“What is that?” I ask, squinting at my iPad. I’m sitting on the bed in my room, and on the screen before me, my middle child is seated—well, more like bouncing, really—on a couch in my parents’ family room, holding out her arm to show off a temporary tattoo on her bicep.

“It’s a butterfly!” Abi says in an accusatory tone, as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. “Aunt Mia and Uncle Jay got this special paper, and we drew our own tattoos, and they put it on the computer and printed the tattoos.”

“That’s super cute, honey,” I say with a smile, tilting my head and examining her drawing, which does look like a butterfly…I suppose? “Did Freya get one, too?”

“Yeah. Hers is a skull. It’s creepy.” Abi picks up the tablet, and the picture turns blurry and wobbly for a few seconds as she points it toward the cushion where her big sister is curled up with her own iPad, wearing her pink headphones. Abi moves the camera closer to her sister’s arm, showing off what is indeed a kind of creepy drawing of a human skull, commenting, “She’s watching Inside Out.”

Of course she is. I swallow a groan—and make a mental note to ask Miranda if watching that movie is something Freya does at her house, too.

“What about Elliott?” I ask.

“Aunt Mia said there was no way he’d stand still long enough.”

“Sounds about right,” I say wryly.

Abi turns the camera back on herself, and I see that she has what looks like chocolate stains around her mouth and her short blonde hair is so frizzy and knotted I doubt it’s been brushed properly in days. What are they doing to my kids?

Let it go, I tell myself sternly. It’s not a big deal.

“Uncle Cam is teaching me to play guitar.” Leaning toward her little sister, Freya pops onto the screen, her headphones around her neck.

“That’s fun,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes, because that sounds like something that will last for exactly five-point-three seconds.

“They took us to McDonald’s,” my oldest child goes on, and her face and voice could not be smugger.

“Who did?”

“Uncle Jay, Aunt Mia, and Uncle Cam,” Abi takes it upon herself to answer. “We weren’t supposed to tell.” With a disapproving frown, she shoves Freya’s head farther away from herself. In response, Freya digs her elbow into Abi’s side, and Abi yowls angrily.

Lord help me. I press my lips together. “Where’s Aunt Mia?”

“Right here.” Long, tan legs in cutoff jean shorts walk into the frame, and then my sister sits on the arm of the couch and leans down so that she appears on the screen behind my daughters. “What’s up?” She squints at the screen, staring at me, and then her eyes widen and she prevents me from answering by exclaiming, “Oh, my God. What happened?”

Oh, right. I’d forgotten my shiner. I’ve taken painkillers intermittently today to prevent my headache from coming back, and I guess it’s working, because I keep forgetting what my face looks like. With a grimace, I explain, “Clients were fighting, and I was stupid enough to get in between them.”

My sister’s jaw drops. “Is that normal?”

“Nothing about this case has been normal,” I grumble. But it’s time to flip the topic back on her. “Seriously, though. McDonald’s? Really?”

Mia flashes a sheepish grin. “They needed to learn.”

“Learn what?”

“That Auntie Mia is cooler and way more fun than Mommy?” my chronically annoying little sister returns. “Duh.”

Rolling my eyes, I open my mouth to give her a lecture about respecting the rules when you’re responsible for other people’s children, but a knock on the bedroom door interrupts me. At my half-shouted permission, the door opens and Logan appears.

“How does room service for dinner sound?” he asks, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved into his shorts pockets. My chest flutters, heat spreading low in my core. His hair is dark and ruffled, wet from the shower—just like mine is, because we both needed to wash off the lake water—and involuntarily, I find myself riveted by the sight of him, filling that doorway. He must’ve been spending more time than he used to at the gym, because that blue Big Sur International Marathon T-shirt never used to fit him that snugly across the shoulders and arms.

Of course, he’s had more time for the gym since he moved out.

I swallow hard. “Yeah, that’s fi—”

“Is that Daddy?” Freya asks sharply, and I look back down to find her eyes big and hopeful.

“Yup.” I give my oldest child a reluctant smile, biting my lip. An expression of surprise takes over my sister’s face, and I can feel my cheeks starting to prickle and burn, so I lift up the iPad and point the camera at Logan.

“Daddy!” Abigail squeals happily, and her sister does the same as he saunters over to sit down next to me on the bed, beaming at the screen.

Settling in, he asks his daughters how they’re doing. After a short while of listening to their eager conversation, I accept with a quiet sigh of resignation that he’s part of this video chatting session now, and so I hand over the tablet, making him hold it.

In my shorts pocket, my phone dings. Plucking it out, I see it’s a text from Mia.

Why is Logan there with you?! it reads.

I type out a hasty reply: Told you he’s opposing counsel on this case?

Almost immediately, her response arrives. Yeah, but why is he THERE with you? Has he been there all week?!?!

Sheesh. I get that my sister is an excessive-exclamation-points kind of person, but sometimes she’s just…too much like herself.

Yeah, and it’s too long of a story for texting, so please just let it go, I write back.

Let it go?! comes her response. Within seconds, she sends another message: OMG, the look on your face when you saw him just now. What the hell is going on?!

What look on my face? My fingers twitch over the phone’s keyboard, but then I decide I don’t really want to know. Bad enough that I already suspected I’m unable to hide my desire for him from the world.

I have to wonder, though. Am I looking at him differently now than I did this morning? Our conversation on the boat was harrowing—illuminating and fiercely honest. I’ve been grappling with it ever since, unsure how I feel about it. How I feel about him. The stuff he told me about his mom and his jealousy toward me… I’d never made that connection, though as soon as he said it, it seemed so obvious.

And I believed him. That’s the part that has me unsteady, rattled to my core. I believed him when he said he knows now I’d never betray him like his mom did his dad. I had no idea he’d been seeing that therapist on his own, but he said it’s helped him, and I believe him.

I just don’t know what to do with all that new information. Forgive him and take him back? Or forgive him—and continue trying to move on with a life without him?

I’m not talking about this right now, I reply to Mia. Knowing that won’t satisfy her and having absolutely no patience at the moment, I mute my phone and shove it back in my pocket.

The digital age definitely as its advantages.

Such as allowing my girls to be over a hundred miles away but still able to share with their father everything they’ve been doing this week. Abi and Freya are carrying the iPad around my parents’ house, showing him the art and craft projects they’ve been doing, the new toys my parents have bought them, and the blanket fort they were allowed to build in the dining room. And the whole time, he’s asking questions, listening, and watching them intently.

A breathless warmth fills my chest. It slays me, the light in his eyes right now, as he teases and jokes around with them, the way he laughs and the pure joy in his countenance as the girls start chasing their shrieking and giggling little brother around the house, pretending to be monsters that are trying to eat him.

He’s so good with them. Loves them, adores them, is every bit as helplessly devoted to them as I am.

And they worship him.

They need us both, he said, and he’s right. We’re different people, with different strengths and weaknesses, and we provide our kids with different kinds of love and care, all equally important.

Something dark and sickening twists in my gut. Am I a horrible, selfish person to even consider moving them hundreds of miles away from him? By becoming a mom, I didn’t entirely forfeit the right to do what’s best for myself, but there’s a balance. And ultimately, if the choices I make for my own good are likely to hurt my kids more than they’ll benefit, then I’m letting them down, and I don’t deserve to consider myself a good parent.

That’s what you do, out of love for these tiny humans you made. You sacrifice. You do things you don’t want to, day in and day out, and the crazy thing is, it’s all worth it.

Even when their existence was not on purpose. I always balk at calling them accidents. An accident implies negative consequences.

I’m sitting there with my heart in my throat and a burning behind my eyes when, through the iPad’s speaker, my oldest child suddenly asks, “Daddy? Are you coming to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, too?”

While I freeze, my eyes widening, Logan whips a sideways glance at me, and he hesitates, saying, “Uhh…”

How to respond? There was so much longing and excitement in Freya’s voice, and I want nothing more than to tell her what she wants to hear.

But I can’t give her false hope.

“Daddy probably has to go home and work, sweetie,” I say, grabbing the iPad and turning it so I can see my daughters’ faces.

“Aww,” whines Abigail, while Freya is silent in her disappointment, her mouth clamping shut and her eyes going cold.

With a sinking feeling, I realize that my suspicions have been right. She blames me, thinks I made her dad go away out of pure…meanness? My little girl does think I’m selfish and horrible.

And I have no idea how to fix that, because the truth is too complicated and grown-up for her to comprehend.

* * *

“The word is…clients.” A corner of Logan’s mouth dimples, and he eyes me like he just issued a challenge.

“Huh?” I blink at him, frowning. Then suddenly I get it. “Association? No. I’m not playing.”

We’ve been having dinner on the patio while daylight has slowly faded into twilight. Finished with our meals, we’re sitting back in our chairs, sipping Pinot Noir in the waning light. It should’ve been a nice and peaceful meal, surrounded by tall trees, with only muted birdsong to interrupt the quiet. But I can’t help feeling uneasy, a nervous tension humming beneath my skin. I don’t know what happens next between us, and it’s keeping me from being able to relax.

We seem to have reached a sort of truce, though—for several reasons, most likely. Such as agreeing to move forward with settling things between us, even involving a mediator if we have to. As for our little chat on the boat earlier, where we were more brutally honest than I think we’ve ever been—

I turn my thoughts away from the memory. I’m not ready to start digesting it yet.

It’s also helped that the case is now officially on hold and that Logan dumped Stu. Which honestly surprised me, because my husband has endless patience for putting up with other people’s crap when his career is involved.

Speaking of which, Charlton finally called him back right before our food arrived. Logan was, of course, his unflappable self as he explained what happened, and yeah, I still admire that he manages to keep his cool around that infuriating man.

Apparently I also still feel protective of my husband, because when I heard the old bastard yelling over the phone, it wound my muscles tight with anger on Logan’s behalf. I wanted to snatch the phone out of his hand and give my former boss a piece of my mind.

Not that the Hammer would’ve given a shit. He doesn’t accept criticism from any man, and I’m pretty sure he’s never in his life truly listened when a woman was talking. He’s an old school misogynist.

Logan is staring at me narrowly, his head tilted. We’ve been avoiding controversial topics tonight. Until now. Knowing him, he’s going to insist on playing that annoying game.

“What?” I inquire, apprehensive.

His eyes glinting with mischief, he turns his head to look toward the trees. “We never played it in a hammock.”

“We never did anything in a hammock,” I point out, and then I roll my eyes as his expression turns suggestive. “Logan…” I warn, watching him push his chair back and get to his feet before rounding the table, stopping before me.

“Come on,” he says, and it’s not so much a command as it is an enticement—an invitation and a challenge, tauntingly seductive. His gaze heavy-lidded, he offers his hand. And that’s all he does. Just burns me with that intense stare of his, keeping his hand outreached.

God help me.

My insides turn to liquid, all hot and melty and shapeless, and my face feels feverish and flushed. Like I’m a teenager and he’s my big crush.

This is not good.

“I’m not having sex with you again, Logan,” I tell him, and I’m pretty sure I sound like I mean it.

His lips curve in a smile. “Babe, I just want to lie in a hammock with you and look at the stars. No one said anything about sex.”

Uh-huh. It should be comforting to know he’s still as full of shit as he always has been. But it’s not. Because knowing that never helped me guard against him in the past, did it?

Oh, hell.

Apparently tired of waiting, he reaches down and grabs my arm. Then he’s hauling me up out of the patio chair, and as I yank on my arm to free it, he just tightens his grip.

“You wanna go down this road?” he asks in a menacing tone. “You know where it’ll end if you fight me.”

I set my mouth. Fine. I’ll go lie in the damn hammock with him. Then I’ll go to bed. Alone.

“Let’s go,” I say, and as he releases me and starts toward the steps off the patio, I swallow a sigh and follow him.

When we reach the hammock, he strides around to the other side of it, kicks off his flip-flops, and gets in. After lying down, he arches his brows at me, and I hesitate, watching the wobbly ropes fastening the contraption to the trees, the way it keeps swinging. Falling into a mud pit, getting hit in the face—have I really not gotten injured enough the past couple of days? Seriously.

“Yeah, no,” I say, starting to back away. “This isn’t happening.”

He pushes up with one arm, and the other one snakes out, his hand grabbing hold of me, pulling me toward him. “Logan!” I squawk as I topple in, landing on top of him, grasping for purchase. The hammock lurches violently, and we both freeze, waiting for it to settle again.

“You’re so annoying,” I say when the contraption stills, and I can feel his chest shaking with laughter. It’s unnerving to be on top of him like this. He’s too big, too solid, radiating too much heat—and he smells too good, like soap and himself. Like my husband.

With a grunt, I carefully slide sideways, holding my breath the whole time. Please, don’t tip over. Please. When the ropes bounce but don’t start swinging, I exhale with relief.

Moving off him was kind of pointless, though. Because we’re in a damn hammock, and no matter how much I try to roll away from him, it makes no difference. I’m plastered up against my almost-ex-husband’s body, and there’s no way to create space between us that’d let me breathe easier. So I give up, sagging into him, my head on his arm, which he then curls around me, hugging me closer.

He’s so warm.

So familiar.

So…substantial.

I’m in so much trouble.

“So,” he says, and I grit my teeth at the smugness in his voice. “Clients.”

I blow out a sigh. Seriously, I still hate this game.

“People who pay me to help them? Helping is satisfying.” Lips twisting, I add, “Sometimes they’re nuts, and they hit you in the face with a cutting board.”

He snorts, and I can feel his ribs expanding. “And then your husband has to restrain himself from knocking said client across the room.”

“Aww.” I bend my neck back to look up at him, though of course I’m too close to see anything but his scruffy chin, his impeccable jawline. “You were willing to hit a girl for me?”

“Shush.” He moves his hand down to poke a finger in my ribs, and I flinch and can’t help the tiny squeak that escapes. “Your turn.”

I’m sighing. This is actually the part I hate. My mind scrambles for a word. Eventually, still stuck on the topic of our clients, I tell him, “Polyamory.”

“What?” he says incredulously, and then he groans. “Right. Insane clients. And something I’d personally never agree to.”

No shit. My heart starts pounding, and a familiar tension winds through me, a shadow of the anguish I used to feel every time he made his groundless suspicions obvious. The questions that felt like he was interrogating an opposition witness on the stand. That piercing way he’d look at me, like he was hunting for signs that I was lying. How he always talked to me with an underlying coldness, leaving me in a tug-of-war between burning anger at his lack of trust in me and a helpless, overwhelming misery at the injustice of it all.

Why did I pick that word? So dumb.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way, though.

“Tsk,” I comment with a playfulness that feels forced. “Such a typical, spoiled only child. Don’t know how to share.”

“Yup,” he agrees, unapologetic. “What I wanted to do to Caroline is nothing to what I would’ve done to that guy last night. If he hadn’t been such a pussy, that is.”

I want to roll my eyes at his judgment of Graham, because whatever. But I’m too distracted, too bewildered. We’re discussing infidelity like it’s any other topic that we can just talk about, tossing opinions back and forth without repercussions. How is that possible? My shoulders sag, my muscles unwinding, though my pulse is still racing. Because this, this isn’t normal. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or on guard.

“Okay,” Logan says, inhaling and hesitating. “Happiness.”

“Um.” I’m blinking, still hating this game when, suddenly, a memory crystallizes. “It makes me think of a weekend morning. Abi was four or five months old, I think. Her crib was in our room still.” Because studies had come out showing it was safest for infants to co-sleep, and because I thought if I did things differently this time, having a baby wouldn’t be so awful. “It’s early, and I just nursed her, sitting in bed. She was lying between us, and she was so happy, cooing and smiling at us.”

Logan’s arm tightens around me, and I close my eyes as I continue. “Then Freya woke up and came in. She climbed into bed with us and started playing peek-a-boo with Abi. They were both giggling so hard.”

He’s silent for a while. “Why that memory?”

I open my mouth, pausing to straighten my thoughts, measuring my words. “Because even though nothing at that point was going according to my plans, it just hit me that I was okay with it. I realized I was okay and I was happy.”

This time his silence stretches longer, and when he speaks, his voice is soft. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Sorry for what exactly? I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, leaving me to fill in the blanks. He’s sorry I ever felt unhappy? Sorry I felt like my life had derailed? Sorry for everything that was difficult, everything he couldn’t fix?

Is he sorry about how he pushed me away?

“Shame.” The words tumbles out of my mouth, surprising me. Guess it just seemed fitting.

I can feel his body going rigid. His breathing sounds labored, almost distressed, and for every second that passes, my dread grows. What is it? What is he ashamed of, so much that he has a hard time sharing? It’s not like him to hesitate to speak his mind.

“Not pulling punches, huh?” he says at last, in a low tone. “All right… I asked my dad to find my mom.”

Surprise jolts me, widens my eyes. “What? When?”

“Couple of weeks ago. On the Lake Jarrell trip.” He expels a pained breath. “He wasn’t happy, but he said he’d do it. Hasn’t said anything about having found her yet, though.”

“God, Logan,” I breathe out, pushing away from him, this time managing to scoot back far enough to see his face, though in the nearly complete darkness, there’s little to see except the faint outlines of his profile.

“I know,” he grinds out. “I’m a selfish piece of shit. It was more convenient than doing it myself, easier than hiring someone, and spoiled only child that I am, I knew he wouldn’t say no.”

My stomach knotting, I put my hand on his chest. Beneath his soft tee, his heartbeat feels steady against my palm, steady but too fast.

“I just need to know where she went,” he says in a near-whisper. “What happened to her.”

“I know.” I take my hand off him, because this is getting a little too close for comfort. Bad enough that I’m lying here plastered up against him.

He scoffs, a self-deprecating sound. “At least I’m not trying to justify it by saying it’ll be good for Pop to find out, too.”

An ache swells in my throat. No, because he knows that’s nonsense. It’s been almost three decades. If Mike wanted to find her, he would’ve done it already. Rose McKinley left him and their son, just disappeared, never to be heard from again. He’s never been served divorce papers, so wherever she is, she’s still his wife.

As far as anyone knows, my father-in-law has never been involved with any other women. Has never introduced a girlfriend, never talked about seeing anyone. I’ve always found that unbelievably sad. What she did to him seems like it was permanent, and he hasn’t gotten over it.

How can searching for her now be anything but a painful dredging-up of the past for him?

He wouldn’t have refused, though. Of course not. Mike McKinley would do anything for his son. It’s endearing, admirable—and unhealthy. Logan deliberately took advantage of that. I get why, but yeah, he should be ashamed. I would be.

“So what are you going to do if he finds her?” I ask.

“I have no fucking clue.” Letting that sink in, he captures my hand and brings it back up to his chest, threading his fingers with mine, squeezing. After a few seconds, he says, “Truth.”

I’m so distracted by the feel of his hand enveloping mine that it takes me a moment to realize he’s giving me my next word. “Ugh,” I grunt. “Did I mention I hate this game?”

“No. Really?” he says in mock surprise, and I smile despite myself.

“Truth…” I scrunch up my face. It’s so tempting to be glib, to offer up something that costs me nothing. That’d be unfair, though. Cowardly. He’s confessed so much to me today, and I know none of it’s been easy for him. I owe him something in return.

The truth.

I swallow hard, wetting my mouth. Then, with a rushing and a whooshing in my head, I whisper, “I’ve missed you.”

I can feel his body stiffening in surprise, can hear him suck in air and hold it, holding it for a long time. Something bursts within me, my lungs constricting, and I can’t decide if I regret saying it or if it’s his reaction that’s ripping me in half.

“Shit, baby.” He twists toward me, pulling me closer, flattening my breasts against his chest, his hand on my back and his breath fanning hot against my forehead.

I tense up, go still as a statue, suddenly unable to catch my breath. No. It’s definitely time to end this. Searching for a way to extricate myself, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Question.”

“Question.” Sounding confused, he inches back slightly. “That’s your word?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Question,” he says slowly. “Huh.”

I wait, holding my breath in the dark. Have I stumped him? That’d be a first. I would’ve thought he’d have a lot of questions for me that he’s dying to have answered. As for me, my only question right now is: how do I get out of this hammock without his cooperation? Ugh.

“Okay. Here it is.” His hand on my back starts sliding down toward my ass, and he pushes up and leans close to my ear, murmuring, “How many times do you wanna come tonight?”