“For your information, I had a match at the dating agency and was supposed to be on my first date tonight.”

“And you didn’t go because of this? Why? We could’ve gone any other day.”

“No, the meeting I’m taking you to is specifically tailored for teens. People your age and older will share their stories, and I want you to listen to them carefully, so maybe next time someone offers you a drink at school you’ll know how to say no.”

“Or, you were scared to go on your first date in forever, and are using your”—Tegan makes a theatrical expression, moving her arms all over the place—“deranged daughter as an excuse.”

I stare her down without replying.

After a few long seconds, she lowers her gaze. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair.”

I nod, just as her phone pings with three incoming messages.

“Your therapist?” I ask icily.

Tegan nods.

“What does he have to say now?”

She doesn’t answer me, and precedes me out of the house, protesting, “This is bullshit.”

“Language, young lady,” I call as I follow her. “Unless you want to spend next Saturday at a meeting for disrespectful teens.” I lock the door to our brownstone townhouse and prepare myself for a bleak few hours.

How I miss tiny rompers and even diaper changes, to be honest, when my biggest problem was breast or bottle. Those were the real golden years. I should’ve listened to all the people who told me to enjoy them because kids grow up so fast things only get worse and wait until they’re teenagers.

Unfortunately, the wait is so over.

***

The rest of the weekend passes just as dimly. Sunday, it rains all day, so Tegan and I are stuck in the house with our respective grudges. The only highlight is a call from Leslie mid-afternoon with a funny report about Dr. Ogre and his first agency date. Monday morning, I’m still mentally chuckling about it, when the subject of the call walks into the elevator next to me. Lucas is wearing another one of his sleek, tailored suits, and his leather shoes risk blinding me with how shiny they are. His hair, on the contrary, is as unruly as his clothes are impeccable, and also damp, as if he just got out of the shower after spending the night rumpling the sheets.

I can assume that’s not the case, given what I know, but still, it’s annoying for him to be this good looking so early on a Monday morning when the rest of us had to struggle to look half presentable.

“Morning,” I say with a big smile.

He takes in my greeting, and frowns. “You’re smiling. Something must be terribly wrong in the world.”

“No, I’m just in a good mood.”

Luke pushes the button to our floor warily, and asks, “Why?”