CHAPTER 23

There are things that you do to preserve your marriage. I learned this early on. I watched my adoptive parents, saw their bond, and took careful notes on how to replicate it. It was interesting, seeing a strong marriage up close. My father's relationships had always been short-lived connections full of arguments and crude jokes, with a backdrop of a blaring television set, a dirty couch, and a coffee table piled with empty beer cans. His relationship with me had been his longest and most meaningful, but not always a healthy one.

When CPS took me away and I ended up with George and Janice, everything was different.

Their home, beautiful and clean, with rooms they never even went into.

Their world, full of money and power and people who were smart and fashionable and didn't reek of alcohol or cars or dirt.

Their marriage, which seemed entirely focused on each other and making that other person happy, yet seemed big enough to welcome me in with open arms and warmth and love.

I tested their bonds, tried to break their seal, and when I was unsuccessful, I switched horses and focused all my energies on learning from it. As they say, if you can't beat them, join them.

I joined them, like a parasite stuck to a host, feeding off it, sucking the goodness out in minute quantities that would never be missed.

I realized then, but especially now, that George and Janice gave me everything. They taught me how to carry myself, how to speak, dress, and spend properly. They put me in the best schools with the best tutors. Every meal was an etiquette class, and weekend parties were a lesson on social networking and manipulation.

Not that George and Janice were manipulative—at least, they weren't intentionally so. But I was a tiny fly buzzing through those parties, one that listened to and watched everything. I heard the whispers and the side conversations, saw the hidden kisses and the sneers, the weak moments produced and exploited by alcohol. I saw how much power was created and maintained by my new family's money. And seeing that, tasting that ... it was like having my first bite of real food.

After that, I could have never gone back.

We took the long way home from the restaurant, taking the route that gave us the view of Los Angeles's city lights at night. Rain started to gently pepper the Porsche's windshield, its cadence too soft to be heard over the music, which was set to a Dave Matthews Band playlist. The song on was one I'd heard a dozen times, and I sang along with the words as Grant drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. Our eyes met in the dark interior, and he smiled at me.

"Song takes me back," he said, turning on the wipers.

"Me too. God, that storm." I peered through the front windshield, trying to see the sky, but it was too dark out. "Way worse than tonight."

That night, we had driven four hours through a downpour with tickets to a DMB concert, and hadn't even considered changing our plans when they postponed the event by several hours. We had been hyped up on caffeine and lack of sleep, and were absolutely broke.

It hadn't mattered. We had donned ponchos and stood in a field, lighters in hand, swaying with a crowd as Dave sang "Satellite" to thousands of soaked fans as the rain streamed down. During the final chords, Grant had dropped to one knee and proposed with a cherry Ring Pop he had secretly bought at a gas station along the way.

"Satellite" was the wrong song for him to propose to. The following week, I had insisted he research their entire discography and pick the lyrics that best fit his feelings for me. Something other than "Satellite," which is literally just about a big dish in the sky.

He picked "Crush," which was the exact right pick, and when he selected it, I knew I had made the right moves in my seduction and the right decision in marrying him.

"Your seats smelled like mildew for months." He laughed.

I wrinkled my nose at the memory of the ancient Volvo I had been driving at the time. George and Janice had passed down their daily driver to me when I started college, and this trip was just one more instance of abuse that the sedan had endured. When my adoptive parents' estate had finally completed probate, a new car was one of the first purchases I made with my inheritance.

"What are you thinking about?" Grant reached across the gearshift and stole his hand into mine. I threaded my fingers through his and turned his palm over, admiring how well we fit together. We'd always fit well, in part because of our shared history—but also because I had worked my ass off, making sure the tumblers in our lock had lined up perfectly for a successful clench.

"Your proposal. Our marriage. What it takes to be successful."

"A lot of work," Grant pantomimed, in the nasally voice he used whenever he imitated me.

I brought his hand up to my mouth and playfully bit his knuckles, punishing him. "Yes, exactly. I'm so glad you understand." I grinned at him. "But no, I was thinking about George and Janice. What they taught me about love and marriage."

"I wish I'd been able to get to know them more." He squeezed my hand.

A wave of nostalgia welled, and I let the tears come, brushing them away as soon as I was sure he had seen them. "I do too," I said softly. "They were the best."

And that part wasn't a lie. They had been the best.

"What did they teach you about love and marriage?"

He knew the answer to this one, but I was still glad he asked it. We needed continual reminders to keep the ship afloat, and he was as dedicated to putting in the work as I was.

"Well, to always put our marriage first."

"We do that, right?" He stopped at an intersection, and his features were lit red by the light. He was so attractive, especially in moments like this, when concern darkened his features. Concern for us. Sometimes you had to spin the top just to keep it in motion.

"For the most part. You've been working a lot lately."

"That will be over soon. This project is almost finished."

"Try to finish it by Sophie's birthday. I want us to have that week to focus on her." Her last week. I'd make sure it was a good one.

The light changed and he gunned the Porsche 911's engine. The car had been his fortieth-birthday present, a splurge that was well worth it. The 1987 Carrera Cabriolet convertible was his dream car growing up, and he had mentioned it to me once—just once—six years ago, but I hadn't forgotten. I had written it down and then waited, because the present needed to matter, and the wait would only prove my attention and devotion to his needs.

"I hope to have it finished by then," he said carefully. "I can't promise anything, though. You know if I can make it happen, I will."

"I know you will." The comment came out wrong, snide and snippy, and I tried to cover it by kissing the palm of his hand. Of course he would try—for Sophie. He'd try anything for Sophie, more so than he would for me, and that was a festering bedsore in the body of our marriage.

You should love your children. But you're supposed to love each other more.

Another lesson from George and Janice, but one that Grant didn't agree with. He wouldn't say it—he could sense the volcano that would erupt—but I felt his resistance to it.

I also suspected what he dared not say: that maybe George and Janice didn't love me as much as each other because I wasn't their real child.

And perhaps there was a point there, but it didn't matter what the reason was. It didn't defy the logic and proof—you shouldn't love your child more than you loved each other. That equation didn't work. I had never begrudged George and Janice for their stance. I had understood and agreed with it.

"Dinner was good," Grant said, putting both hands on the wheel as he approached the sharp turn by the lake. "What was that thing at the beginning? A rice cake?"

"Yeah, I think that's what they called it. With tuna. Yeah, it was good. Excellent choice." I overenunciated the adjective, putting a playful lilt on it. "Want to stop at Cav's for dessert and a drink?"

He shook his head. "No, we should get home to Sophie. It's already late."

I tried to flick the irritation away, but it stuck. "Sophie's in bed."

"I know but I want to look in on her. You know she's always restless with a sitter."

I twisted to face the window, where droplets of water ran like blood down the glass.

"Perla." He reached for me, but I avoided his touch.

"Looking in on her is more important than an extra hour with me? You didn't seem to care about that when you stayed late ‘working' at the office the other night." I put the word working in air quotes and immediately hated myself for it. This wasn't me. It wasn't us.

"Listen." He reached forward and turned off the radio. "You want to go to Cav's? We can go there."

"Oh great." I rolled my eyes. "Thanks."

He braked and I grabbed the armrest as the car shuddered over to the shoulder and then came to a stop on the side of the road. I looked at him for an explanation. "What's wrong?"

His hand closed on the back of my neck, and he pulled me forward until our lips met. His kiss was soft but dominant, forcing my lips into action, and I yielded, sinking forward and gripping his shirt as the rain rat-a-tatted against the roof, increasing in intensity.

He pulled away and looked into my eyes. "I love you," he said firmly. "Now, stop being difficult, and let me ply my wife with a chocolate torte and expensive wine."

My mouth quirked into a smile. "Fine," I said begrudgingly, as if I weren't getting exactly what I wanted.

I kept him out late intentionally, and after we'd stumbled into the house at 2:00 a.m. and paid the sitter, I kept my hand tight on his, pulling him past our daughter's door and into our bedroom, where I made sure that Sophie was the last thing on his mind.