Chapter 2

As a general rule, my family avoids conflict. I’m not talking about squabbling over the remote every night when our family unit was still intact but about the big stuff. The giant problems, the huge glaring mistakes human beings make, the actual issues behind the remote control

—we avoid those conversations like the plague. If we ignore them, or if we only talk quietly about the “incident in question” for the shortest amount of time possible, maybe we can avoid anything unpleasant.

So when I saw my mother barreling up the driveway, I knew she was prepared to go to a very civilized war.

Having thrown my phone into the ocean, I was incommunicado. So my father’s phones were ringing off the hook like command central. When he finally unplugged the house phone and turned off the ringer on his cell phone, it was only a matter of time. My mother pulled into the driveway just as I finished my second beer.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she whisper-yelled, ever aware of the neighbors.

“I am just beginning to understand what I’ve done, Mother. How about you?” I replied, reaching down to the cooler at my feet. “Beer?” I offered, holding up a dripping bottle.

My father coughed. My mother? Quietly burned.

She looked around the yard, making sure our dysfunctional family unit was in fact alone, then lowered herself to the patio steps. Arranging herself in an elegantly casual way, she sat with her legs crossed at the ankle, hands nestled in her lap. She looked like she was sitting for a portrait at Olan Mills. I chanced a look at my father, who was struggling to contain his amusement.

“Okay, let’s talk this out, since rational thought has clearly left the building,” she began, making sure to glance in my father’s direction when speaking of the lack of rational thought.

“I feel pretty rational,” I explained, my nightgown perhaps giving away a small slice of credibility. “But I agree, we should talk about what’s happened.” Her face lit up in triumph, and I held up my hand. “But I’m not marrying Charles Preston Sappington. Not today. Not any—”

“Oh, would you stop saying that!” she snapped, finally showing some emotion. “You mind telling me why exactly you’re feeling so dramatic about all of this?”

I unscrewed the cap on my third beer and took a long swallow. “I don’t have the foggiest idea why I walked out on my wedding. Maybe I’ll know why tomorrow. But today? I don’t have any answers. Except what I’ve been saying all day. Do you really want me to say it again?”

“Well, I’d like to hear it.”

Charles was here. Standing in the driveway. Cool, calm, collected, handsome.

My beer shattered as I threw it to the ground, then I stood up quickly and headed for the house.

“Chloe. Baby. Let’s talk this out, shall we?” I heard over my shoulder as I struggled to get the sliding door open. My hands were slippery from the cold beer, and I couldn’t get purchase on the handle. As I fumbled, I could hear my mother speaking to Charles under her breath, prompting him. Oh for fudge’s sake, this door!

“Marjorie, I told you not to bring him over here. She obviously needs some space today. Don’t you think that—”

“You stay out of this, Thomas. Is it any coincidence that she came here, of all places? She knew you’d coddle her. She knew you’d—”

“Coddle her? She knew I’d listen, for Christ’s sake! When all you can do is—”

“Oh, please, like you’ll know how to get her back on track after this?

She doesn’t know what she’s doing, and your helping her isn’t going to—”

Charles’s voice broke through the fray. “Chloe, baby, come on. Let’s go talk this out, okay? We can still make this happen today—you know you want to, don’t you? You know it’s the right thing—”

All of these conversations were happening at the same time while I was pawing at the glass door like a cat trying to get out of a window. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, why won’t this door open!”

Silence. Total silence. Even the birds had stopped chirping. My mother and father were frozen in their all-too-familiar antagonistic pose, while Charles stood in the driveway with his hands raised, looking like Jesus at the Last Supper.

The latch finally clicked, and the door slid open.

“I’m going inside. No one is following me. I’ll talk about this tomorrow.” I started to go in, when I caught Charles’s eye. And saw his expression. Frustration, yes. Irritation, the beginnings of it, yes. Deep, profound anguish that the love of his life had just told him she wasn’t marrying him? Not even the slightest hint. Still . . .

“I really am very sorry,” I said, to him and only to him. And then I went inside.

And threw up donuts and beer.

I thought there was no way I’d sleep that night, but I slept like a baby. And when I woke up and saw a note from my father on the nightstand that he’d gone on a bagel run, I smiled, rolled over, and went back to sleep. And when I heard my dad whistling as he made coffee a half hour later, I got up and went downstairs with a smile on my face.

Which fell as soon as I saw a brand-new iPhone sitting at my place at the table. “What’s this?” I asked, slumping into my chair.

“What does it look like?” he promptly replied from behind his newspaper.

“Dad. Come on, seriously.”

“I stopped by the store this morning, got you a new phone. Is that what you’re referring to?” The newspaper rustled.

I looked down at the phone, thinking hard. “But I threw my old one in

—”

“—the ocean, I know. Try not to do that again, would you, kiddo? You have any idea how expensive these phones are?”

I pushed the phone, and my place mat, away. But then tugged it back to get to the orange juice. The newspaper rustled.

“I didn’t want to talk to anybody . . .” I mumbled, and my father finally appeared from behind the paper.

“I realize that, but you made a decision yesterday that affects a lot of people. And you need to explain it, specifically to some of those people.”

“But I thought you understood . . .” I began, my eyes filling with tears for the first time since I’d bolted yesterday.

“I understood that you didn’t want to get married, and no way was I going to force you into that. But I don’t understand why, and neither does your mother,” he said, laying down his paper and looking at me over the top of his glasses. “And neither does Charles.”

I winced.

“You don’t have to marry him, but you do need to explain your actions yesterday. You owe them both that much.”

And with a rustle of paper, the voice of reason disappeared once more behind the financial section. Call Charles. Hmm. I could do this. I could do this. I picked up the phone, then put it down. Yikes. What was I going to say? What could I say? How could I tell him why, when I wasn’t 100 percent sure myself? I picked up the phone again, then put it down again.

The third time I reached for it, the voice behind the paper said, “For goodness’ sake, Chloe, I think you can have breakfast before you explain yourself. Go get a bagel and stop fidgeting.”

Reprieved. I exhaled gratefully and headed for the toaster oven. I knew couldn’t dodge those two much longer. But did you know that if you pick off every single sesame seed and every single garlic crispy thingie from an everything bagel before you eat it, it can take over an hour? Especially if you count the poppy seeds too . . .

By noon, I’d listened to all the messages that had poured in yesterday. Starting with the first, “Chloe, you turn right around and come back here, young lady,” to “Now you listen to me, and listen good. I didn’t spend the last two months killing myself on designing the perfect wedding for you, only to have you and your cold feet ruin everything,” to, “Where in the

world are you? Oh, I just can’t believe you would do this to me, Chloe! Think of what everyone’s going to say when they find out! We can still make it to the church on time; just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you. We can still make this happen and no one will ever know,” to finally, “I’ve called Charles. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”

Doubtful. I stalled for some more time by heading into my dad’s office and jumping onto his home computer. I’d just check my email, clear it out before making those phone calls. One poppy seed, two poppy seeds . . .

Emails from two of my bridesmaids, wondering what in the world was going on in my head. I’m sure they were wondering—who ever walked away from the brass ring? I wonder if they’d be so interested in his brass if they knew how small his . . . Don’t go there.

No. Actually, do go there.

Confession time. I’d only ever “been with” Charles, in the biblical sense. So technically, I had no basis for comparison on actual length and girth. But while I was technically a virgin, it’s not like I hadn’t been privy to a man’s private bits before. I’d rounded a few bases (read handies in a dark backseat) with guys I’d dated in college (read two guys dated, so two peens seen). I had a computer. I had the Internet. I had girl talk. And it would seem to me, as peni went, that Charles was . . . less than average. But I was in love (read pretty sure I was in love) and ready to throw away my V card (read sooooo ready), and so BAM we had the sex a few weeks into dating. And BAM I saw the penis. And bam it was all up in there. And by all up in there, I mean . . . I thought this was supposed to hurt the first time?

Truth be told, our sex life was satisfactory. I had orgasms. He certainly had orgasms. Little tiny peashooter orgasms. Jesus, what an asshole I am. I was going to marry this guy yesterday, and now all I can do is disparage his

manhood.

I thought, okay, this is how it is. And if I was on top, I could eke out something pretty good there. But there was no screaming, there was no shrieking, there was no “Holy Mary mother of God!” But that was okay, right?

Except twenty-four hours had given me the gift of clarity. What I could see now was that nothing about our relationship was “Holy Mary mother of God.” It was smooth and beautiful and covered in swirls of yummy on the

outside, but the inside was fat free and full of air and nothing. And if I was going to have a life of air and nothing, I’d at least like a big fat dick to bounce on.

Chloe! my crass meter chided, sounding frighteningly like my mother.

I blushed at my naughty thoughts and finally picked up the phone to call Charles, when an email from Lou Fiorello caught my eye. Buried by wedding nonsense, it’d been sitting in my in-box for several days.

Part of being named Miss Golden State—just one step behind Miss California, a title I’d literally worked my entire pageant career for—was being heavily involved in my charity of choice. Since I’d always loved animals, my charitable platform was an organization that worked with therapy dogs, Paws for the Cause. Taking those dogs into nursing homes, working with special-needs children, and sitting with patients suffering from Alzheimer’s, was wonderful. There was nothing I wanted to do more; it was a program I’d love to work with long after I put my crowns on a shelf and retired my butt glue.

SO THAT MY BATHING SUIT NEVER RODE UP.

But then one day I met Lou Fiorello, who pointed me in a different direction. A potential option. Working at a nursing home one day with a gorgeous golden retriever named Sparkle, I saw a man and a dog come out of a patient’s room. The man was in his midfifties with long gray hair and a longer gray beard, wearing a tie dyed T-shirt and beat-up camouflage pants. Tattered sneakers completed the aging hippie vibe, and when I looked at the dog next to him, he had a similar tattered look: a black pit bull wearing a red bandana and missing an ear. The two approached, and I held Sparkle’s leash a bit tighter.

I’d seen the news reports; I’d heard the terrible stories. Even working with animals as long as I had, and knowing that it’s usually the owner’s behavior that dictates the dog’s, I was still myself wary as the two walked toward us.

He stopped, taking notice of the tiara, the sash, the heels. During official appearances as Miss Golden State, the crown and the sash were required. He looked down at Sparkle, who was sniffing the other dog unconcernedly. The pit’s tail wagged happily, the red bandana giving him a jaunty look.

“Therapy dog?” the man asked, nodding at Sparkle.

“Yes, we’re here to spend some time with the patients; they really love it.

You should see their eyes—”

“Light up? Yep, I know. Joe here’s a therapy dog too, aren’t you, boy?” he said, looking down at the pit bull. Joe looked up at Lou and his mouth split into a wide grin, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

“He’s a therapy dog?” I asked, surprise evident in my voice. Flushing a little, I bit back the obvious “but he’s a pit bull” comment, although it was implied.

Lou let out a huff. “You know much about pit bulls, princess?”

“Just what I see on the news,” I admitted, resisting the urge to straighten my crown.

“Mm-hmm. So nothing, really?” he asked. “No?” I offered, and he grinned.

“Take Joe here. When I got him he was eight months old, and had never lived a day off a chain in the backyard. Starved half to death. Mixed it up with some other dogs, that’s how I assume he lost the ear. But within three months of coming to stay with me? He was like the poster dog for Our Gang, weren’t you, big guy?”

Tail wagged enthusiastically.

“Our Gang?” I asked, kneeling down to pet Joe. With one look at that big grin, I was in love. And as Lou told me more and more about his organization, I became more and more sure that it was something I wanted to become involved in. He operated a shelter in Long Beach for rescued and abandoned pit bulls. Think Cesar Millan, with less sssssht. Some of the dogs were rescued from fighting rings, and the more he told me, the more my heart broke. He used the name Our Gang to remind people that the dog from The Little Rascals was a pit bull. The breed’s more recent history is all anyone ever remembered, either forgetting or never knowing that they were even used as baby-sitters a hundred years ago—something that I admit blew my mind.

I spent the next hour asking Lou everything I could think of about Our Gang, while Sparkle and Joe napped peacefully at our ankles. And I went straight home that night to tell my mother all about the new charity I wanted to support.

My mother had other ideas. She always has lots of ideas, as you can imagine. Is she a snob? If you consider a snob to be a blue-haired old

woman who eats crustless cucumber sandwiches and complains about how hard it is to find good help, then no, she isn’t a snob. But she does have very particular ideas about everything and everyone, and into that preordained, predestined, predetermined box we all must go. And for her daughter, who she expected to ride her tiara straight into a wealthy marriage, how things appeared was key. Appearances are everything, didn’t you know?

So her daughter, she of the crown and sash, going to work with rescued pit bulls? Not. Going. To fly.

I’d tried to explain to Lou as best as I could why I couldn’t work with his organization, and he told me he understood. All too well. But we bumped into each other occasionally when I was out with a therapy dog, and we emailed, and I followed his organization on Facebook. And whenever I clicked on one of those gorgeous faces, usually with that telltale pit bull grin, I’d think about what a wonderful opportunity it would be to work with dogs like that.

So when I saw Lou’s name in my in-box now, it made me smile. And when the subject line read “Want to work for Our Gang North?” it made me sit up straight and forget all about calling Charles.

So the first important phone call I made was to Lou Fiorello. And after hanging up, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had options.

Scratch that. Options that I’d found on my own.

Emboldened, I decided to call my mother next. I sat back in the chair, drumming a pencil nervously on the legal pad I’d made notes all over during my call with Lou. After several rings, she answered. Had she deliberately let the phone ring? I’d seen her do that to other people. “Always keep people wanting a little more, Chloe. Don’t be rude, but don’t be too eager either.” It had never had occurred to me to think she’d employed this technique on her own daughter.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom,” I said, and she waited a beat.

“Oh, hello, Chloe dear,” she replied, managing to sound unconcerned and somewhat surprised I’d called. She knew it was me; she had caller ID

right there on the phone—but no matter. I’d be cool as well. “I’d like to come by the house to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea. Will it be soon? I’ll put on some tea.” “I can come now. I’ll just get changed and be right over.”

“Still in your pajamas?”

Only four words, and yet oh so much judgment. I sidestepped the obvious trap. “I’ll be there in twenty,” I replied, clenching my hands.

“I’ll be here,” she said. “Oh, and Mother?” “Hmm?”

“If I see his car in the driveway, I’m turning around.” Silence. Sigh. And then finally, “I’ll see you in twenty.”

I’d won nothing in actuality. But I unclenched my hands, and that was good. I then texted Charles:

Hi.

He responded right away:

Hi.

I wasn’t a robot. I could feel a bit of remorse beginning to poke through.

I’d like to call you later, talk about some things?

He didn’t respond right away, so I went to get changed. I was, in fact, still in my pajamas. But as I pushed my head through a San Diego State sweatshirt of my dad’s, I heard my phone beep.

Talk about some things? I’ll say we need to talk about some things. I’ll come by at 5 and pick you up.

I didn’t want to see him. Not yet.

No, no that’s not a good idea. I need some more time. I’ll call you, let’s start there.

Whatever you say . . .

I texted him bye, but for the first time, didn’t add XOXO.

I pulled on some sweatpants and went downstairs. “I’m heading over to Mom’s to talk; you need anything while I’m out?” I asked my father, who was reading another newspaper. Each Sunday he had the New York Times, the LA Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Wall Street Journal delivered. He liked to “cover his bases.” What he covered were his fingerprints with ink, as well as doorjambs and countertops.

“You want me to go with you?” he asked. “Nice outfit, by the way.” “Thanks. If I hold up the pants on the side I should be able to keep

them on,” I laughed. “And no, I’m good to go solo. If you hear a sonic boom coming from her side of town, you’ll know how it’s going.”

“I’m familiar with that boom,” he replied, one corner of his mouth turning up.

So I headed out the front door to explain to my mother why I’d canceled her perfect wedding. Hopefully I’d be able to think up a good reason on the way over.

I walked into the house, my house, and saw that everything was still exactly as it was yesterday. Chairs were arranged in the living room in the semicircle I’d been in when I’d freaked out. There were still nail polish bottles on the coffee table. One thing was different, though. My wedding dress had been in my room but was now displayed in the entryway, hanging from the banister so you couldn’t miss it.

Point: Mom.

“Hello?” I called, walking through the foyer and past the living room carnage.

“In the kitchen,” she called back, and I headed for her voice. I found her sitting at the breakfast table. Teapot. Cups. Saucers. Milk. Sugar cubes. And holy fudge, she was wearing her Chanel. The suit she wore when she felt she needed something a little extra.

I hovered in the doorway. “Hi.”

“Hello, dear,” she said softly. Uh-oh. Softly again. Usually her default position. She rose, deposited a quick kiss on my cheek, then poured the

tea. “One cube, or two?” she asked. She never encouraged me to have more than a solitary cube. Hmm . . .

“Three please,” I volleyed, and sank into my usual chair. Point: Chloe.

She clenched her jaw for just the scantest second, and then three sugar cubes were placed carefully into my teacup with silver tongs. We’d traveled to London when I was in sixth grade, and every afternoon we had tea at Fortnum & Mason. It was something we both enjoyed, and tried our best to replicate when we came home. I can remember the two of us giggling as we ate our crustless sandwiches and spoke in the poshest British accent we could muster.

Over the years, however, it started to feel remote; less of a shared pleasure and more of an opportunity for a talking to. And I could see this was where she wanted it to go now. But I had some talking of my own to do first.

“So here’s the thing, Mother,” I began, startling her into sitting down quickly, a surprised expression on her face. Which she masked just as quickly. I pressed on. “I can’t tell you exactly why I ran out of here so fast yesterday, and I realize that I seemed quite crazy. But I’d had an epiphany, a sudden, frightening epiphany, that I couldn’t marry Charles. And I knew if I stayed in this house for one more minute, I’d let everyone talk me out of it.”

I paused to sip my tea, and burned my tongue. “Dammit,” I swore under my breath, making her raise the stoniest eyebrow this side of Mount Rushmore. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, I burned my tongue,” I snapped, this cup-and-saucer game wearing so very thin.

“What a charming vocabulary you seem to have developed all of a sudden,” she replied, fluttering her eyelashes.

“For God’s sake, Mother, its 2014. This isn’t some Edith Wharton novel. No one wears white gloves anymore, no one sends calling cards, and women fucking swear!” I banged my fist on the table, spilling tea and tumbling cubes.

“That’s enough, Chloe. I did not raise you to speak to me in this way—” “It’s not enough! I was about to get married, possibly have a child by this

time next year, but I’m not old enough to curse? I’m a grown-up, for pity’s sake! I need to be able to say what I want and do what I want, and not

worry about you frowning at me all the time.” I paused to take a breath, adrenaline rushing through my veins. “Maybe this is exactly what I need— to shake things up a bit, ruffle some feathers!”

“You certainly did that. You can’t imagine the phone calls I had to make yesterday; the conversations I had to have. I had to call your mother-in-law and try to explain that my daughter had run out on her own wedding and I had no idea where she might be!”

“She’s not my mother-in-law!” I yelled.

Now the gloves were off. Her forehead was showing the tiniest glisten; that didn’t happen even when she played badminton.

“Mother, do you realize that every single time you’ve mentioned yesterday, it’s all been about how this affected you? I know how worried you’ve been about appearances, but haven’t you been worried about me? Not even once have you asked me if I’m okay, or if Charles did something to make me flip so quickly.”

Her head snapped up and she looked at me intently. “Did something happen? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

For the first time, I saw concern for me. Is it weird that I almost hated having to tell her no?

“No, not at all. It’d almost be easier to say yes—then my decision would be much more black and white, and not so gray. But, no. He never raised a hand, he never even raised his voice to me.”

“Then why, Chloe? Just tell me why you can’t marry him?”

The million-dollar question. Literally, since Charles was loaded. “I don’t love him,” I said on an exhale. And there it was.

“That’s it?” she asked, incredulous.

“Isn’t that kind of the point?” I asked, joining her in the incredulous boat.

“Love isn’t everything. It’s not even the most important part of a marriage,” she said. But she looked younger, softer, for a split second. Wistful?

“Shouldn’t it be?” I asked.

Her eyes cut to mine, hardening again. “Oh, grow up, Chloe,” she snapped, grabbing the teapot and heading for the sink. Teatime was over.

“Don’t you see that I’m trying to do exactly that? How in the world can I grow up if I continue to do as I’m told, smiling and nodding like some

pretty robot? What kind of a life is that?”

“Yes, what a terrible life, married to one of the most powerful lawyers in California, living in a beautiful house, raising beautiful children—it sounds just dreadful,” she mocked, and my blood boiled.

“It does sound dreadful to me. It’s not happening, Mother. We can go around and around about this all you want, but it’s not happening.” I walked to the window and gazed outside, looking over the manicured lawn, the pool, the good life. “I’m sorry for rushing out of here yesterday, and I’m sorry that you had to deal with the ramifications. I really am sorry to have put you through that. It wasn’t fair of me to do that to you.”

She stood at the kitchen sink, her back to me, rinsing out the teacups. As she finished she slowly straightened to her full height, regaining her composure with each vertebrae stacked. When she turned back to me, she wore a gracious expression.

“Thank you for the apology, Chloe. I appreciate that.”

We stood there in the kitchen, no words being said, but I couldn’t help but feel like something more was coming. “So . . . what needs to be done?”

“Done?” she asked.

“Yes. What phone calls still need to be made, who do I need to contact, what can I do to—”

“Heavens, Chloe, I’ve already handled everything. You don’t think I would let all those people just wait around, do you? No no, I’ve already cleaned up this mess.”

Again, silence.

“Okay, well, thank you again. I’ll just go up to my room, then, and—” “Your room?”

“Huh?”

She set the teacups back in the cupboard, everything where they belonged. “It seems to me, dear, that if you’re so sure you want to be a grown-up, then you should start immediately. Don’t you agree? Look at how strongly you felt yesterday, and poof! You made it happen.”

“Okaaaaayyyy?” I said, no idea where this was going.

“So grown-up to grown-up, I think its time you leave the nest.” “You want me to move out?” I asked, confused.

“Yes, living here would only get in the way of your lofty grown-up ideals.

So I think it’s best that you fly this confining coop. Right now.”

And with that, she slipped on her gardening gloves, set her big floppy hat on her head, and went outside to trim her rosebushes.

Point: Mother.

And the hits just kept on coming.

The good thing about being already packed for my honeymoon and subsequent move into my new husband’s home is that I was pretty much ready to move out when my mother politely told me to do so. But when I walked out the front door twenty minutes later with my last suitcase, there was Charles, exactly where I’d told him not to be. In my driveway. Excuse me—my mother’s driveway.

“Didn’t I say I’d call you?” I said, rolling my suitcase toward my car. “Didn’t you agree to marry me?” he asked, going for my suitcase.

“Didn’t I tell you I needed some time?” I grabbed my suitcase back, then opened the passenger side and tried to cram it into the crowded car.

“Chloe, baby, talk to me. And where are you going with all this stuff?” “Don’t call me that.” I pushed the car door shut with my butt, the latch

finally engaging. “I’m going to my dad’s. My mother told me to move out. She’s not so thrilled with me right now.”

“She just wants what’s best for you,” he said, leaning against the car next to me. I could feel the warmth of his skin next to mine, his arm close to mine.

“She’s so sure that she knows what’s best for me, and you’re so sure that you know what’s best for me, but I don’t have a clue. Except that I can’t do this, Charles,” I said, looking straight into his eyes.

“Bab—Chloe, you’ve just got cold feet. Don’t throw everything away just because you’re nervous,” he coaxed, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me into his side.

I wondered if any of the neighbors were watching this. My mother believed every last one of them was always perched on their sofa with binoculars and a bowl of popcorn, settling in for another episode of What Is Marjorie’s Daughter Chloe Doing Today and How Will It Impact Life as We Know It?

The thing is, his arm did feel good around me. It would be easy to let him kiss me, let him clean up the mess I’d made, and settle back in, all the loose ends tied up. Or is it tied down?

“Are you in love with me, Charles?” I asked. “What kind of a question is that?”

“It’s kind of an important question, don’t you think?” “That’s just silly. Why would you ask me that?”

“Still not really an answer.”

He tried to pull me closer, but I resisted.

“Of course I love you, Chloe,” he finally said, not meeting my eyes. “But are you in love with me?” I pushed.

“Are you in love with me?” he asked quickly, now meeting my eyes. And for the first time in my entire history with this very golden boy, he looked . . . unsure.

“No. No, I don’t think I am,” I answered, my eyes stinging. Endings were never good, even when they needed to happen. I slipped out from under his arm and stood before him as he leaned on my car.

He ran his hands through his hair, scrubbed at his face, and when he looked at me again, he was in problem-solving mode. “You go back to your dad’s, relax a bit, get a good night’s sleep, and then let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”

“No, Charles, I don’t think that—”

“This is all happening too fast. We need to slow down a bit, look at the practicality of this, figure out the best course of action to move forward.”

“You’re not listening to me, Charles. This isn’t going to—” I started, and he talked over me again as he walked toward his own car.

“I’ll call you in the morning, or stop by. Yeah, I’ll stop by and we can go for a drive, talk some more.”

“I don’t want to talk more tomorrow. Not if you’re going to continue to

—”

“Okay, see you in the morning,” he finished, getting into his car while I still stood there sputtering. He peeled out of the driveway, and I was left alone and frustrated.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” I said to myself, turning to get into my car. And as I did, I saw the curtains in the living room flutter. I waved to my mother—she knew she was caught.

I drove back to my dad’s, brought in my first suitcase, set it down in the living room, and told him, “I need to get the hell out of this town.”

He totally agreed with me. Which is why the next day I found myself driving up the coast, headed for Monterey.