She did not actually care. She just wanted to smell the sleeve of his T-shirt. She just wanted to feel the thrill of his interest.

It was then that Ricky took a step closer, and with haste and trepidation, kissed her. His lips were soft and gentle.

But as his body moved against hers, Kit knew in her gut this was all wrong. This wasn’t it. Whatever “it” was supposed to be.

Because she liked Ricky—she did. He was sweet and sort of embarrassing in a lovely way. But the second his lips hit hers, she knew that she had never truly wanted to kiss him.

She was pretty sure she did not want to kiss any guy at all.

Suddenly, Kit felt desperate to quiet the voice that she now realized had been calling to her for years. And so, she kissed Ricky Esposito harder. She put her arms around him and pushed her chest against his, as if, if she really tried, she could deny everything she knew was true.

Tarine had gone in search of a good joint so Nina hung out in the kitchen, talking to a couple of movie producers. She was almost positive that both of them were named Craig.

“Your 1980 calendar is hands down the greatest calendar of all time,” First Craig said. He was stockier, meatier, but strong. He looked like he probably worked out two hours a day.

Nina smiled, acting flattered, pretending she cared.

“I mean … July?” Second Craig said. He was blond with a square jaw, even his posture was arrogant. “The one in the white bikini …” He whistled.

“I still think about it,” First Craig said.

“That’s nice,” Nina said dryly. And then she quickly added a “What?” in the opposite direction, as if she heard someone calling to her from the stairs. “I’ll be right there!” And then she smiled and left them in the kitchen.

When she got to the stairs, she saw Brandon out by the front door talking to some Olympic runner Nina knew she was supposed to remember. But instead of going to join the conversation, she turned and went up the steps, looking for a moment of peace. That was all right, wasn’t it?

She walked past a couple making out against the wall of her hallway. She smiled at the two former child stars sitting on the floor rolling a joint.

When she got to her bedroom, she shut the door behind her. She went into the master bathroom and stood at her mirror. She reapplied her lipstick and smacked her lips.

Was Tarine right?

How do you live a day for yourself? Nina didn’t know. She imagined what a day of her life would look like if she were living only for herself. Maybe going somewhere on her own. Like the coast of Portugal. Just her and the sunshine, a good book, and her Ben Aipa swallowtail surfboard. Small pleasures. She’d spend her time surfing and then eating good bread. And cheese.

But really, Nina just wanted peace and quiet so long-lasting and secure that it might even settle into her bones.

“Excuse me?”

Nina turned toward her bedroom door, the one that had been closed just a moment before. Now it was open and there was a young woman standing in the hallway, one hand on the doorknob.

The girl in the purple jersey dress.

“Nina?” the girl said.

“Yes?”

The girl was short—and young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her hair was dark blond, her skin was alabaster and perfectly clear, as if she had never spent a day in the sun.

“I was wondering if I could …” The girl’s fingers were shaking. And with each word the girl said, her voice became more uneven. “I was wondering if I could talk to you. Just for a moment.”

“Um,” Nina said. “Sure, come on in. What can I do for you?”

As Nina was looking at the girl standing in front of her, the answer was already beginning to come to her. But she couldn’t quite grasp it yet.

“I wanted to … well,” the girl said, wringing her hands and then catching herself doing it. “My name is Casey Greens,” she said.

“Hi, Casey.” Nina could hear the slight edge in her own voice. She tried to hide her wariness better. “You seem like you want to say something.”

And that’s when Nina saw it. Or, maybe more accurately, realized what she had already seen. Casey’s lips.

A big lower lip, full like an overstuffed cushion.

Casey Greens did not look anything like Nina or Jay or Hud or Kit or Mick. Except for that lip.

And Nina’s heart sank.

Casey spoke up. “I think Mick Riva might be my father.”

• • •

Casey Greens didn’t belong here. In Malibu, of all places. With the rich people and their perfect bodies. She knew that. She could feel it with every step she took on the thick, expensive carpet. She’d never stood on anything that plush, that soft before. She had grown up in a world of worn-out shag carpeting.

Shag carpeting and wood paneling and screen doors that still let in bugs. She came from a home of warmth even when it was cold, a home of beauty even though it was categorically hideous. Her town was called Rancho Cucamonga. Her parents were Bill and Helen. Her home was a California ranch. It had a birdhouse built on the top of it.

She was an only child, good at getting straight A’s—the kind of kid who liked spending Saturday night with her parents. Her mom made the very best tuna casserole in the world. And Casey would ask for it every year on her birthday. She understood that she had lived a pretty sheltered life—right up until she lost both of her parents in one fell swoop.

Casey still heard the term in her head, woke up with it in her mind and fell asleep with it in her ears, even weeks after her parents’ car accident: died on impact.

Her parents—her deceased parents—hadn’t prepared her for a life without them. They hadn’t prepared her for loneliness, for true adulthood, for the shocking revelations that would now have to come to light.

Casey had always known she was adopted, that her biological mother had died during childbirth. But she didn’t know much more. And that was OK with her. She had parents. Until she didn’t.

Days after the funeral, she was packing up her parents’ things, trying to determine what to do with the life they all had shared. What was she supposed to do with her father’s clothes? Where was she supposed to put her mother’s antiperspirant? She was packing and unpacking, repacking. She was caught in a whirl of thoughts. The statements “Leave everything exactly where it is” and “Get all of it out of my sight” fought for dominance in her heart and head.

She sat down on the floor and closed her eyes. And she got the wild idea to do something that had never occurred to her: to look for her birth certificate.

It took an hour and a half to find. It was in a locked box underneath a few other papers.

Casey grabbed it and looked at it. Casey Miranda Ridgemore was her given name. Her birth mother had been named Monica Ridgemore. The space for the father’s name was blank.

The next thing Casey found was a photo of a young woman. Blond, gorgeous. Big eyes, high cheekbones, an all-American kind of smile.

When Casey turned the photo over to see what was on the back, in handwriting she didn’t recognize, it said, “Monica Ridgemore. Died August 1st, 1965.” Below the date was another note. “Claims the baby is result of a one-night stand with Mick Riva.”

Mick Riva? Casey thought she must be reading it wrong. She must be misunderstanding. Mick Riva?