Mom rolls her eyes. “You’ve been watching too much TV. No, Parker. The trust is yours as of today following a significant life event.”

“A significant life event?”

Madeline lifts the white ceramic teapot and pouring a cup. “Marriage. Or a baby.”

I can smell the chamomile. A better herb of choice would’ve been a hunk of sage I can burn in their faces.

“Since it’s an election year,” Mom continues, “we thought we might politely suggest you entertain the idea of courting one of Washington’s most promising. Camden Holdings.”

My eyes widen. “Cam Holdings? That douchebag from high school?”

“Camden Holdings is a congressman and will run for senate in a few years. Just like your father.”

“Also a douchebag,” I snap. “What makes you think I want anything to do with a guy like Dad? And what makes you think Cam would want anything to do with me?”

Mom presses her lips together. “Because you’re a Montgomery.”

That’s clearly the answer to both of my questions.

I point at the folder. “Is there anything in here that mentions you having to choose the person involved in said significant life event?”

“No. There aren’t any tricks here, Parker. You can show that to any attorney, and they’ll tell you the exact same thing I am. Within thirty days of filing your marriage license with the court, the trust will be transferred to you.”

“Then why do I have to listen to you about Camden?” I reach forward and take the folder. “I can’t imagine you’re worried about the family’s political legacy ending.” I point at Madeline. “She’ll probably be attorney general one day after she’s done working for Dad. You didn’t exactly send her to Yale Law to be his secretary⁠—”

“I’m the White House Chief of Staff,” Madeline barks.

I plant a smug smile on my face. “Like I said. A secretary.”

“You know what, Parker⁠—”

“Oh, enough!”

“For once, Mom, you and I agree. Thanks for this.” I hold the folder up. “I’m sure I can find an attorney who can take care of everything for me.”

Madeline rolls her eyes. “Shouldn’t you start with a husband first? Or, at the very least, a boyfriend.”

I turn my head. “Who says I don’t have someone already?”

“Do you?” Mom asks.

“I’m seeing someone,” I lie. “And I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that he’s the furthest thing from a congressman.”

In my mind, I conjure up a biker with sleeves of tattoos who never wears a helmet and smokes Marlboro Reds, a guy who believes in government conspiracies and puts his elbows on the table and wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“Did you stop and think about why I was suggesting Camden Holdings?”

“You could suggest Big Bird for all I care,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter.”