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“I’ve had my fair share of heartbreak, and they can hurt,” she sympathizes. “I just want you to know I’m here for you if you ever want to talk.”

Is this going to become a mother-daughterGilmore Girlsmoment? As much as I love that show, I hope not. I really, really hope not. “It sucked, but it’s done with. There isn’t anything left to talk about. Plus, it felt kind of nice being able to focus on classes. I made Media Advertising my bitch despite the professor lowkey hating me.”

She doesn’t scold me for the language I know she doesn’t like. I think she gave that pointless venture up when Sebastianstarted playing hockey and she heard the foul talk coming from his teammates. “Well, if you ever want to talk about it—”

“I’m good,” I reassure her. “Promise.”

Her eyes scan me for a moment before nodding, letting it go. “All right, sweetie. Do you want a glass of wine? I thought we could watch a movie together like we used to.”

“Pride and Prejudiceor the newEmmamovie?” I ask with a quirked brow as she grabs a second wine glass from the cupboard.

Her smile stretches. “Well,Emmais the novel I was supposed to read for book club. So it wouldn’t hurt to know what happens.”

I snort. “You could, I don’t know,readthe book.”

She shrugs, pouring me a glass of wine that definitely goes over the six-to-nine-ounce rule. But I don’t complain. “I think I’ll be just fine watching the movie. The only reason we chose Jane Austen is because the girls thought we were reading too much smut. Can you believe that? Anyway, you grab the wine, I’ve got the cheese board.”

Another reason I love my mother.

The rest of the night, we don’t talk about boys or heartbreak or what comes after graduation. We watch sappy romances based on nineteenth-century literature, drink wine, and eat our weight in cheese, crackers, and processed meats.

And it’s one of the best nights I’ve had in a while.

*

A few dayslater, I’m mentally beating my head against a wall as I talk to my brother on the phone. “You promised,” I remind Sebastian, staring at the Bluetooth call that’s been going on for eight and a half minutes as I drive down the highway. “I knewyou were going to do this, and you said you wouldn’t, but Iknew.”

He’s backing out of the visit with dear old Dad. Again. “Something came up,” he tells me vaguely. Just like I knew he would.

“You know what else is up? Myfootup your butt,” I grumble, clenching my fingers around the leather until my knuckles turn white.

“You don’t have to go, you know. You’re an adult,” he points out. “Neither one of us is obligated to see him just because he’s our dad. I don’t know why you keep putting yourself through this when it never ends well.”

I know he’s got a point, but I’d feel like an ass if I was here and didn’t see him. I’m always visiting Mom, but never Dad on my weekends home from school. Not that he ever asks to see me then.

Sebastian has never had an issue cutting people out of his life. But me? I’m a masochistic people pleaser; a Taylor Swift song waiting to be written. Well, come to think of it, there’s probably a song already out about that. I’d have to relisten to her discography.

“I keep thinking each visit will be better,” I admit to my big brother. “I mean, it can’t be worse than when he was dating that wannabe Victoria Secret model, right?”

Vickki.Blah. Even her name makes me bitter.

Just because she was a double zero at thirty-five-years-old didn’t mean I wanted to be. But she couldn’t get that through her pea-sized brain.

“If you need backup, Bodhi is still with his family,” he offers, making my fingers twitch along the wheel.

Bodhi posted something with the team a couple days ago. Sebastian had been tagged. It could have been an old photo. My brother told me that they have to post a certain number of timesa year, and a lot of them fulfill that requirement with backdated images. “Is he here for the summer?”

“On and off” is all my brother says.

More vague answers. Cool.

“I can handle Dad,” I tell him reluctantly. My voice comes out whinier than I mean it to. “I just wish you’d be here. You could distract him with all your success and make him proud to have fathered somebody making something of their lives, so he doesn’t have to lecture me on proper diet and exercise and failing at mine.”

“Dad can go fuck himself with that,” he instantly replies, voice hard. “It isn’t like he’s the peak of physical health.”

True, but I’d never say anything about it. “It’s fine. I’ve gotten used to it.”

He’s quiet for a second. “You shouldn’t have to be used to that shit. I’m sorry I can’t make it today. I’m still planning on seeing Mom next week. Are you going to be there?”