Joey forced herself out of her car and across her parents’ driveway. As a child, she’d found her home magical, starting with its romantic origins—purchased in the loved-up throes of early marriage because Bea had a thing for Gone with the Wind and Scott had a thing for Bea. There was the yellow stucco box-style house, its Palladian windows framed by hunter-green shutters. The expansive front yard with the two stately sycamore trees. The cracked tar driveway and the basketball hoop with the off-kilter net on which Joey and her father used to play endless games of Horse. The garage where she’d once scraped her Jetta going in and then told her parents that someone had keyed her car.

Joey stepped atop the gray-brick porch and inserted the key she’d retained, even after so many years in New York.

“Hi, JoJo!” Her mother swept open the door before Joey could push it open. Bea dove in for a hug, but Joey sidestepped it. The scent of pumpkin spice stormed Joey’s nostrils. Her mother had never met an autumnal room diffuser she didn’t snap up for year-round use. Bea wore black leather leggings and a black lace camisole, purple paint smeared up her right forearm. Her skin was, as ever, an I-spent-a-week-in-the-Riviera caramel, owing to a mix of genetics and spray tans.

“I’m so glad you wanted to come over. We have a few wedding things to discuss! And I made banana bread. How about a slice?”

Joey took an unsteady step forward. “Dad’s at work, right?”

Her mother’s eyebrows raised. “Yes, Dad’s at work. And Lily’s filming content in Miami. What’s going on, JoJo? Why are your shorts wet?”

“Leo came to town to see me,” Joey said without preamble. “He told me about you and Rand. And Lily.” She could barely get it out, it was so vile. “He told me about Lily. How could you?”

Bea’s face crumpled in like quicksand. “Joey…oh my God…Jo—” She stretched out a hand, catching Joey’s forearm.

Joey flinched at the touch. “Don’t ever touch me again! Don’t fucking ever.” She wasn’t a huge curser but now all she wanted to do was pull variations of fuck out of a hat. Fuck you! Fuck both you and Rand! Go fuck yourselves. Literally, I’m sure.

They stood in silence, like the panting aftermath of a race. “I owe you an explanation,” Bea eventually said. “A big explanation.”

Joey caught a flash of the scrunched lines between her mother’s eyebrows that had survived the latest round of Botox. “You owe me a lot of explanations.”

Bea nodded as an Academy Award–worthy tear rolled down her cheek, cutting a swath through her blush. “I know. I do.”

*  *  *