Chrissie’s face reddens. She stares at me, confused pucker in her golden brows, and looks like she doesn’t know what to say.

Nope, not waiting for her to figure it out.

I hurry down to my bedroom.

I check my phone.

Zoe: I’m fine. On my way home. R u OK?

Me: I didn’t want to leave without you. I’m sorry. R u mad?

Zoe: No. Totally stunned. Fucking unreal. Everyone was jabbering about it at the club. I saw it all as it went down. I can’t believe the creeper snagged you on the dance floor. What a jerk. It was sort of cool how Alan went all apeshit and made him leave. Your instinct comment. Definitely get it now. Yep. Pretty fucking unbelievable. But kind of sweet. I can’t see my dad doing that. Ian is so clueless and non-confrontational. Wait. Light changed. Gotta drive. Text u when I get home.

Alan and Mom’s voices grow louder in the front entry—crap, what is he telling her?—and I shut my door.

I flop back on my bed and cover my face with my forearms. My door opens and I sit up to find Chrissie’s blue eyes sparkly with anger sharply on me.

“You’re grounded,” Chrissie announces, stunning me with her attack out of nowhere. “Two weeks. Not just the car. Everything. I suggest you put the time to good use to rethink a few things. I don’t care if you think Alan embarrassed you. I don’t care if you’re angry about it. You have no business being in West Hollywood at Velvet Jones and he did the right thing. He hauled you out of there. He did what I’d do. So if you’re angry at him you are angry at me. Get over it.”

Slam.

CHAPTER 21

Ding.

I roll over in bed, rubbing my eyes, and reach for my phone. I swipe it open, noting the time—it’s freaking 6 a.m., Zoe—and then see the message.

I sit up, wide awake.

Bobby: Go into your driveway.

Driveway?

My heart rapidly accelerates. I must have texted Bobby a dozen times last night after the Velvet Jones incident, and he ignored every text. Now he thinks he can send me a vague message like that, blow by everything I probably typed too rapidly, shouldn’t have said to him, but hit send on anyway and in honesty kind of regret.

But, damn, he was MIA for twelve hours.

What am I supposed to think?

He’s with Caroline on the slopes.

Getting pissed off seems a reasonable response to me.

Why does he want me in the driveway?

Me: Fine. Driveway. Then maybe you can tell me why you were a jerk last night and didn’t answer a single text. You have some explaining to do, Bobby.

I toss off my blankets and shove my feet into my Roxy slippers. Maybe something happened last night and Bobby couldn’t text me. Maybe Bobby sent me an apology present. I probably should have gone and checked before I sent that last text. Oh well, I can’t fix that now. I already hit send.

Faint wails greet me when I enter the hallway. Frowning, I go into the nursery and peek into the crib. Khloe is wide awake and crying. Jeez, why hasn’t anyone gotten her? No one in the house ever lets Khloe cry. That’s so unlike Mom. She hears everything where the baby is concerned, like a dog picking up sounds unheard by normal humans, and I’m pretty sure Lourdes has the baby monitor on and with her 24/7.

Seeing Khloe cry is so weird it bugs me. Pouting, I stare down at my sister. So freaking cute. Not even really crying. Whimper and wait. Whimper and wait. This baby is so spoiled. She knows she doesn’t have to put up a fuss to have her way.

I check her diaper. Wet. And she’s probably hungry.

“It’s OK, Khloe. You want to go find Mom?”

Her eyes widen and I smile. You get your way always, baby girl, but at least you are easy to make happy. I pick her up, cuddle her close, and the baby complaining sounds stop. I change her when I don’t want to because I know Mom expects it and it’s there again, that prick of guilt for stealing her spit for the kinship test.

I carry her to Chrissie’s room with my lips to her forehead, and I knock once. No answer, but I go in anyway.

My eyes widen.

Bed still perfectly made.

Mom didn’t go to sleep.

Oh crap, I must have really worried and upset my mom last night. This isn’t good. She must be on the patio. I don’t even need to look to know what this is.

She stayed up all night, sitting in a chair the way she does when she’s emotionally oozing, waiting for the dawn, the new day, her internal reset ritual.

It’s going to be another great fucking day around here.

Passing through the kitchen, I pause at the doors out to the patio. I quickly scan the furniture. Don’t see Chrissie. Nope. But she’s out there somewhere.

The morning air has a faint ocean mist as I step out into the yard. I’m surprised Chrissie didn’t come in from the chill. I must have really rocked her world. Another unwanted stab of guilt.

I snuggle the blanket tighter around Khloe as I continue searching for my Mom. I’m pretty sure she’s not indoors; the sunrise is just starting to spread across the sky. I take a few steps and then freeze, completely overcome by what I’m seeing.

Oh God—it’s a picture I know well and etched in my memory. A mirror image of perhaps the most famous photograph ever of my complicated parents: them sitting together on the terrace of my dad’s New York apartment, back in the day, when they were both young and first in love.

They are sitting on a double chaise just like in that famous tabloid shot, curled into each other, my dad slouched against her and my mom’s holding Alan with her cheek resting on his head. She may not be eighteen anymore, but she is as stunning now as she was then.

Fragments of memories leap in my head, forgotten moments of my own childhood revived, and the rock in my stomach grows painful. They love in such a naked and exposed way, but in their quieter moments, like this, it is leveling because it makes everything about what they’ve done to me more agonizing and less comprehensible.

They love.

They always have.

The fucked-up status of my life shouldn’t be.

My sister frets in my arms.

Oh God. I don’t want to disturb them, but I have to.

“Mom, Khloe is awake. Do you want her or should I fix a bottle and give her to Lourdes?”

Chrissie snaps up, turns and smiles. “No, give her to me.”

Crap.

I cross the grass to their chair and lean over to place Khloe in my mom’s arms, carefully avoiding my dad’s stare.

“Sit down, Kaley. I want to talk to you,” she says, adjusting my sister in her arms and pushing aside her nightgown to give Khloe a breast.

Fuck, does she have to nurse in front of me and then announce she wants to have a mother-daughter chat first thing in the morning?

With Alan here.

Tit hanging out.

Awkward.

I sink down on a chair facing them.

My mom doesn’t look at me; she’s too busy focused on Khloe.

“I know it’s been hard on you,” she says, never lifting her gaze from my sister. “Moving. All the changes. I shouldn’t have yelled last night. I probably should have listened instead…it’s not always easy to know what to do when you’re concerned…what I mean to say is, I know it’s been tough on you—”

I just wish I could disappear.

She’s rambling.

No point listening.

Hurry up, Chrissie. I want to get out of here.

And why the fuck does Alan have to be here for this, alertly listening to her very not-clear parenting moment with me as if this is going to go somewhere coherent before the next century?

“Just because I’m a mom doesn’t mean I have all the answers and do everything right,” she says, pausing to look at me. “I didn’t last night. I’m sorry. Maybe there was a little overreaction all around. But it’s because we both want what’s best for you, Kaley. That’s a good thing, right?”