"No?"
"No." I take a long sip. Walk faster to keep up with him. "I want someone else there. In case Allison is home."
"You don't want to see her?"
"No. I can't look at her right now." My chest tenses. "She's the one… she's leaving Divya for a younger woman."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"I guess… if she was a guy, it would be expected. Rich business owner. Good looking. In great shape."
"And Divya isn't?" I ask.
"Are you really asking me if your mom is hot?"
"You just went on about how my other mom is hot."
He chuckles I guess so. "Like you don't talk about how hot Gabe is."
Okay, maybe I mention it. On occasion. But, in my defense, Gabe is smokin'. All tall, and broad, and stoic. Dark hair and clear blue eyes.
Oliver in twenty years.
Not that I—
I just notice attractive men. That's all.
And that's all this is.
Sure, I want Oliver.
But I'm an adult. Unlike Allison, I can control myself.
No matter how much my body protests.
Chapter Nine
Luna
Thankfully, both my and Oliver's parents live in the residential part of Venice Beach.
Our place is way south of theirs, but, hey, we don't have to cross any major streets. Even with those silly apps routing people through the neighborhood to avoid traffic, the road is clear.
Five minutes of empty streets and cute bungalows.
Oliver parks right in front of my parents' place. Next to the cute lattice gate. The rows of succulents. The stone walkway.
It is a cute house, objectively speaking. Not really like either of my parents.
Allison, my biological mother, is a no-nonsense, tough as nails HBIC (head bitch in charge, usually said with love. Right now… ugh).
Before this particular revelation, I would never have called her a bitch. Okay, I still wouldn't, unless it was in a HBIC/I say it as a compliment thing. I don't care for that word.
The point is… she's tough and serious and not at all into frills. When she isn't wearing a suit in a neutral color, she's wearing a suit in a power color. And when she's not wearing a suit, she's sipping red wine in a silk pajama set.
Her idea of a casual weekend is pairing a suit with designer flats, sipping black coffee at brunch, then reading a business book as Divya and I play.
Fun is not in her vocabulary.
I guess I found out where she gets her fun. Other women. Like so many male execs before her.
Divya is her polar opposite. Her parents moved to London when she was a baby. She grew up in a city of culture and influence and came out with an eccentric love of family and tossing aside tradition. (They were both studying at Oxford when they met).
Divya loves fun. And not the fucking other women kind.
She watches reality TV with me, teaches me how to cook by feel, marvels at my outfits, allows me to test makeup techniques on her.
She's the one who plays at the park or braves the waves at the beach (they're too cold for her, but she tries). She wears fun clothes at pretty much all times. (I'm not sure there are neutrals in her closet). On formal occasions, she busts out a formal Sari. And she shrugs if people look at her twice.
I admire them both.
Or I did.
Allison for her drive and ambition.
Divya for her love and warmth.
Both of them, for being sure of themselves and supportive and madly in love.
They had this plan. Both of them pregnant from the same sperm donor. But it didn't happen for Divya.
So I'm an only child.
And now I'm here. To pick up my stuff and run as quickly as possible.
Neither of their cars is on the street. No shiny black Tesla (Allison) or red convertible (Divya).
The coast is clear. For now.
Oliver studies my expression for a minute. Then he undoes his seat belt. Waits.
Slowly, I take a deep breath. Step out of the car. Onto the sidewalk.
He grabs the suitcases from the trunk. Follows me into the house.
The same as always. A mix of sleek minimalism and cheerful accents. Pristine hardwood floor, bright blue leather couch, orange accent pillows.
It's easy to see the mix of both my parents in the den. And the dining room, with its simple cherry table and its framed prints.
The kitchen. All clutter and mess and color on top of modern counters and stainless steel.
I grab my coffee blend, my chocolate (eight-five percent or bust), my beach please thermos, my mermaid-covered mug.
It's too much to hold already. I'm about to drop something when Oliver offers me a shoebox. An old one of his. For some pair of black sneakers, size twelve.
I swallow the joke about men with big shoes and big feet.
Is that actually true? If only I'd picked that as my project for AP statistics.
"Thanks." I set the shoebox on the counter. Carefully arrange the breakable mug in the corner, padded by the bag of coffee beans.