When we finally make our way up to the entrance, Wyatt gets the full effect of the house. Styled in a very modern fashion, the Bel Air home is just a few long white boxes stitched together. Sterile white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, black trim, and confusing architecture—this was where I spent my first fifteen years.

And never once did it really feel like home.

“Wow, fancy.”

“Yeah.” I wish that we were here under different circumstances. It could be nice to stay in a house like this with Wyatt if we were on vacation or something. Plenty of space, a nice view, beautiful gardens, and a pool.

What’s not to love?

Then it occurs to me that it sounds like I’m already planning vacations with Wyatt.

God, brain. Stop.

“I thought houses like this only existed in movies,” he says.

“Bel Air architecture is something special.” I doubt there are many places in the world where you’d see a home like this outside of California. There’s something so West Coast about it. This is the same driveway and yard where I played, where I fell riding bikes, where I drew chalk drawings that were pressure washed away so that they wouldn’t stain the pavement. Because everything needed to be erased, because the house needed to look perfect at all times.

I don’t even know if I should ring the doorbell or not.

This isn’t my house.

And yet … it is.

There’s the sound of clacking, a splash of color on the opposite side of the frosted glass in the door.

“Oh, you’re here!” Mother says, opening the door for me. She leans in to give me a soft hug and an air kiss so she doesn’t ruin her makeup. “Good. We’re in the backyard.”

“Good morning,” I say.

“Why are you so late?” she asks. “We started without you.”

“I wasn’t given the address.”

“I’m sure I sent you all the information a few weeks ago.”

I could prove her wrong, go back through my texts and show her that she never did. I mean, she never texts me, so it wouldn’t even take that long. But Mother is never wrong in any argument she’s a part of.

Never.

So it isn’t worth it.

Most of my family is gathered off to the side while the bridal party takes their photos. I’m relieved to see Lindsay there in the mix. Michael looks a little worse for wear, but nothing some concealer hasn’t covered up. He’s talking with his friends while Nana and Grandpa sit in the shade on the patio. Nana’s staring at me, and she hasn’t once looked away since we walked outside.

“Hey, there you are!” Michael comes up and claps me on the shoulder. “Now we can finally get our set done.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t told what time. Or where.”