapbooks dedicated to three-year-old Remy Cameron’s face smothered in melting vanilla ice cream cake exist.

Inside the freezer, in all its boxed-glory, is my birthday cake from Cold Stone Creamery: layers of strawberry ice cream and red velvet cake and graham cracker crumble. My fingers tingle as I reach for it.

“Come to Daddy.”

I pause, then cringe. Since my joyous discovery of porn, phrases like that have been outlawed. Once, I almost jabbed Brook Henry for jokingly using that phrase with Lucy. It would’ve been a short fight. Brook is a swimmer with sweet muscles and godly height and he’s fast. I’m kind of a disaster just walking. It’d make a great viral video.

I slice a generous piece of cake, dump it into a bowl, then exit the kitchen. Under my breath, I hum a POP ETC song. Something about the rhythm guitar and upbeat lyrics thrums in me.

Suddenly, my jam session dies. Soft music is coming from down the hall, from the living room. Over a song I don’t recognize, I hear my mom’s tickled-laughter and my dad’s unbelievably bad singing voice.

“O-kay.”

I tiptoe toward the living room. If they’re having sex, I’m demanding a bigger budget for pocket money at Emory—and a new car.

When I peek in, there’s no horrifyingly gross stuff happening on our sofa. Nope. Just my parents. Dancing to music.

Correction:This is gross. The music is definitely something ’80s. Something about the rains and Africa. As much as I live and breathe for music, I tend to stay in my own indie pop lane or whatever Lucy and Rio force me to listen to. This is a Dad song. His “classics” are ’70s rock and ’80s dance tunes.

I scout the scene. Most of the furniture has been displaced. The coffee table is angled in the corner. Part of the cream sectional sofa is shoved against the far wall. Any possible tripping hazard has been removed—well, except Dad’s two left feet.

Watching my parents is strange. They shimmy-shuffle more than they dance. In the warm light of the standing lamp, Dad’s hair looks like a copper crown. Forget-me-not blue eyes follow his feet, probably counting his steps. A serene smile dominates Mom’s baby doll face. Locks of blonde hair fall across her pale skin. Under Dad’s large hands, she’s small and fragile.

This is unacceptable Sunday behavior. It’s also kind of hard to look away. My parents are the perfect opposites: muscular computer nerd and peppy wedding consultant.

The song changes. I know this one: Tears for Fear’s “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” Dad has no concept of romantic music.

“I love this song,” Mom says, of course.

“Iknow.” Dad’s grin is ridiculous. But Mom laughs into his shoulder.

Sometimes, I wonder if, in ten years, I’ll be helplessly in love, so unexplainably consumed by a connection to someone that we’ll still have date nights, hold hands for no reason, dance on Sunday nights. Is that sort of thing hereditary? Not that I have to worry. Being adopted cancels out the romantic gene, right?

It’s not that my parents’ ability to keep the spark alive isn’t admirable. But they can have the whole “sappy romance” thing. Relationships are a total buzzkill. So are breakups, especially the crying part. God, I don’t miss that part. Bowls of ice cream cake and Clover are all I need, thanks.

No love story waiting to happen here.

* * *

Mornings in the Cameron houseare ridiculously fun. I’m not a morning person, at all. I hate being talkative and smiley and joyous anytime before ten a.m., but my family has a way of bringing it out of me.

I shuffle into the kitchen Monday morning with the worst hangover—a two-days-away-from-school-isn’t-enough hangover. Thankfully, my dad has the perfect cure—his world-famous French toast. If Bobby Flay is the king of southwestern cuisine, then my dad is easily the emperor of southeastern breakfast breads.

Since I was a kid and could use my baby teeth to mash food around in my mouth, I’ve been addicted to French toast. No offense to pancakes and waffles lovers, but there’s something ethereal about fluffy, cinnamon-y bread fried in butter. Dad is always coming up with new versions, none more phenomenal than his chocolate and banana recipe. Saliva gathers as if my mouth’s a wading pool when I anticipate the salted-caramel syrup that goes on top.

“Perfect timing, kiddo,” Dad says. With one hand, he ruffles my bedhead-disastrous curls while his other hand flips a thick slice of toast.

It’s like watching an artist. Dad doesn’t need fancy brioche bread either. I’ve witnessed him take regular, store-bought wheat bread and turn it into sopping, eggy pieces of nirvana.

“Hungry?”

I grin weakly before zombie-limping toward the breakfast table. Mom is already midway through her first mug of coffee. Sunlight pours from the nearby window to cast a golden veil over her as she absently flips through a bridal magazine. She hums and sips. Before she leaves for work, Mom will demolish another cup.