Chapter Three

"Hate is an awfully strong word, Pumpkin Butt."

"Why do you think I used it?"

Mom smiled patiently over her mimosa.

"Ugh."Truly let her head flop back dramatically. "Fine. I don't hate him. I strongly dislike him. Better?"

"Getting there," Mom said. "It wouldn't hurt to know why exactly you strongly dislike this boy."

"He's a man, Mom. A man."

Colin McCrory was not a boy. He had creases at the corners of his eyes, laugh lines, and chest hair, enough that it peeked out from beneath the V-neck of his stupid purple sweater-vest that she did not find attractive.

"He's a pompous asshole," she said, settling on a slightly more rational reason than her brain's weird hyper-fixation on Colin freaking McCrory's body hair. "He's a lawyer. A divorce lawyer. Isn't that reason enough?"

Mom pursed her lips. "Truly."

Okay, fine. Maybe she was being a little ridiculous.

Yes, Colin was a pompous ass. Yes, he'd pushed her buttons—most of them the wrong ones, but some of them oh so right—and yes, he'd poked at no fewer than a dozen of her insecurities, professional, personal, and everything in between, but more than anything, more than she was willing to admit upon pain of death? Colin McCrory had made her feel small. He had made her feel small and stupid. He had hurt her feelings, and that? That was a damnable offense.

"He's a jerk, Mom. I guess you had to have been there."

"I guess so. But I am sorry this boy—excuse me, man—upset you. That wasn't very nice of him."

"No," she said, picking at a loose thread on her pleated skirt. "It really wasn't."

"Do mine ears deceive me or am I hearing laymen speak in the Sondheim room?" Dad's voice came booming down the hall. He paused in the doorway of the sunroom, a spritz in one hand and a tray in the other. "Tut, tut. You know the rule, Truly Scrumptious Livingston—"

"Not my middle name," she grumbled.

Dad managed to look astounded. "Diane, dear, what is this nonsense I hear?"

"Impossible!" Mom gasped, playing along, pressing the back of her hand against her forehead and swooning against the arm of the sofa. "Oh, Stanley, it can't be! The Poor Thing must be mistaken."

"You both know it's Stella." After Stella Adler, famed actress and acting teacher. There was a signed picture of her hanging in the upstairs hall, for Christ's sake.

Dad ignored her. "Diane, did you hear something?"

Mom cupped one hand around her ear. "Perhaps..."

"You can't be serious."

Mom tutted. "Must've just been the Rain on the Roof."

Truly buried her face in her hands, muffling a groan.

One rule was enforced in the Livingston household, and one rule only. Every room on the lower level of the house—save for the foyer and halls—was named after a composer of musical theater. There was the Sondheim sunroom, the Andrew Lloyd Webber living room, the Irving Berlin half bath, and last, but not least, the Gershwin garage, where Truly's father spent the bulk of his free time tinkering around on his precious vintage cars, clothed in custom-made coveralls splattered with grease, humming showtunes.

If you wanted to carry on a conversation within the confines of one of these spaces? You'd better know a song or twelve. Titles and lyrics were fair game; Truly relied heavily on the former, refusing to sing.

If history had taught her anything, it was easier to just give in. "I said, it's Stella. Remember?"

"Ah, Stella!" Dad took a step over the threshold and thus began his inclusion in the awful, awful tradition. "Glad T' See Ya, Truly m'dear."

Truly took the Aperol Spritz from him. "Sometimes when I'm around you two I feel like I'm Losing My Mind."

"Well, sure you are." Dad slid the bridge of his thick black-framed glasses up his nose and grinned. "Home is the Place you can be yourself, after all."

Truly choked, sputtering out an indignant laugh. Prosecco dripped off her chin, one drop soaking into the wool of her skirt. "Did you just call me crazy?" Um... "Overture?"

She tended to abuse those when playing Mom and Dad's silly little showtunes game; overtures, preludes, and finales were free spaces as far as she was concerned.

Dad snorted. "Truly—"

"For Once in Your Life, give the girl a break. This is brunch, not one of your guest lectures."

Dad heaved a hearty sigh. "I can see I've been ganged up on." He brandished the tray balanced on his right hand. "These might not be The Worst Pies in London, but I did manage to whip up a quick brunch torte and of course your favorite, Truly."

"Nonna Luzzatto's bouche de dame?"

"The one and only, All For You, Buttercup." Dad set the white cake adorned with almonds down on the coffee table and razzle-dazzled his fingers. "Ta-da!"

The scent of sugared almonds hit her nose, nutty and sweet, and her mouth watered.

She snatched a plate off the table and thrust it at Dad. "I Love You Et Cetera. Cut me a slice, please."

Dad took the plate from her with a warm smile. "Catch me up. What were you Lovely Ladies discussing while I was playing bartender? Any good Gossip? Share, share."

"Men," Mom supplied, digging her fork into her breakfast torte. "We were discussing men."

"Men?"He sounded intrigued. "Oh, do tell, Buttercup. Was JustinThe Reason Why you stomped in here today in such a mood?"

"I wasn't in a mood, and no, we weren't talking about Justin. But now that we are, I might as well let you know that Justin and I are no longer together. I'm, um... back to looking for my Happily Ever After."

"Oh, sweetie." Mom rubbed Truly's arm. "What happened?"

"I caught him with a girl, pants down. Off, actually."

Mom gasped. "You Poor Thing."

"In flagrante delicto." Dad tutted and shook his head. "Good riddance. From the moment I met him, I knew that boy was Unworthy of Your Love, Pumpkin."

"Stan," Mom chided.

Dad held up his hands. "You didn't like him, either."

"Our thoughts on Justin aside, six years is a long time to be with someone. The last thing Truly needs to hear right now is I told you so."

"I'm okay. Seriously. You can put the kid gloves away."

"See, Diane? Our Broadway Baby is made of sturdier stuff."

Mom pursed her lips. "I just want you to know that it's okay if you aren't okay."

"Thanks. But I just really, really want to move on."

"That's the spirit," Dad said. "Never fear, A Hero Is Coming. Or heroine. You know your mother and I just want you to be happy."

"Thank you. Now, no offense, can we talk about literally anything else? What's new with you?"

Mom drained her mimosa. "Interesting Questions. Let's see... I was named vice chair of the Laurelhurst Community Horticulture Society. Which is something."

"Mom!" She set her fork down so she could squeeze Mom's arm. "That's more than something. That's amazing. Uh..." Sondheim, Sondheim... "I'm So Happy for you."

"Thank You So Much."Mom reached out, squeezing Truly back. "As for your father—"

"Truly, your mother and I have decided to take some time apart."

She held her breath, waiting for the punch line, for the Sondheim that never came.

They had one rule, one rule only. The circumstances had never mattered; not once had there been an exception. Not when Truly had had friends over, not when she'd had strep and couldn't speak and had to rely on her phone's text-to-voice reader. She'd still been expected to communicate in stupid showtunes.

Her fork clattered against her plate. "That's not funny."

"Truly—"

"Stop saying my name," she snapped. "You're saying my name like you're expecting me to have a breakdown or something. Which is stupid. Because you're kidding, right?" Her throat ached, sore and stuffed like she'd swallowed a cotton ball. "Right?"

Mom looked at Dad and he gazed back, a furtive look passing between them.

Truly screwed her eyes shut. "I Must Be Dreaming."

Despite bitching and moaning about this game, this tradition, Truly clung to it. There was safety in the predictability. If Sondheim didn't write it, it couldn't happen.

Someone rested a hand on Truly's knee, fingers gentle, palm soft, metal rings skin-warmed. Mom. "Honey, it's... it's not a bad thing."

"It's not," Dad quickly agreed. "Your mother and I, we love each other."

"Very much. And we love you."

"More than anything." Dad's hand came down, warm and solid against her shoulder, squeezing gently. "You are The Best Thing That Has Ever Happened to us."

"And We're Gonna Be All Right." Mom jostled her lightly. "So, No Sad Songs, okay?"

No Sad—

Truly leaped off the couch, knocking Mom's and Dad's hands away in her outburst. "No Sad Songs? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Dad frowned. "Buttercup—"

"Did someone—did one of you—"

"No." Mom shook her head. "It's not like that."

"This is no one's fault. Like I said, your mother and I, we love each other very much."

"We do. We've been together for thirty-three years," Mom said. "That's a long time. People change, Truly. Sometimes they grow apart."

People change? Sometimes they grow apart? With all these trite clichés being hurled at her, it felt a little like she was getting broken up with.

With Justin, the signs were there. She'd ignored them, yeah, but they were irrefutably there.

But this? This was different. There were no signs. There should've been signs. Shouldn't there?

Then again, she'd been so busy lately, promoting one book and writing another and revising a third, dealing with Justin and everything that entailed. She'd been so wrapped up in herself for weeks... a month? Two?

Was it possible there had been warnings and she'd missed them? Jesus Christ, what kind of daughter did that make her that her parents' marriage was on the rocks, and she'd been none the wiser? Absolutely, one hundred percent oblivious.

She was going to be sick, was going to upchuck Aperol all over the pretty green tufted rug covering the glossy hardwood floor. Her stomach heave-hoed and she swallowed down a thick, disgusting mouthful of bitter, citrusy bile.

"Is one of you having a midlife crisis?" she asked, breath sour and voice hoarse. "Because there's a dealership down the road selling convertibles if you're interested."

"No one is having a midlife crisis. I'm certainly not. Are you, Stanley?"

"Can't say I am. Though, even if I were, If There's Anything I Can't Stand, it's a convertible. Messes with my hair." Dad ran a hand over the top of his smooth-as-a-cue-ball head.

The bite of bouche de dame she'd swallowed sat like a rock inside her gut. "Then why?"

"Your mother and I, we—" Dad tore off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "It's a break, Truly. A trial separation. We love each other, dearly, but—"

"But what? If you love each other, then what?" Truly crossed her arms against the rising tide of emotion inside her that had no outlet. Eighty percent of couples who separated divorced. It was all she could think about, Colin McCrory's gut-wrenching statistic echoing inside her head. "You're perfect together. You belong together. You have stupid inside jokes, and you dance in the kitchen, and make up lyrics to elevator music and—" They made her believe in love and if her parents, two people perfect for each other, couldn't make it work, what did that mean for everyone else? What did that mean for her? "Are you struggling with intimacy issues? Because that's normal and nothing to be ashamed of. There are therapists you can see. And they make pills for that and—and—and—oh! Lubricant!"

Dad's eyes grew so wide they looked like they were about to fall out of his head. "Truly."

Mom fanned her face, cheeks neon. "I am not talking about this."

"There's no shame in using lubricant."

"Let me rephrase." Mom had turned a startling shade of purple. "I'm not talking about this with my daughter."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm twenty-seven years old. It's hardly like I'm a virgin."

"Truly."Mom buried her face in her hands.

Dad still refused to look at her head-on. "This is no one's fault. And we don't need to talk to anyone."

Mom shook her head in agreement.

"It's just... your mother and I are considering the possibility that maybe..." He swallowed hard, eyes growing damp. "Maybe We Do Not Belong Together."

Mom sniffled. "But—but No One Is Alone in this. It's no one's fault."

"Certainly not Your Fault, Buttercup," Dad said, as if she were twenty years younger and needed the reassurance that this wasn't, in fact, because of her. "The Reason Why is just... it's complicated."

Complicated?

"Bullshit."

Mom and Dad stared at her, mouths agape.

"People change? Sometimes they grow apart? It's not your fault?" She scoffed. "I'm not actually asking for the intimate"—Mom and Dad cringed in perfect synchronicity—"details of your relationship, but I'm your daughter and I think I deserve more than empty platitudes." That was a reasonable ask, wasn't it? "You've been married thirty-three years and I've been alive for twenty-seven of them. Are you just giving up?" She dug her toe into the carpet and blinked up at the ceiling, eyes burning. "Throwing in the towel?"

Over thirty years and a whole life they'd built together, boom. Gone.

"We are not throwing in the towel." Mom had the audacity to smile. Smile. It made Truly want to bare her teeth and growl. "Your father and I aren't throwing anything away."

"We're taking some time," Dad reiterated, as if she wasn't already committing this entire conversation to memory. As if it wouldn't keep her up tonight. Haunt her dreams. "We've discussed what this time for us means. We plan to sort out what we each want going forward and whether we want the same thing."

"How much time?"

"Three months," he said.

"Three months!"

Any amount of time was too long, but three whole months? Wouldn't that much time apart just make it harder for them if they—when they got back together?

"We don't want you to worry," Mom added. "The only reason why we decided to bring this up now—rather, why your father decided to blurt it out—"

"Hey now. Truly deserved to know. We agreed on that."

"I never said she didn't. I'm not taking umbrage with what you said, just how you said it."

Truly shoved her sleeves up her arms. "Guys, it's not—"

"I didn't hear you telling her, either, Diane. You had an opening and you stalled, talking about your botany club. Someone needed to rip off the Band-Aid."

Christ.Was it hot in here? Or was she just having a hot flash? Could you get those in your twenties? "Guys. How you told me isn't the issue—"

"It's a preservation society, not a club."

"Oh, my sincerest apologies."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"Better sarcasm than passive aggression."

Truly scratched at her throat, the pearl-adorned buttoned collar she'd slipped on beneath her sweater suddenly confining. God, was that—was that a rash? Hives? Had she ever even had hives before? Was she showing a latent allergy to something in Nonna Luzzatto's bouche de dame? Or was she just allergic to conflict?

Mom and Dad never fought.

Never.

"You are calling me passive-aggressive?"

"If the shoe fits."

"Pot meet kettle, Stan."

"Why did you say my name like you're imagining an extra a in it?"

"Are you implying that I'm calling you—"

"Just stop it!"

Any other time, it would've been comical how Mom and Dad froze, twin expressions of regret and shame etched on their faces. Truly couldn't find any humor in the situation, in her parents looking like scolded children. She was the child. Adult child, but child. Not them, her.

"Sorry," Dad muttered, shamefaced. "I—Diane—"

"It's fine," Mom said, curt. "I was out of line, too."

"Tensions are running high right now, Buttercup. But we're sorry. Your mother and I were very concerned with how you'd take the news. I don't think either of us got much sleep last night. But we wanted you to know." Dad blinked fast and Truly's chest ached, too small, too tight, everything she felt too big to be contained by fragile bones and paper-thin skin. "Because we love you."

"So much. And no matter what happens, we're always going to love you."

Truly let them drag her into their embrace, let them tuck her into the too-small space between them. Her bones creaked, and her joints protested at being smushed, but she curled up tight like a pill bug with her eyes closed.

"We're in this together," Dad said. "And love... Love Will See Us Through."