“What are you talking about?” Shane asked.

Suddenly Debbie paused in the middle of her tirade. “Never mind. Anyway I’m not like her, so I don’t buy it. If you’re going to keep pulling disappearing acts on her, get the hell out of her life, okay? She can’t move on if you keep messing with her.”

“She’s already moved on. Isn’t she dating somebody?”

Debbie snorted. “Wow, fast gossip. Is that what Ginger told you?” She didn’t wait for Shane’s response. “She broke up with him a few weeks ago. I told her it was a mistake because Robert’s a good guy, unlike some people I could name. He could make her happy if she’d just give him the chance.”

Shane rubbed his face, trying to process what she was saying. Ginger wasn’t seeing anybody? Dane had given him outdated news. “Where’s Ginger? Is she still at your place?”

“Why the hell do you care?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“You know what? I don’t think she should talk to you.”

Shane bit back a series of frustrated expletives. “I need to talk to her. It’s important, okay? I was led to believe she’s been dating somebody else while with me.”

The line went so quiet he thought Debbie had hung up on him. Then she sighed softly. “Fine. You better fix it or I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Deal. Now talk.”

“She went home, but she’s not going to be there much longer. She’s going to hit the road first thing tomorrow morning.”

“To where?”

“To the people she always goes to when she needs some TLC: her parents.”

Chapter Eleven

Ginger pulled into a small farm off a two-lane road about three hours north of Los Angeles. As she made the turn, her headlights swept over a sign that read “Happy Bastard Farm.”

The place had been in her mother’s family since the Second World War. Ginger’s great-grandfather, upon coming back from that war, had said he was a happy bastard to make it home alive because America was the sweetest place in the world, and he’d changed the farm’s name to reflect his sentiment. Nobody had dared change it since, not even her staid parents.

It was barely dawn. The original plan had been to start in the morning, but after leaving Debbie, she hadn’t been able to wait. With nothing to distract her, all she could think about was how Shane had abandoned her again.

At least the drive had been somewhat distracting. She’d listened to several episodes of the Freakonomics podcast, including some older ones she’d already heard. The host always had interesting questions and hypotheses to examine. And the show challenged her to pay attention and re-examine the world with data rather than assumptions. So she applied that to her current situation.

Assumption one: Shane still cared.

Data said: No. If he did, he wouldn’t have disappeared.

Assumption two: She sort of fit in with his family now.

Data said: No. If she did, Vanessa wouldn’t have said the things she’d said.

Assumption three: She was strong and resilient enough to move on.

Data said: Questionable. If she were, no amount of money from Dane would’ve made her go to Shane in the first place.

No matter what the financial considerations were, she shouldn’t have gone. She realized that now. Seeing Shane was like picking at a scab. If she’d just let it be, the wound would heal, and—eventually—the scar would fade. Why couldn’t she just remember that? Why did she harbor a pointless hope that maybe things would be different between them if she’d just give it another shot?

Ginger turned off the ignition in front of a modest three-story house. Her mom Zoe had inherited the property some years ago, and her parents had decided to retire there so they’d still be close enough that she could visit whenever she needed. Like now.

She frowned when she noticed a shiny Acura coupe. It wasn’t the kind of vehicle her parents would drive. They preferred something unassuming and practical. You couldn’t get too frivolous on a couple of teachers’ pensions.

Somebody knocked on her window. “Hey, sis.”

She got out and faced her half-brother. Trevor was in shorts and a pair of Nikes. Beads of sweat trickled down his unshaven face and heavily muscled torso. The skin on one shoulder was puckered from an old gunshot wound, a visual reminder that his job was dangerous even though her family did their best to pretend it wasn’t. “Isn’t it a little early for a morning run?”

“Nah. The best time of the day.” He grinned, his green eyes warm. “I’d give you a hug, but…”

She smiled. “Definitely not, you sweaty pig.”

“When did you come back?”

“To— No, yesterday.”

“Kinda unusual for you to take time off to visit the parents. Isn’t it busy season for bridezillas?”

She snorted. “I’m entitled to some family time.” Ginger popped her trunk and heaved out the lightest of the suitcases that were in it.

“Damn,” he said. “Didn’t anybody teach you how to pack?”

“I’m not a ‘one backpack’ kind of woman.”

“Yeah, but three bags?”

She shrugged. Normally she would’ve just brought an overnight, but most of her stuff was already in suitcases.

“How long are you going to stay?” he asked.

“Maybe a few days?”

Trevor shook his head, muttering under his breath. As he bent to pull the other two bags out of the trunk, the waistband of his workout shorts slipped lower, revealing dark bruises and fresh scar tissue. “Oh my gosh, what happened to you?” Ginger asked. When he hesitated, she said, “Is it classified?”

He smiled. “Nope. Got whacked in the butt by a door.”

“What kind of door leaves marks like that?”

“Now, that’s classified.” He winked, then carried her bags to the house.

Him and his clandestine work. Shaking her head, she followed him into the house.

The tightness in her neck and shoulders eased as they went inside and were surrounded by comforting familiarity. All the lovingly framed family photos, the soup stock that had been simmering overnight, and the faint scent of yeast and flour and sugar from the baking her mom must’ve done the day before—it was a feeling of warmth and acceptance. Ginger ran her hand along the old quilt draped over the back of her parents’ well-worn couch. The squares were contributions from the family, each of them with a little story. The pink piece was from Ginger’s old onesie, and the red one with numeral twenty-three used to be Trevor’s old tee—he had wanted to grow up and be just like Michael Jordan until he realized he wasn’t any good at basketball. Then there was a piece from her grandmother—a gorgeous white lace that she’d created herself—and so much more.

Ginger looked around. This was the kind of home she’d always wanted for herself. And she’d thought she’d have it with Shane…except reality had shown her she’d been deluding herself.

“I’m gonna dump your stuff in the small guest room and shower. I took the big one…didn’t know you were going to show up with so much stuff,” Trevor said.

“That’s fine.” The smaller room had a better view. “How long are you going to be here?”

“Dunno. It’s sort of an unexpected leave.”

“Guess you aren’t going to tell me.”

“Sorry. Classified.” He flicked the tip of her nose and carried her bags upstairs.

Her parents would be up soon. She sat down on the sofa and arranged the quilt over herself. She should wait until they were downstairs and say hi before going to sleep.

She leaned back, sinking deeper into the comfortable couch. It was okay if she didn’t have a warm, welcoming home like this yet in the city because she could always just come here. She still had her family. Was there really a need for anything more?