I circle back to my parents, determined to make Andrew memorize these details. He’s the one who insists his family has to believe we’re a real couple. “After the divorce, Jed and Linds both went through huge party phases to—as my mom told me on my tenth birthday—‘reclaim the youth I robbed from them.’ That is how she justified the keg she bought for the party.”

“How did you end up so straitlaced?” he asks, and I don’t know how to explain it to him. How important it was for me to feel in control, all the time, amidst the twin tornadoes of my parents.

I think of Linds in her Daisy Dukes, handing thirteen-year-old me the car keys and telling me to drive home from my art show because she’d consumed a wine bra’s worth of Merlot. Jed gifting me a roll of quarters for my eleventh birthday, two months late, and then vanishing for another six months without so much as a phone call. The truth is: the world is full of selfish people who become selfish parents. It’s hard to explain to anyone who grew up with stability and safety and guaranteed love what it’s like to both hate your parents and desperately want their love at the same time. To still, at twenty-five, get sucked into little fantasies where they show up one day, sober and sorry, and finally acknowledge all the times you had to tuck yourself into bed.

All I’ve ever wanted is to make sure I don’t become them. A fuck-up. A failure. A mess.

But I guess genetics are winning out.

Andrew Kim-Prescott could never understand any of this, so I merely pull another card from the stack. This one is labeled Other cabin guests.

“Okay, both of your grandmothers will be there,” I respond.

“Well, technically, two of my three grandmas will be there,” he jumps in. “Halmoni, my mom’s mom, died when I was a kid, so this is my dad’s mom and stepmom. We call Grandpa’s first wife Meemaw and his second wife Lovey, because her name is Laverne.”

“As a grown-ass adult, you call your grandma Meemaw?” I ask incredulously. Andrew just shrugs. “And your late grandpa’s two wives are cool spending the holidays together?”

“Oh yeah, Meemaw and Lovey are best friends.”

“Okay, so your meemaw and your grandpa got divorced before you were born, right? She’s been married three times since then but is currently single. And you describe her as—”

“Boozy,” he supplies. “I know it seems wrong to say that about an eighty-two-year-old, but it’s accurate. I got my love of sangria and questionable romantic choices from her. She’s an artist, and she’s going to love you.”

I try to suppress the cloying warmth that rises at the idea of someone’s grandmother loving me. “And Lovey is—”