They glance at each other. “That must be pretty hard considering your job,” Mom says. “Helping people to write their love stories.”

“I write lies,” I respond bluntly, thinking about Jude, who barely even knew what Undersea was. Even if he and Bree make it to a few dates, I screwed that up for them by becoming too invested in the conversations as myself. It’s like I can’t win lately: I was failing at my work by being too cynical, and then I failed by becoming inadvertently smitten. I sigh and glance over at my parents who—as ever, when they are sitting within two inches of each other—have their hands lightly clasped together. “How do you two even do it? Stay in love?”

“Love is easy . . .” Baba says infuriatingly. “If you just remember one thing: It looks like it might be those beautiful wedding photos on Instagram. And it feels like it might be those butterflies when you’ve just met and you’re flirting. But it’s actually when you’re cleaning up your kid’s vomit at four a.m., and you manage to crack a joke that makes your spouse smile.”

Mom breaks out into a wide grin. “Oh, the Exorcist one!” She giggles. “I remember that!”

I’m shaking my head—but smiling too despite myself. They’re ridiculous and ridiculously hard to live up to. Maybe that’s been my problem this whole time. But then I glom on to something else my dad just said. “You know what Instagram is?” I ask.

“Actually . . . Meredith’s daughter gave us a tutorial.” He winks at me. “She’s just racking up points, right?”

I laugh. “You guys are relentless.” Meredith comes back and my mom gives her phone back with what I’m sure she thinks is a secret code smile: Mission going well. Let’s recon at mah-jongg tomorrow.

That night, as I take my usual back-seat spot in the car like the child I’ll always be to my parents, I think about all my plans, how for so many years I believed it would be me and Jordan cracking jokes about our kid at four a.m. I guess that’ll be Doug’s job now. Though, let’s be real, his talents might lie more in cracking open a coconut water (or even an actual coconut) than a joke.

I snort. It felt good to stick it to Jordan—even just a little—the day before. But that wasn’t even me; it was Zoey. And if I’m being completely honest, maybe that’s the part that felt the best. Laughing with her. Sharing the private joke with her. Feeling her lips on mine . . .

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 24

ZOEY