Like mother, like daughter.

Is it wrong that I’m desperately hoping that the old adage doesn’t have a lick of truth to it?

My mother, Adaline James-Fuller-Benn-Corwin, thrusts one hand out from beneath her scarlet red sheets. “He’s gone.” Her palm claps down on the fluffy pillow, and I still haven’t had a peek of her face.

Might be for the best. From the streaks of black mascara painted across the pillow, I can’t imagine this morning has been the easiest.

Unfortunately, we’ve been through this before. Four times and counting. And, considering my mother’s track record for picking husbands who exit stage right in favor of one of her friends . . . well, we’ll probably be here again soon enough.

I settle a hand on her shoulder. At least, I think it’s her shoulder. She’s got so many duvets and pillows and sheets on the bed, it’s tough to tell. I give an experimental squeeze. “Mom, Ty Corwin was an asshole and he never deserved you.”

“But I love him.”

Is love even real?

To many, I’m a coldhearted bitch.

I prefer to think of myself as a realist who sometimes likes to paint myself in happy delusions when the going gets tough. But to my mom . . . . I sigh and pull back, glancing over at the clock seated on the gold-leaf fireplace mantle.

After a lifetime of playing Adaline’s mini-me, I’ve slowly come to realize that women aren’t the enemy. Sure, my mother has a shitty friend-making track record. You’d think that after visiting the same country club where you meet both your friends and your husbands, it’d be time to fish in some other pond. Not for Adaline. I tend to think it’s the comfort zone factor. Ritzy, upper-class Bostonian gentry mingling with other ritzy, upper-class Bostonian gentry.

Is it any wonder that her relationships implode on the regular?

At this point, Adaline’s monthly sojourns with her friends is like Morse code for orgies. Okay, not quite orgies. But, still, we’re looking at Jerry Springer-level stuff—the events aren’t even classy enough for Maury.

According to my mother’s peers, there’s nothing wrong with trading out husbands like a bad hand in poker.

Personally, I think it’s safe to say that my mother’s opinions can’t be trusted.

At the knock on the door, my chin lifts and I meet the gaze of Manny, my mother’s longtime butler. “Your car is waiting downstairs, Miss James.”

Miss James—formalities aside, Manuel O’Carlo is the only father figure I’ve ever known. If it’d been up to Adaline, no doubt I would be dead from pure neglect. “I’ve got—”

Another hoarse cry rips through the room. “I can’t believe the snake bastard! Goddamn snake bastard, sleeping around on me. Can you fucking believe it?”

Oh God, here it comes.

Manny and I trade side-eye glances, neither of us particularly wanting to inch closer and ward off the impending storm. He makes a little sippy-cup motion with his fingers, squinting his eyes.

I shake my head—I don’t want tea right now—and step forward.

He retreats, miming taking bigger and bigger gulps, just before he whirls around and escapes down the hall for afternoon tea he’ll never deliver. No doubt he’ll park himself right by the front door and wait there until I’m ready to leave.

Damn you, Manuel.

As much as I want to escape right along with him, I know that I can’t leave Adaline like this. Even though I’m Zoe’s maid of honor, and even though the engagement party has started … my gaze flits to the clock again.

Now.

The engagement party has started now.

Crap, crap, crap.

Time for my special poison of tough love.

My fingers slip over the blanket and I give one powerful yank, revealing my mother’s tiny body huddled in a ball of despair. “Mom.” Her sniffles increase in volume as she buries her face in the pillow. “Mom, talk to me.”

“He’s a rat-snake bastard, Gwenny. Fuck him.”

If only she’d sung that tune when Rat-Snake Bastard Ty Corwin proposed—despite the fact that he’d been dating Adaline while still wearing a wedding ring from his then-wife.

“You’re right,” I say, swallowing the fight, “he’s a dick, Mom, and you shouldn’t be spending even a second thinking about him.”

“A rat-snake, tree-loving bastard, Gwenny.” She heaves a sob, and the sound squeezes my heart. “He’s a vegan. How can a vegan cheat on me?”

“Because he’s a rat-snake tree-loving bastard, Mom, and that’s their specialty.” And because infidelity is all encompassing—vegans included. I don’t say that. No point in riling her up even more. “Okay, time to get up. You need to shower.”

“I don’t want to shower.”

God help me.

My eyes squeeze shut and I count to ten. One . . . two . . . three . . .

“Gwenny, why are you wearing a dress?”

Because I’m supposed to be at my best friend’s engagement party, celebrating happy love that I don’t know exists, but instead I’m here being shown, once again, that it doesn’t.

“My friend is having an engagement party.”

“Did you tell her that all men are rat bastards?”

“I haven’t had the chance.”

Her blond hair rustles against the pillows. “Never lasts, Gwenny. It never fucking lasts. Her man will walk out on her as soon as that ring is on her finger, just like my Ty did. But it’s not the men—they’re weak. What about the women, your friends?”

Once upon a time, in a far, far away land—all right, let’s cut the shit. Honestly? My mother has been spewing her gospel for years now. Probably since my dad left her because he couldn’t deal with her antics. And, sure, I spent a good number of years believing everything she told me.

How could I not?

From the age of eight onward, when my mother was on her second marriage, I watched each subsequent husband leave her for women Adaline considered close friends. I watched it all happen, and then I digested my mother’s warnings—women could not be trusted—and I reacted accordingly.

What I never saw then, and what has taken me years to truly accept, is that Adaline Corwin is no better than any of her so-called besties. Tangled webs don’t have shit on the group my mother runs in. Adaline has stolen her friends’ husbands, and they, in return, have taken hers.

It’s bat-shit crazy.

Totally nuts.

And I want no part in it.

“Gwen.” My mother finally lifts herself from the bed, her blond hair hanging in front of her face like that creepy girl from the movie, The Ring. “Gwen, what do we always say about other women?”

On a day that I’m supposed to be celebrating my best friend’s engagement, I’m not playing into my mother’s games—not even when she’s reeling from another inevitable divorce. Ty Corwin is the fourth in line, but I doubt he’ll be the last. Christmas is only weeks away, and I bet with every fiber of my being that she’ll have someone new chasing after her by New Year’s Day.

Nothing ever changes with Adaline Corwin.

But I’ve changed.

“I’ve got to go, Mom. I’m sorry and I love you, and I’ll be back in the morning but I can’t miss this.”

I bend to kiss her forehead, sweeping her knotted blond hair back from her face as I do. She turns her face away, unwilling to even give me a slice of affection. Feeling a little chillier than I did when I showed up two hours ago, I head for the stairs.

Manuel is waiting for me by the front door, as predicted, and from the uncomfortable expression on his face, he’s heard the whole thing go down. Still, the man has a heart of gold, and he only offers me a small smile. “Ready to go, Teacup?”

My childhood nickname.

I fight back the sting of tears and accept the arm of the only man in my life who has ever appreciated me for me, and not for what’s between my legs. “Let’s do this, Manny.”

But as he helps me into the car, and I rearrange my dress around my legs, I can only think one thing: I might have changed, I might not view other women as the devil incarnate any longer, but one thing will never change.

Love is still, unequivocally, horseshit.