“April’s in accounting, seventh floor. Married, five-months pregnant. You have nothing to worry about. Go back to bed.”

She whipped her head in my direction. Her lips were unnaturally plump, her skin too tight from endless injections, and her red-rimmed eyes told the story of another unbalanced cocktail of medication which we’d have to get replaced and prescribed.

“You would tell me if you knew he was cheating on me.” She grabbed the fabric of my wetsuit and balled it, pulling me into her face.

I offered a non-committed shrug. “Sure.” No chance in hell. At this point, Lydia Van Der Zee couldn’t deal with the simple fact that our pool was going to stay closed for the rest of the summer for maintenance. But I told her what she wanted to hear, because white lies paved the path to living with her brand of instability in relative peace. For me, not her, of course.

“How’s work for you, my darling girl?” She relaxed her grip on my wetsuit. My eyes flicked to the clock above the fridge, knowing I owed her the company, if nothing else. I slid onto a chair next to her and unscrewed the coconut water’s cap, bringing it to my lips. “It’s fine. Jordan picked the biggest assholes in town to work with. I can’t wait for him to find another pet project to spend all his time on.”

Fiscal Heights Holdings was just another loop in my father’s corporation belt. He had purchased and taken over so many companies before, I could hardly keep up with the count. He treated his businesses like needy lovers—giving them everything they needed in the first year, then dumping them to fend for themselves once he grew bored and found another exciting venture.

“I don’t know about that,” my mother mumbled, pulling at her fat lower lip. “He likes the idea of brushing shoulders with Baron Spencer and the like. They’re big names in Todos Santos, and he wants to run for mayor.”

Fiscal Heights Holdings was based in Beverly Hills, in big L.A, but we lived in the town of Todos Santos. And Todos Santos was small. Frighteningly so (see also: me trying to steal my boss’ mother’s purse by accident.)

So, Mom didn’t have to remind me Trent Rexroth was a big deal. Recently, I’d found myself thinking about him obsessively, in and out of the office, which was why I made it a point to push him away whenever he was in my vicinity.

“Your dad’s been acting weird. Cheating again, I’m sure. I think it’s serious this time.”

“Doubt it.” I offered a consoling smile. I meant the serious part, not the cheating. He definitely cheated.

She rubbed at her cheek tiredly. “His business trips have never been this long or this often before.”

“Maybe he is gearing up to become mayor. Meeting donors, yada yada.” Though he hadn’t talked about his political aspirations in a while, and that meant they weren’t on his mind. Jordan Van Der Zee had one true love, and that was the sound of his own voice.

The kitchen door made a soft noise, and I snapped my head around on an instinct, ready to yank a drawer open and chase a bastard with a steak knife. When I saw that it was the devil himself leaning on its frame, I exhaled, but knew better than to relax.

“You’re up, too? What’s up with you guys? It’s half past four in the morning,” I muttered, clutching my drink. The weekend was fast approaching, and I didn’t want to piss off Jordan. I needed this visit on Saturday, so playing nice was crucial.

“Edie and I have something to discuss. Go back to bed, Lydia. I will make you some tea in a moment.” Even though his disapproval was directed at my mother, it didn’t make the burn less marring. She got up on defeated feet, walking out of the room not unlike a ghost. Every step she took screamed negligence, abandonment, and weakness. My mother was abused just enough to break her, but not enough for me to go to the police with it. Balance, Rexroth said. Is everything. And oh, how right he was.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. You will not lose your shit over this, Edie. Screw surfing and his little ego games and making a point. Look at the big picture.

Jordan snatched the coconut water from my hand, slam-dunking the bottle into one of the two giant sinks in the kitchen island.

“I was drinking that.” There was spite in lethal quantities in each of my innocent words.

“Not anymore. That, and the surfing…it makes you look like a hippie. Van Der Zees drink coffee every morning. It keeps us sharp.”

“You make Mom tea twice a day.” I grinned.

“Your mother is not a Van Der Zee. Her claim to fame is marrying one.”