Mom’s grinning face and four layered paisley scarves are waiting for me when I exit the terminal. She runs over and sweeps me into a hug. My dad grasps me next, his three pens digging into my chest as he proves that smothering is yet another thing they have in common. “You are finally home.” Just like the guilt trips.

I grin back at them though. I can’t help it. Even though I’ve never personally lived in Florida, I am finally home. Because despite all the culture and grit and coolness factor New York has going for it . . . it doesn’t hold a candle to the feeling of my mom’s fringed scarf brushing against my shoulder as she keeps her arm around me while they lead me out of the airport.

* * *

As always, my parents’ house is set to a frigid forty-seven degrees. I dig through the drawers of the guest room for the Mickey Mouse sweatshirt I dropped off here a few years ago on my stopover from Disney World to see my parents with Gemma (she was a bit of a Disney freak). It’s a little tight in the shoulders. Huh. Guess I wasn’t as into working out when I was with Gemma; that might have been a part of Jordan’s world that I’d gotten sucked into. Though, unlike the fanaticism about the Mouse House, maybe this routine would stick.

I wonder what habit Zoey is into that I could pick up?

Wait, what?

I groan. One damn kiss and rom-com Miles is back and ready to fall in love at the drop of a hat.

“Love is stupid,” I mutter sulkily as I slip onto the stool at my parents’ breakfast counter.

My mom visibly perks up. “Are we ready to talk about Jordan now?” she asks as she slides a heaping plate of veggie omelet in front of me.

“I never liked her,” my dad says as he brings over a tall glass of orange juice and sets it by my plate.

“Yes, you did,” I respond. “You both did.” I point to one, then the other with my fork accusingly before digging into my late breakfast.

They look at each other before Mom takes the reins. “Well, maybe. But only because we thought she made you happy. And because she was about to be our daughter-in-law. Retroactively, we can hate her, right?”

I think it over. “I guess it would be the appropriate parental response.”

My parents nod triumphantly. “Now, drink up,” Baba says as he points at my glass. “It’s fresh-squeezed.”

“Of course it is.” I take a sip. “Why else would you live in Florida?”

I focus on my plate but from my peripheral vision, I can see my parents eyeing each other with the shorthand they’ve honed over forty-six years. I bet it’ll be my mom who speaks . . .

“So . . .” Mom says. Nailed it. “Are you seeing anyone?”