Chapter One

Kit

Shuffling the deck is more than a nervous habit. The weight of the cards in my hands, the swish swish swish as they slide into each other, rearranging themselves based on the rhythm in my soul; it stops the spiral I so easily trip right into. I trust them more than I trust myself, and maybe that's part of my problem.

One flies out and turns over against the steering wheel.

Strength, a major arcana card, and not one I pull for myself often. It's a card that's all about flexibility, letting go of the status quo to transform again, truer and clearer than in the past. It's about courage, passion arising to spontaneously flow, washing through all your dead or dying places.

Okay, Universe, no need to paint with such a heavy hand.

It's only brunch.

Mom's birthday brunch, to be precise.

A Larson family tradition five years running. Location: the Polo Lounge, a Hollywood icon. The idea: my father's. Like he plucked it right out of one of his favorite movies and planted it in our life for cinematic flair—his favorite kind. He really loves a gesture—grand or mini, doesn't matter.

If Tom Hanks would do it to the tune of Jimmy Durante, so would Dad.

The Polo Lounge is located inside the Beverly Hills Hotel, a stunning pink palace right off Sunset Boulevard that is impossible to visit without feeling like the main character in a golden age romantic comedy. Even if you're wearing an off-the-rack dress du jour instead of couture and taking selfies alone instead of walking hand in hand with a hot, bronzed movie star to the flash flash flash of paparazzi light bulbs.

Last year I brought Gavin, the sculpted-from-marble veterinarian I was dating at the time. He was already on his way out of our relationship, but at least I had some arm candy for the photo op.

This year, I was supposed to bring my live-in boyfriend, David. The reservation is still set for four people, the split so fresh I hadn't had time to change it. It's going to get awkward when I have to sheepishly say "just three." Mom and Dad will look at me with wide eyes and furrowed brows and ask if everything is okay, and I'll have to tell them, "Yep, all is absolutely peachy. I'm just single and momentarily without a home again."

For the second time this calendar year.

I snap the mirror on my car visor closed and smack my glossy lips together.

David Young was everything I thought I wanted.

On paper, anyway.

He was quick-witted, tall, dark, and handsome, with long, perfect fingers, and hair the color of ink. He was also getting that look in his eye. The one men get right before they drop down on one knee with something sparkly. You'd think that a believer in rom-com-style happy endings would be gunning to put a ring on it, but the directive handed down from my screenwriter-in-progress father was not simply to "get married and settle down."

It was to "find love, the kind that lasts forever," just like Meg Ryan in French Kiss .

It was to "never settle for less than a guy who gives speeches," like Hugh Grant at the end of Notting Hill .

It was to "be the ingenue in your own life."

I liked David. We had the kind of chemistry that makes sex good, kissing great, and conversation easy, but he could go days without texting and I'd almost forget I was dating him until he called, hey babe , and asked me out for sushi or to go to some new swanky club. Because David liked the aesthetic of a manic pixie dream blond on his arm, and I liked how easy it was to be that blond when I was with him.

He also had the hookup with a lot of celebs I was hoping to convert to clientele. Celebs and semi-celebs who can pay more so I can hopefully work smarter, not harder.

Dad, however, really likes David. A lot more than me. Dad likes that he's a good dresser and is polite and smart, but he likes David's industry connections even more. Dad is a perpetually sleep-deprived orthodontist by day, and a screenwriter on the brink of his next great script by night. David is a successful TV exec. They talk about the biz, and in Dad's mind, that talking might one day lead to pitching, which could possibly lead to his big break.

On some level both Dad and me using David for his clout is what made me realize the relationship needed to end. Dad, however, wasn't let in on that train of thought, so I need to make sure he is at least one pink sangria in before I break the news.

The valet attendant, Robbie—a slim, nervous-looking barely-adult with a bright shock of red hair he's tried to tame with too much gel—passes in front of my car. Again. I told him I needed to use the Wi-Fi to finish my upload, so he let me idle in the drive.

But he's getting antsy.

My computer chimes to alert me the upload is complete. I check all the details one final time before closing the laptop. It's one of my "Choose Your Own Tarot Adventure" videos, which is just my way of doing a tarot card reading for the masses. It's a signature video on my channel, and always gets me dozens of new inquiries for private readings.

My subscribers hold firm at one million, slowly growing now that the initial publicity from my Kardashians appearance has calmed down. Before, I was Mystic Maven Kit Larson, YouTube personality and high-end event entertainer; now, I'm that, plus the woman who predicted Kim's most recent dating scandal.

My bestie, Nina, coined the name Mystic Maven in college when I got into tarot as a way to help curb my growing battle with anxiety and panic attacks. It stuck like glue, and before I knew it, I was giving readings at sorority parties, before finals, any time anyone wanted to know if their crush liked them back.

I stow my computer, pack up my tarot deck, and climb out of the car, waving Robbie over with a smile. He beams as he takes my keys, and I press a Hamilton into his palm as a thank-you. I flip my sunglasses up like a headband and check my watch. Mom and Dad are due any second.

Should I wait here for them?

Should I go ahead inside and get in front of this "reservation for four" drama?

My phone buzzes. I don't have notifications turned on for any of my apps—a mental health boundary my therapist and I set up after my channel reached five hundred K. It's a text from Nina. I told her about splitting with David before I begged to crash on her couch last night.

consider this a hug from the universe and a reminder that fate doesn't give us anything we can't handle

Nina is an actress, mostly bit roles on TV and a few in movies, but with lucrative prospects on the horizon and a lot of faith in her divine path; she's going places. I may be the one with the spiritual brand who gives spot-on readings, but she's a lot better at discerning her intuition for herself than I am. When it comes to my own inner compass, I get lost more often than I get where I'm trying to go.

I send her a heart emoji plus the sparkly stars I associate with cosmic magic.

"Kitten." I hear my mom's nickname for me and look up to see she's stepped out of the driver's side of her Mercedes and is dropping the keys in the hands of the other valet attendant.

Seeing her driving herself to her birthday brunch, where she always, without fail, ends up on the other side of toasted, is an unnerving plot twist. Mom is a mediocre driver at her most sober. This does not bode well. I'm about to ask what's up when she reaches me, smacks air kisses to both cheeks, and tugs me in, saying, "Let's grab a selfie together before your dad arrives."

She attempts her normal toothy smile, but her newly "refreshed" (code: Botoxed) face is still a little light on dynamic movement. She raises her phone and begins searching for an angle that flatters both of us—mostly her—and settles on an above, left-of-center position. Her good side, but it's the side I part my hair toward, which means my cheek is shadowed by a curtain of blond waves.

She pulls the phone back to examine the shots. "The light is atrocious, but we can add some filters. Make it work." I regret encouraging Mom to get on social media. She needed it to build her life coaching biz, but she uses it to stalk me—tag me and then passive-aggressively prod until I reshare—almost as much as she uses it to sell her coaching programs and packages.

Dad's Mini Cooper pulls up next. Just a few minutes behind Mom. Were they coming from different locations? On her birthday?

The moment Dad steps out, I see tension etched into every one of his normally relaxed to the point of sleepy facial features. He shoves a hand in his pocket to pull out some cash for a tip, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, and walks over with stiff shoulders. His eyes flick to Mom and then me before he leans in for a quick hug.

"Hey there, cupcake," he says, his voice tight. It's easy to read the energy racing back and forth between them. Easy and uncomfortable .

I swallow a few times. Clear my throat.

Keep it breezy, Kit.

"Did you have an emergency at work?" I ask Dad, letting my eyes trail to his car, which is now pulling away, driven by Robbie.

"They never call me on my day off," he says. It's not an answer. "You know that."

"Right," I say, no less confused.

My parents are the Nancy Meyers embodiment of Dad's long-deferred Hollywood dreams, right down to the kitchen in their South Pasadena Spanish Colonial and eccentric elderly neighbor with an Oscar hiding in his cluttered, dusty office. I'm the twenty-something daughter perpetually in need of guidance (and financial assistance) that they are somehow still ridiculously proud of anyway.

We each have our role, and we're all really fucking good at playing them.

We never go off script.

Am I somehow responsible for this improv session?

I rack my brain. They couldn't know about the breakup yet—it just happened. But neither one of them has asked about David, either. They may be too pissed at each other to notice my missing significant other.

"Shall we?" Mom asks, but she doesn't wait for our answer. Her chunky espadrilles hit the red carpet that forms the pathway into the hotel. She doesn't look back at either of us; Dad doesn't get any less chilly.

My parents have had plenty of spats over the years, and a lot of them have taken place in that Nancy Meyers kitchen over a bottle of merlot. I know they fight, thrive on it in some ways, but the ice always thaws quickly. Like rising ocean level thaw-out rates.

Dad exhales through his nostrils. "Too late to skip out, I guess."

Skip out? My thoughts want to untether, but this isn't my first rodeo, and I won't let my bucking bronco brain win.

He offers a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes before following behind her. I inhale a sharp breath, pushing it out with extra force. I've been handling my anxiety for years. I refuse to be weird at brunch no matter what sensations are happening in my brain and body.

No matter how unhinged my parents are acting.

Breezy as a motherfucking summer day, baby.

?They didn't respond to my correction of the reservation with even a sideways glance. Mom was on her phone, typing like mad and ignoring the world. Dad was glaring straight at her like his stare could light her hair on fire.

We're seated at one of the Polo Lounge's iconic booths. The cushions are covered in deco-inspired lime-green palms, tucked into a pink stucco alcove that overlooks the lush patio. I take my seat on one end of the curved bench, and Mom and Dad slide into the other side, keeping a notable distance from each other.

The empty water glasses wink, taunting me. Panic makes me parched. Like a killer hangover or the end of a cardio blast.

I distract myself by perusing the menu, even if we always start with the same thing. Pink sangria and ceviche for Dad and me, and farmers market seasonal fruit for the vegetarian Mom. Our waiter arrives to pour the waters—bless his soul! I gulp down the whole glass. The cold liquid cuts through the heat spreading across my chest cavity like a wildfire.

"You need a second to look over the menu?" our waiter, Gary—per his name tag—asks. "Or are you ready to get this party started?"

"Any special apps we should know about?" Mom asks, leaning forward to beam up at Gary from what I'm sure she thinks is an optimal angle. Dad's mouth twitches. He covers the move with the rim of his glass, gulping deep.

Five years we've been doing this birthday brunch. Five years and the only thing that has changed has been my plus-one.

"Sick of your old standby?" Dad says through a loud crunch of ice between his teeth. Dad never crunches ice. Teeth are his livelihood, and he's a stickler for healthy dental practices of all varieties.

"I could recommend the artisanal bread and butter, a new butter flavor every week," Gary replies. "Something we're trying out on the menu this fall."

"That would be scrummy," Mom says, closing her menu. Scrummy? Jesus Christ, is she about to have a stroke? I have never heard her use the word scrummy in my whole life.

"Ceviche and a pitcher of pink sangria," Dad adds. He leaves Mom's fruit off, and she doesn't correct him. And with that, Gary is gone.

Mom exhales, leaning back against the booth. Only now, for the first time since arriving, do I see her eyes trail to either side of me in search of my plus-one.

"David couldn't make it, Kitten?" She pouts, reaching for my hand and squeezing. "Next time."

Just rip the Band-Aid, baby.

"There won't be a next time." Both of their gazes fix on mine. "We broke up a couple days ago. I moved out of his place." Took my two suitcases, Himalayan salt lamp, and bounced. "I need to crash in the pool house if that's oka—"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Dad exclaims. "I can't take this anymore. Tell her or I will."

Mom's face stiffens. "We agreed to wait until after everything was finalized." Her lips are tight as she replies, and not just from the fillers.

"Fine," Dad says, nostrils flaring. He turns back to me, yanking his wire rims off dramatically. "Your mother is leaving me for a thirty-two-year-old British chippie she met coaching!"

My heart rate skyrockets.

Scrummy makes a hell of a lot more sense now.

My hands ball into tiny fists, which I shove into the fabric of the booth cushion.

"Chippie?" The word is the only question I can muster.

"She's incredible," Mom says. "So ambitious, so driven."

She???

Mom pulls out her phone and starts trying to show me the picture of her hot, barely-older-than-me girlfriend by swiping through an album on her phone titled "Lover."

I need a bag to barf into.

She's got wavy brown hair, tan skin, deep brown eyes, and a crooked but cute smile. I don't know what is more shocking, the fact that this album has hundreds of photos in it—some of which feature Mom and this woman kissing, snuggling, generally canoodling—or the fact that Mom is acting like this over a woman when I had no idea she was into women at all.

My brain immediately glitches and I see her face. Ten years ago, cheekbones already sharp, aquamarine eyes bright, lips pink and swollen from kissing.

No, not a chance. I will not think about her right now.

"Her name is Willa, and her Libra Moon really brings me so much balance," she says. Swipe. "She works at Erewhon as a health and wellness guide," she continues, "but her real passion is Pilates." This gets an eye waggle. "She wants to open gyms in Brentwood. She has investors—"

"Jesus Christ, Camille, I'm sitting right here," Dad exclaims, just as Gary returns with the pitcher of pink sangria and our appetizer. He makes quick work of dropping off the food and drinks as I watch Dad count down to an explosion.

Mom reaches for a glass, pouring her own sangria since Gary doesn't stick around for that part. Dad's brows twitch. His nostrils flare. She shakes the ice cubes into the glass and pours in a little more of the soft rose-colored liquid. Dad's hand curls around the hilt of his butter knife. She lifts the glass up to drink. He smacks the table and the dishes and silverware all clack in a metallic screech.

"Order your own pitcher," Dad says, yanking the glass from her hands. "This one is ours." He turns his eyes to me and then to my empty glass.

"I don't see why you're acting so immature about this. You're the one who ruined our plan, you're the one who spilled the beans right here," Mom says, yanking the glass right back and chugging it down. She hiccups, shrugging dramatically and swiping her thick, blond-laced-through-with-gray hair over one shoulder. "We were going to sell the house and get the details all sorted before we told her—"

"That plan is out." He looks at me. "I'm afraid you can't stay in the pool house, cupcake, because that's my current squat."

Mom reaches over the ceviche growing warm on the center of the table and cups my chin. "We can help get you a short-term rental, Kitten."

They had a plan.

I pull away from her grip. My chest grows tight. The steadily simmering embers in my belly ignite into flames that travel up my esophagus and into my throat. They lick the length of my neck and consume my eyeballs with their heat.

They had a plan to keep me in the dark while they packed up my childhood home and sold it to a stranger.

"Katherine." Dad says my full name. Mom immediately stills.

My throat is closing up and the only thing I can do is breathe in, out, in, out through my nostrils.

I push against the booth with my fists and stand, smacking my thigh on the underside of the table. I shake my head. I need a small, confined space where I can ride this out.

?I burst into an empty bathroom stall and slam it shut.

My eyes are frozen open. As much as I want to conjure my safe space from hypnotherapy, once I'm this far gone I can't risk dropping my focus to get there. That means finding something to visually hold the weight of my spiral. I pick the small spot of chipped paint on the back of the door, press my fingers to my pulse in my throat, and breathe.

It's been years since a panic attack took me by surprise in a public place. Hypnotherapy sounds very LA, I know, but I swear it's on doctor's orders. My actual therapist suggested it as a supplement to our sessions, a way to get off meds and reframe my triggers through my subconscious. It's been a game changer. But as my adrenaline begins to drop back down, a wave of sadness and shame sweeps over me, hard on impact, cracking through all my resolve.

And I have to give in.

Her brown hair fell across shoulders that were sun-kissed from spending all summer by the pool. I watched her walk away, her kiss still lingering on my lips, but my heart was already racing, running back over the promises I'd made as I fell asleep beside her.

I close my eyes and breathe into the feeling.

Let's go on a date. A real one. Like at a restaurant with fabric napkins, she'd said.

I'd said yes, and I had wanted to mean it.

In the sunlight, I knew that I couldn't.

I try to swallow the emotion down, down, down.

Still it bubbles up.

Hurting her almost destroyed me.

The one time I came close to dating a girl, it turned into a disaster tailspin of emotional confusion. Feelings got all jumbled and what I believed about myself—my ideal of myself—came into question. Sure, it all settled eventually, and I tried to write it off, move on without looking too closely at what the whole thing actually meant.

But the yearning never did go away.

In college there was Maia. She sat next to me in Western Civ. She smelled like citrus, saffron, and rose petals, and her hair was long, dark, shiny. When we weren't in class side by side, she occupied the space in my head between asleep and awake. Moments when my mind was vulnerable enough to wonder how the curves of her hips in her skintight jeans would feel cupped in my hands, or how her plump lips would taste, or what it would be like to make her laugh and then moan in the very next breath.

Midway through the semester I did the unthinkable and moved seats, causing a disruption to the implied structure of our auditorium classroom. I couldn't take her passing in front of me to get to her chair anymore. She'd brush against me; she'd whisper responses and critiques of the lecture, her necklace would taunt me from the dip in her clavicle, the pendant dropping down to disappear between the mounds of her breasts, and my eyes would drift, my pulse threatening to give me away.

My TA called me out on the move. Maia took it personally, and not for the right reasons. I almost flunked out of the class rather than attend in a cloud of embarrassment. Another massive mess, only that time I didn't even let myself kiss her.

I blink, squeezing the bridge of my nose, exhaling a sharp puff through my nostrils.

I've had oodles of crushes on women, but I'm still not brave enough to take my yearning outside the safety of my daydreams.

I'm not straight—not even close. But, wow, the undeniable existence of my queerness doesn't make it any easier to be . How do you take a secret you've kept hidden away for all of forever and make it public? How do you say it out loud and have it not become the only thing anyone ever sees again?

Acceptance doesn't mean it's comfortable.

Or easy.

It doesn't make you ready to process other people knowing; it doesn't make you willing to change your life—because it does change your life. There's no way it doesn't. Maybe for the better, but then, I cite my previous experience and Exhibit Mom's B-Day Brunch as evidence to the contrary.

So…

I daydream. I yearn.

But my reality stays the same.

Why the hell does Mom have to shake everything up?

The Ideal Rom-Com Life Path is just fine. It's a path Mom and Dad always made look iconic. It's a path that was supposed to ensure that all-important Happily Ever After. Hugh Grant in a ruffled button-down, Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building, insert your favorite rom-com hero here , that's what we're going for.

That's the path.

Your mother is leaving me for a thirty-two-year-old British chippie. Dad's words ring again in my head. They land, a lead weight in my gut. The perfect Nancy Meyers couple is splitting up.

Maybe the path is fucked.