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“He’s still ‘reeling that one in,’ he says,” Mom laughs. “Patty have a class today?”

“Pottery,” Dad tells her. “She started up a daddy and daughter art hour or something.”

Mom practically coos, “Oh, that’s lovely.”

I watch all of this unfold with the morbid fascination one might reserve for two different species interacting with each other in the wild. In my professional experience, separated couples usually tend to, well,stayseparated when they divorce. It’s the natural order of things. They aren’t supposed to remainbest friends. Theyaren’t supposed to meld into this weird foursome of solidarity with themselves and their new spouses.

But that’s exactly what my parents did.

Until I was seventeen, I thought that Perry and Katherine Pierce had the perfect marriage. They did everything together; we were a unit. I thought the sun rose and set on their love for each other. That is…until they sat me down and told me they were getting a divorce. That they would still befriends—but they just weren’t in love. Just like that. Like they were telling me what we were going to have for dinner that night. One minute they’re the perfect couple, and the next, they’re telling me they never actually loved each other at all. At least, not like I thought they did. Regardless, I learned a long time ago that good marriages don’t really exist. They’re all destined to end.

I take a sip of my water, listening to my mom and dad continue to chat about varying news regarding their respective spouses. Don’t get me wrong, my stepparents are great, but it’s still weird that we all spend every holiday together like some warped version ofThe Brady Bunch.

“So have you met your client yet?”

I blink, realizing my dad is talking to me now. “Oh, have you remembered I’m here? I wouldn’t want to interrupt family time.”

“Oh, stop your pouting, Danica,” Mom tuts. “We were just catching up.”

“You talk on the phone almost every day,” I grumble.

Dad laughs. “You don’t talk to your best friends on the phone every day?”

I don’t even want to begin to try to get into the weirdness of my mother being my father’s best friend while they’re both married to someone else.

“Yes, I’ve met the client,” I say instead, changing the subject. “She’s…a character.”

“That’s what Manuel said too,” Dad says. “ ‘A real ice queen’ were the words he used, I believe.”

I frown, not liking that assessment of Bianca. It doesn’t feel right.

“I would say she’s more of a…powerful woman,” I tell him, a slight smile on my lips. “I like her.”

“Well, you’d better,” Dad snorts. “If you can’t prove her husband was a cheating son of a bitch, she’ll be out millions.”

“I heard she doesn’t even need the money,” Mom points out. “Why is she fighting the prenup so hard?”

It’s a question I’ve heard numerous times since Bianca signed on with us. It’s even one I’ve wondered about myself—despite having talked to the woman in question. But it’s also one I’m still not sure I have the full answer to, so I just shrug.

“Who cares? If he cheated, he deserves to be hung out to dry.”

“Hear, hear,” Dad says, raising his mimosa.

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you should make that your last one.”

“Oh, don’t be a square, Danibaby,” he chides. “We’re celebrating, remember?”

I snort into my water glass. “Seems you two are celebrating a lot more than I am.”

“Well, we can fix that,” Mom says with a snap of her fingers. “Let’s get something covered in syrup and more mimosas!”

“We really don’t need any more—”

My lips press closed as I realize everything I’m saying is going in one ear and out the other, since Mom is already waving down a waitress and Dad is tipping back his glass to finish off the rest ofhis second drink. I swear, sometimes it feels likeI’mthe parent in this group and Mom and Dad are the unruly children I have to keep a firm hand on. You’d never know that Dad is a retired judge and Mom a tenured professor, watching them act out like they are.

I order a fruit salad with some turkey bacon, which causes all sorts of ruckus from my dad about living a little, and they both make good on ordering something covered in syrup and—much to my dismay—more mimosas.

“So.” Dad leans back in his chair, scratching at his thick, graying mustache. “What are you bringing to the party?”