“Hey, Freya,” I say from the kitchen doorway, “where’s your swimsuit?”

“I dunno.” Perched on a stool at the bar counter, my oldest daughter mumbles the curt response without looking up from the game she's playing on her iPad.

I place my hands on my hips. “Can you help me find it, please?”

“No, thanks.”

Her casual tone—as if she's politely declining a glass of water or something—sets my teeth on edge. Why does she have to pick the worst possible moments to behave like a brat?

“Okay,” I say, keeping a tight rein on my temper, “I know the way I phrased that sounded like it was optional, but I was actually just being courteous. You need to help look for it, or you can’t go camping.”

Her head whips up, her shoulder-length blonde hair falling back to reveal her face. “Really?” she bursts out, her blue eyes round and hopeful. “I don’t have to go?”

Ugh. That's what I get for taking the lazy route and ignoring one of the cardinal rules of parenting: no empty threats.

“No—” I start to respond, but I'm interrupted by Abigail flying in from the hallway on her kick scooter. Her little brother comes toddling after her, the toy gun in his hand pointed at her and spit flying out of his mouth as he hisses out his imitation of bullets whizzing. I turn sideways and press myself against the doorframe as they streak past me.

The noise fades, and I focus my attention back on Freya. Normally I'd sympathize with her, because I'd rather have all my nails pulled out than go camping. But, unlike me, she loves the outdoors, and she’s only pretending she doesn’t want to go because…why? Pure contrariness?

“Sorry,” I tell her as mildly as I can muster, “I didn’t mean it that way. You do have to go. Which means you need to find your swimsuit.”

After flattening her lips and giving me a death glare, my firstborn bends over her iPad again.

And my patience snaps like a bone smashed with a baseball bat.

Marching over to the counter, I snatch the tablet out of her hands and slap the cover shut over the screen. “Now.”

With a snort like an enraged bull, she slides off the barstool and shuffles out of the kitchen.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I release my pent-up breath. At only eight years old, she's already behaving like a teenager. If that's normal, why did no one warn me about it?

The alternative, of course, is that it's abnormal. Which means it's probably my fault somehow.

That's what happens when you become a parent. In your mind, everything is suddenly your fault. Somehow.

My other two kids come storming back into the kitchen, their volume seeming to have gone up too many decibels, and I feel like I'm on autopilot as I jerk my hand out to grab the scooter.

“Abi, honey,” I hear myself pleading with my five-year-old, “can you take Elliott and go play in the family room? You can keep an eye out for Daddy and Grandpa. They should be here soon.”

“Okay!” she chirps.

And then my sweet little girl—the one who gives me grief more rarely than there's a full moon—reaches back and jerks the toy gun out of her little brother’s hands.

“No, don’t—” I start to protest, but she's already kicking her scooter out of the kitchen. My boy looks stunned for a split second, and then his chubby toddler’s face contorts and reddens as he lets out a howl of rage before taking off after his sister.

“God,” I breathe out, putting my hand over my eyes. I don't have time for this; I need to finish packing.

“I can’t find it,” comes Freya’s sullen voice from the doorway.

At first I can only gape at her. Then I throw out my arms. “You’ve been looking for less than a minute!”

She crosses her arms and scowls.

Realizing I’m this close to losing my shit, I draw in a deep breath. I’m super mom. I do all the mom things—do them happily and really well. I wipe butts, pack healthy lunches, take them to classes and practices and birthday parties, and I volunteer at school and go to PTO meetings and contribute to all the fundraisers. I make sure my kids have everything they need, physically and mentally and emotionally.

What I do not do is lose my shit.

“When was the last time you had it?”

She shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Come on.” I’m not sure why I hold my hand out to her, because I know she won’t take it. But she does follow along, and together we head up the carpeted stairs to where hers is the first room on the right, the biggest bedroom except for the master suite.

Being the oldest of three siblings myself, I know how important those perks are, how it goes a long way toward making up for having to always be the responsible one, the one who didn’t get to be just a kid all the time.

In silence we start searching the pink and frilly room from top to bottom, and I don’t say a word about her lackluster effort while I look under and behind everything, moving toys that are on the floor instead of in their storage bins, picking up clothes that should be in her dresser. For right now, she can be a kid.

I’m still coming up empty-handed and about ready to give up on finding the swimsuit in there when squeals echo up from downstairs.

“They’re here!” Abi yells. “Mommy! Can we go outside, please, please, please?”

“Wait until they’re out of the car!” I call back.

Seconds later, I hear the click of the dead bolt and dings of the house alarm system, alerting that a door has been opened.

“Daddddyyyyy!” comes Elliott’s screeching voice, which soon fades, meaning he’s running out of the house. I experience a moment of panic and almost decide to rush down the stairs to make sure nothing goes wrong, but then I hear the slam of car doors from out front. It still takes a lot of effort to stay where I am.

In the middle of the room, Freya stands with her hands hanging at her sides and a forlorn expression on her face. She so obviously wants to join her siblings, but she doesn’t dare ask to be excused.

My heart twisting, I tilt my head toward the door and gently tell her, “Go.”

She’s gone before I can blink, and I heave a sigh as I move over to one of the windows, tilting the mini-blinds to watch the commotion out front. Unsurprisingly, it’s my father-in-law’s black Chevy Tahoe that’s parked in the driveway below. Logan’s Audi is a fast and luxurious and sexy car—and totally impractical for ferrying three kids in car seats around, so forget about taking it on a camping trip.

Beside the SUV, my father-in-law is crouching down before Abigail while holding on to the leash of his German shepherd, Baldwin, who’s sitting patiently next to them. Mike stays at his granddaughter’s eye level and listens while she tells him something that looks extremely important, judging from the way she’s bouncing and flapping her arms. My middle child has bloomed over the past year or so and has become much less shy around strangers, but she’s always been this spirited with family, and especially with Mike.

And a few feet away from them, there’s Logan. Dressed for camping in a green tee, khaki shorts, and hiking boots, he bends down with arms outstretched as Elliott rushes at him, and then he’s scooping the boy up into his arms. A sharp pain stabs at my chest at how he closes his eyes while he hugs his son close, cradling that little towhead into the crook of his neck.

His son, who looks so much like him it’s as if they were cast from the same mold. The thought has me clenching my jaw so hard it hurts.

Freya comes running out the front door and down the long brick steps, and when Logan spots her, he sets Elliott down and grins as she launches her tall and gangly self at him. Her arms and legs wrap around him like tentacles, and he actually lifts her up and carries her.

The lump in my throat comes out of nowhere, ambushing me. When she was tiny, she was clingy and colicky, and I had to carry and hold her so much that I felt like I’d grown an extra limb. But now she’s so big that it would take all my strength to pick her up—if she’d even let me, which is a statistical improbability.

For him, it’s easy, though. He lifts her with no apparent effort, and she’s attaching herself to him like a burr. My Freya, always the Daddy’s girl. She’s his little princess, and as the oldest, she has the most memories of him. It makes sense that she would miss him the most, because she has more of an idea of what there is to miss.

We’re better off without him, though. I'm doing better, which in turn is better for the kids. Thirty-five percent of kids live in single-parent households. Which makes this almost normal, doesn’t it?

And they have one whole parent instead of two broken ones now. I have to cling to the belief that it's for the best, or else I'll be lost.

So I turn away from the window and do what I do best: pick myself up and carry on.

Where could Freya’s swimsuit be? Maybe it got left behind at Miranda’s house? Their nanny took them to the pool earlier this week, so it’s possible.

Suddenly I have this vision of Freya tossing her wet swimsuit into her laundry hamper and missing it. I go into the kids’ bathroom, and there it lies, on the floor between the hamper and the wall. It’s dry but smells like chlorine. Oh, well. No time to wash it now.

The rest of the packing is a breeze after that, since I already did as much of it as I could last night. All that's left is to make sure Elliott has all his necessary stuff.

I'm in Elliott’s room tossing extra supplies into the diaper bag when I hear footfalls on the stairs that are too heavy to be a child’s, and then Logan appears in the doorway.

“Is that it?” he asks, pointing at the bags that I left zipped up and ready in the hallway.

After a glance his way, I focus on the fresh pack of wet wipes I’m stuffing into the bag. I don't want to look at him, don't want to feel that pull of desire, the way my body betrays me whenever he's near.

“It’s not enough?” I don't care about sounding friendly, not today, so I don't even try.

After a brief pause, he replies, “Just making sure we don’t leave anything behind.”

“Well, if you do,” I comment sourly, “at least you can blame me.”

“Right,” he snaps, and then he disappears.

Yanking the diaper bag onto my shoulder, I leave the room and find him gathering up everything to take it downstairs.

Am I being a bitch right now? Probably. But I think I'm justified in being a little peeved. The kids need so much more stuff on a camping trip than they do for a weekend at Logan’s place, and I'm the one who has to pack it all.

Not that things would be any different if we were still together. I wouldn’t ask him to help, anyway, because the only way to make sure it’s done properly and nothing’s forgotten is to do it myself.

That doesn't mean some gratitude wouldn't be appreciated, though.

“Abi’s got another rash on her arm,” I tell him as I pluck Freya’s backpack off the floor, the only bag he didn't grab already, and we start down the stairs. “The cream is in her bag. Make sure she’s not scratching it.”

“Okay,” he says without looking at me.

It takes a second of racking my brain for what else he needs to know, and we reach the ground floor before I remember. “Freya’s been watching Inside Out again. Over and over. I thought about banning the iPad from the trip, but that might be pushing her too far right now.”

Logan throws me a squinting glance. “Why’s that a problem?”

He tucks a duffel bag under his arm to free up his hand so he can open the front door, but I beat him to it, reaching past to twist the handle.

“I’m worried about her,” I explain. “Maybe it’s just because she’s not little anymore, but I feel like her behavior lately…” I stop on the threshold as I search for the words to end that sentence. “It’s not her.”

The man who is still technically my husband pauses as he steps off the welcome mat, glancing back at me. “She probably just likes it.”

He starts walking down the cobblestone steps toward the driveway. On the front lawn, my father-in-law has unleashed Baldwin and he and the kids are throwing a tennis ball for the dog to fetch.

Pressing my lips together, I stomp after Logan. “It’s a movie about a girl who’s having a hard time adjusting to change.”

“So you think she’s…what?” he says as we approach his dad’s SUV. “Obsessing about it because she’s unhappy and can relate?” As I catch up to him, he slants a look at me. “That’s your guilt talking, Paige.”

“Excuse me?” I come to a dead halt on the bottom step, my legs refusing to move another inch. “My what?”

Without answering or even acknowledging that I said anything, he pops the trunk on the big vehicle and starts stuffing bags inside.

While I'm still frozen to the spot. My guilt?

Is he fucking kidding me?

Leaving the trunk open, he turns and calls across the lawn, “All right, everyone go to the bathroom!”

“I already did!” Abi yells back, whining.

“Go again!” he replies, striding across the grass to take a squirming Elliott out of his dad’s arms, and then Logan and all three kids head back toward the house.

I’m still stunned, my heart pounding and pressure mounting inside my head as they shuffle in through the open half of the stained-glass double doors.

He thinks I should feel guilty? Me? For what, exactly? Am I the one who brought ugliness and distrust into our marriage? Was it me who took the selfish route, putting my needs and wants above my family’s?

No. That was him. And yeah, he apologized, and I tried to move past it, but some broken things can’t be mended.

Apparently that’s on me. It’s my fault my kids now only see their dad every other weekend.

To hell with him.

“How are you, Paige?”

A jolt goes through me as my father-in-law’s voice shakes me out of my fuming reverie. While I blink at him, he takes the last two bags from me and takes them to the trunk, tossing them in on top of all their well-worn camping gear.

“Fine,” I force out, trying to calm my breathing. “How about you?”

“Pretty good.” After slamming the trunk shut, he shoves his hands into his jeans and contemplates me with those sharp, pale eyes of his, the only facial feature he passed on to his son. The other traits they have in common are their tall, fit figures and a posture that radiates complete self-confidence, devoid of any kind of awkwardness.

Mike McKinley has, if possible, an even bigger presence than my husband, though. A retired police officer, he still walks and carries himself with that unmistakable cop swagger. Before it became threaded with silver, his hair was a brown several shades darker than Logan’s, and his good looks—which no doubt still turn women’s heads, even though his sixtieth birthday has come and gone—are more of the rugged and unrefined kind than his son’s.

Because Logan resembles his mom more than anything, which is something I know from a handful of pictures in a tattered old photo album that sits on the top shelf in Mike’s living room. Roselyn McKinley was a woman of ethereal beauty, the kind that belongs in ads in posh magazines, zoomed in and displayed in all her flawless glory.

And for all that anyone knows, she’s retained that loveliness even as she ages—wherever she’s been for the past three decades.

“Logan told me you got yourself a big-shot client,” my father-in-law says with his custom directness that somehow manages to sound both like a friendly observation and an interrogation. A former detective with experience in almost every branch of the San Diego Police Department, he now augments his pension with work as a private investigator. And he’s putting those decades of experience to use doing freelance work for corporations and law firms—in between the more mundane but high-demand job of catching cheating spouses in the act. I’ve even hired him to help me with some cases in the past

“Yeah. I was pretty thrilled,” I tell him with a twist of my lips. “For a while.”

His countenance remains calm, understanding. It took only minutes after I first met him to figure out that Logan’s obvious reverence of his dad was justified, that Mike McKinley is truly one of the good guys. We hit it off immediately, and he’s taken a neutral position since Logan and I separated, probably because he doesn’t want to jeopardize his access to his grandkids.

“You’re both pros,” he points out as his dog—a retired K9 officer—returns with his drool-covered and chewed-up tennis ball, and Mike grabs the toy and tosses it across the lawn again, where it disappears down the side of the house, and Baldwin takes off after it. “Shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

I shoot him a sardonic look as I suffer flashbacks to the two exchanges I’ve had with Logan so far this week. “I think maybe you’re giving us too much credit.”

“Nah,” says the older man, the a-sound of the word short and nasal, a remnant of his New England upbringing. “I have faith in you.”

Doubtful, I only arch my eyebrows at him.

Mike shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll tell him not to be an asshole. He listens to me.” And then he adds dryly, “Sometimes.”

“Thanks,” I say, and though he’s being funny, I have no urge to laugh. My heart gives a lurch as it dawns on me how lucky we all are to have this man in our lives, and I experience a stab of regret—and yes, shame—that I’ve never properly let him know how much I appreciate that he’s always been there when he’s needed, even during the past year.

And not once has he said a word or shown animosity toward me because I want to move back up north, even though he must know and must be unhappy about it.

Stepping up to him, I go up on my toes and give my father-in-law a quick hug, which he returns with a hard squeeze. “Have a good weekend,” I say, the word muffled by his shoulder. “The kids will love it.”

As he pats my shoulder, I hear the girls’ animated chatter coming from the house, and I turn to see them descending the steps, carrying their water bottles. Behind them, Logan and Elliott are following, hand in hand.

When they reach me, I hold out my arms for goodbyes, and Abi is the first to notice. Her thin little body clings to me as I wrap her up, and that knot in my throat threatens to return as she whispers a sweet, “I love you, Mommy.”

Next I’m happily surprised when Freya hugs me willingly and doesn’t even try to get away until I’m ready to let her go, answering that she loves me, too, and nodding when I tell her to have fun.

While the girls climb into the Tahoe, I pick up my little boy and, avoiding Logan’s gaze, hold him close and kiss his soft, chubby cheek as I walk around to the other side of the car, where Mike is holding the door open for me.

I step up into the cab and put Elliott into the car seat that’s fastened into the middle spot of the vehicle’s second row. He grins at me as I strap him in, putting his tiny and slightly sticky palm on my face. With a growl, I pretend to try to bite his hand, and I’m rewarded with a peal of belly giggles. When he puts the hand out to keep the game going, I grab it and kiss his knuckles before smooching his nose, saying, “Love you, buddy. Be good for Daddy and Grandpa, okay?”

Seconds later, with all three kids safely stowed in the car and my father-in-law in the driver’s seat, all that’s left is to say goodbye to my husband. Which means I have to acknowledge his existence, something I’d rather not do right now.

Still, instead of just making it short and effective, something prods at me to cross my arms in front of the passenger-side door, staring him down as I ask, “Are you coming to Abi’s dance recital on Tuesday?”

“I’m in court that day.”

“It’s at six p.m.”

He shakes his head. “I won’t be done until five, and there’s no way I’ll make it out here that quickly in rush-hour traffic.”

He’s right, and I know that it’s not just an excuse, so even though part of me wants to keep giving him crap about it, I decide to let it go. Without a word, I step away from the car door, giving him room to open it.

This is fine. We can part in peace today.

But as he grasps the door handle, his eyes flash with something dark and unexpectedly…challenging?

“Why? Do you miss me?” The words come out as a drawl, and his eyes darken as he adds, “I guess it’d be hard to get what you need out of any toys and accessories, huh? They probably don’t…sting enough.”

My breath escaping in a rush, I take another step back. What is this? Bringing up the games we would play that always made sex with him such an adrenaline rush… Why? Is he flirting with me?

If he is, it looks nothing like it has in the past. There’s an edge to the way he’s looking at me, something that goes beyond lust and possessiveness, something that’s not even a little bit playful.

He’s angry. It’s a deep and persistent fury, the kind that blends with the blood in your veins and spreads to every corner of your body.

Well, that’s just great. I’m that angry, too. Possibly even more.

“Don’t forget,” I grind out, ignoring his question, “the kids and I are leaving for San Francisco next weekend. We’ll be gone—”

“—through the next weekend,” he interrupts with a nod while yanking the car door open, “and you’ll make up for it with letting me have them the following two weekends. Got it.”

Stay calm. Breathe through your nose.

“Do not take them to McDonald’s for dinner,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Right. Slippery slope to childhood obesity and premature death.” He says it like my rules against giving the kids fast food is on par with giving them charcoal from Santa.

While I clamp my mouth shut, he gets into the car and slams the door.

Ugh. Grinding my teeth, I watch as he yanks on his seat belt and Mike turns the key so that the SUV coughs to life. Am I really going to let him get the last word?

To hell with that.

As my father-in-law starts backing out of the driveway, I rush up and rap on the window next to Logan’s head. Mike slams on the brake. His face tight with impatience, Logan rolls down the window and says, “What?”

“I forgot to tell you that I started weaning Elliott off his pacifier a couple of days ago.”

“What?” he repeats, his eyebrows crashing down.

“It’s been fine during the day,” I say hurriedly, “but he’s been kind of a pain to put to sleep at night.”

As my husband’s jaw drops, I tilt my head to look at my kids in the back seat. Waving, I shout, “Have fun!”

It’s petty and immature, and I kind of hate myself for it, but I can’t help but throw Logan a smirk before I walk away, jogging back up the steps to the house.

* * *

After Logan picks up the kids on Friday afternoons, I clean the house. It’s become routine by now, and I never slack on it, no matter how tempting. The sooner I get it done, the longer I get to enjoy having a spotless home before the mess makers return.

I don’t get any further than putting music on the stereo and picking up a couple of things that don’t belong on the kitchen counter, though, before thoughts of work and Caroline and facing off against Logan distract me. So then I find myself plunking down in a kitchen chair with my cell phone in hand, looking for Beth’s number.

Since I left Stevens and Hammerness six years ago, my friend has become one of the most successful divorce attorneys in the city. She’s so good that I didn’t hesitate to ask her to handle my own divorce, something she’s definitely more eager than I am to finalize. Probably because she’s the only person I’ve confided in. Before my marriage went downhill, my husband and my best friend were getting along just fine, but now Beth outright despises him and isn’t shy about voicing it. She’s the only one who knows what he did to me.

And since she can’t punch him in the face, she sees my divorce proceedings as her opportunity to destroy him.

Logan knows that. Remembering the way his face drained of color when I told him I’d paid Bethany a retainer actually kind of warms my heart. Not that I need her to fight my battles for me, but it still feels good to have her in my corner, like I’ve got an attack dog on a leash.

Hopefully she can give me some useful pointers on this case.

I scroll through my contacts until I get to W. Which is where Bethany’s still listed, since she never did get married and change that thorn-in-the-behind of a last name. Derek, the fiancé who gave her that gigantic rock, made it big as a fashion photographer, and tagging along while he jetted around the world from gig to gig was not on Bethany’s agenda. It was not a pretty breakup.

She’s still single. About three years ago, though, she gave up on finding a guy and decided to adopt two baby girls from China by herself. I was thrilled for her and gave her more advice and support than she probably needed—while part of me couldn’t help secretly thinking she was crazy, choosing to become a single mom.

I would’ve thought it was even crazier if someone had told me back then that I’d be in a similar boat today.

My call goes to voice mail, so I leave a message, knowing she’ll call back as soon as she can.

I start to stand up so I can get going with the chores, but the song that begins streaming out of the speakers in the living room stops me short, my chest dropping into my stomach. That funky beat and guitar riff, the high-pitched voice.

It’s “Kiss” by Prince.

And like always, it takes me back to the Christmas party.

Were there warning signs I missed that night? It was pretty much the first time I had a real conversation with Logan, and it was probably when he first started to truly get under my skin.

At the end of the night, though, I left the party more determined than ever to stay the hell away from him. Because I thought I had him all figured out, and I knew he was bad news.

Turned out I had him all wrong.

And it took the better part of a decade of marriage and three kids before his real self was unmasked.