Cashmere & Cunningham – Life’s Seasons

I walked into the front door to jazz music pearling through the home from the ambience speakers hidden throughout, often used during the many ways my parents always entertained. Wasn’t unusual — just this wasn’t any sort of event. The house smelled faintly of lemon polish and the ocean drifting in from the Bay, the kind of scent that always made me feel like I’d stepped into a memory.

I was back home from uni unexpectedly, as there was something with the sewer system and while they couldn’t make us leave officially, they strongly advised it, and classes were halted for the foreseeable future. There was nothing that would hold me there; the moment the announcement came out, my roomie Tate and I practically raced each other packing. He was over uni-life too, just biding his time till graduation, much like me. The moment the plane was ready, I was gone.

Evie was so excited, but also sad, as her uni didn’t have such issues and she and some co‑students were on a trip to some physical therapy research facilities down in Willow Creek, so she couldn’t greet me. I was a student too, still, so I understood that we do almost anything for credits, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. Her voice on the phone had been bright, but I could hear the little dip in it — the one she got when she wanted something she couldn’t have.

We were gonna have to wait a few more days to see each other again. Oh well, at least we were closer to it now than before.

So instead Dad picked me up. I mean, don’t read into this — I am always happy to see my parents, they have always been excellent parents, but… well… you know. I had been so much looking forward to seeing Evie again, live and in full color. Hug her. Well, postponed, not cancelled.
Mom was away for a few days, promo tour for her new album release. The car ride home smelled like Dad’s cologne and the leather seats warmed by the sun, familiar and grounding.

Once home I decided to get some air — yeah, I know I sound like early‑onset cardigan culture again, but I just missed home, like you usually do when you are elsewhere for months and then come home. Went for a walk. The gravel crunched under my shoes, the hydrangeas were in full bloom, and the breeze off the bay carried that salty-cold smell that always made me breathe deeper.

When I got back, I walked into the music moments, poking my head into the dining room — nothing — then the living room where I heard voices. A woman laughing. Light, bright, familiar.

Huh?

I burst in and stared at my Dad leaning in to some woman with her back to me, almost intimately talking, then both chuckled. The afternoon sun poured through the tall windows, catching in her blonde hair. This was when Dad saw me — no guilt on his face whatsoever — he smiled.

“Ah, there he is. Come here, kid, and say hello.”

I carefully stepped closer as the woman turned and I had a facepalm moment and felt guilty for ever thinking something off-color about my Dad giggling and leaning in with random chicks.

“Oh… hi, Viola,” I mumbled, praying I wasn’t blushing.

“Oh my God, you are all grown up and an adult. Goodness, Brad, what are you feeding those kids? Fertilizer? Are you too grown up for me to hug you or is that weird?” she chirped, and I had to smile. Her perfume — something floral and warm — drifted faintly when she moved.

“Not weird.”

We hugged — a hearty one. She always hugged like she meant it, arms tight, cheek warm against mine.

For just over a year of my life, I was still just a toddler then, she was my stepmom while my mom was back in San Sequoia patching things up with Jackson Kershaw (ugh!). Viola was great. She was Charlotte’s mom. After the divorce, Charlotte went to live with her — until she hit the child stage and begged to move back here. She couldn’t get along with her stepdad or her stepbrother; still can’t. No problem with her half‑sisters, but those two and her won’t mix. So Charley came to live with us, and Viola came to Rosebriar Haven often to spend time with her daughter. She fit into the house like she’d never left — laughing with Mrs. Marwood, chatting with Dad, slipping into the rhythm of the place as if Brindleton Bay had always been her second home.

We exchanged some pleasantries, small talk, updates on her three kids with her current husband, and that she was here waiting to surprise Charley with some mother‑daughter thing. Her eyes sparkled when she talked about her kids — that soft, proud glow moms get.

“You can join us, Nate,” Viola offered.

“Oh, thanks, but I… umm…”

“Nate has a girlfriend now, Vee. He’s more than anxious to see her and we are merely background noise and temporary distractions at this point, Vee,” Dad outed me, and my glare just made him laugh, while Viola looked at me the way mothers look at their kids when they find out they like a girl. Her eyebrows lifted, her smile widened, and she tilted her head like she was already imagining wedding invitations.

“No — Nate does not have a girlfriend,” I said quickly, cheeks burning.
…Did I?
Did I not?

Because suddenly I wasn’t sure.
Did the kiss mean that?
Was there supposed to be a conversation?
A declaration?
A contract signed in blood?

I mean — you don’t just kiss a random person at an airport.
You kiss someone you… like.
Someone you’re with.
Right?

Or maybe you only know you’re officially boyfriend‑and‑girlfriend once you… well… sleep together. Except that couldn’t be the rule, because people have one‑night stands with total strangers and that definitely doesn’t make them a couple.

But Evie and I hadn’t crossed that line yet. I mean, yes, we’d slept with each other plenty of times — the literal kind, the “sharing a bed because we’re exhausted, frightened, drunk or just comfortable” kind — but not like… that. And not since the kiss, since this was my first time back on the East Coast after it happened.

So what did make you a couple?

I had absolutely no idea.

Which meant… maybe I did have a girlfriend. Oops.

“Alright, well, whatever you wanna call it, kid — the girl you keep getting into the oddest situations with, whom we took to Sulani, who came to your birthday, and who you went camping with. Oh, and whose apartment you stayed over several times now.”

Viola grinned in ah, so girlfriend, then, got it, but said, “Camping? You? Oh, good Lord.”

“Yep, don’t ask. That’s a story for a few beers.” I tried to sound casual.

“Oh yes, he does that too now. My little boy has gotten drunk more than once. And I do not mean tipsy. I mean vomiting-in-the-upstairs-hallway-wasted,” Dad smirked. Viola laughed, nudging him like old friends. The sound of their laughter mixed with the jazz, warm and nostalgic.

“You mean like me in my kitchen back after we first met? Worst day at work and then some and you walked into all that mess, when I wasn’t at my finest. Though I did make it to the toilet bowl for the vomiting part,” Viola laughed.

“Well, at least that’s the story I, as a gentleman, told you. But yeah, just like that, but for different reasons. I think he wanted to impress a girl, cos aside from a few bits of drama, his life has been sheltered enough to not having the need for ultimate drink orgies to make it more bearable. Either way, hard to imagine, my sweet boy going rogue.”

“That is hard to imagine. Doesn’t sound like you at all, Nate. I, on the other hand, was in a bad way back when.”

“Yes, you were. Not to mention when you ran out into the apartment hallway barely dressed to tell your landlord what you really thought of him. THAT still haunts me.” Dad laughed.

“Ha, anything to be memorable, Brad.” she laughed too.

Those two have never been like you usually imagine ex‑spouses. His first wife, Molly, has — and still was. She doesn’t show up here often anymore, used to when Graham was still alive and before Lauren moved to Del Sol Valley, but when she does, my sisters and I hide. It always — ALWAYS — ends with a fight, either with Dad and her or Mom’s BS tolerance runs out, and it becomes the stuff for Reality TV.

Those two used to be friends, Mom and Molly, in high school from what I understand, and that is impossible for me to believe. A lot of women envy my mom — she’s rich, famous, grew up in the famous Cameron family, married into the prestigious Cunningham family, was fifty and still hotter than many thirty‑year‑olds. But Molly had this strange addiction to just having to torture Dad and an expert‑level hate for Mom and Mom wasn’t one to let something like that slide. And Molly didn’t even want Dad anymore, I think — she hated him passionately — so I didn’t get what her issue was. She remarried and that marriage already failed. I think she dated and all that crashed and burned. At some point I think she should maybe take a long hard look in a mirror and consider it may be a she‑problem.

Viola Moments

Either way, before Dad could tattle on my drunk fests with Evie, he got a work call and had to step out. Viola got up and gestured me to come along to the kitchen for some coffee, where our housekeeper, Mrs. Marwood, greeted her like an old friend. The kitchen smelled like fresh pastries and the faint vanilla of whatever candle Mrs. Marwood always had burning.

While she made us coffee “just the way you like it, Mrs. Viola,” we sat on the terrace. The bay breeze rustled the leaves, the sunlight warmed the stone under our feet. Mrs. Marwood placed a tier of pastries on the table, winking at Viola, who told her she was the best.

Grabbing some, making the same kind of moaning sound Evie often made when tasting things she never knew and loved, she sighed.

“Have some, please, or I will eat all of this and then you will have to roll me out to my car, Natey,” she giggled.

“I am good,” I grinned. Then I got serious. “Hey, Viola, can I ask you something very personal?”

She stopped chewing, eyebrows raised, then chewed in slow‑motion. “Ummm… I don’t know if I am qualified, remember, I only have daughters and a stepson who has been an emotional ice chest since Grant and I met, but sure, shoot.”

“Oh, nothing like that. Just… and if this is too personal or hits hard, just ignore, okay?”

She sat up straighter, sipped some coffee which Mrs. Marwood had brought out for us. She nodded. The mug clinked softly against the saucer.

“Okay, I am not sure how to phrase this but… let me ask first. Has Dad mentioned Elodie to you at all?”

She gave me a look, then leaned in. Her expression softened, the way people do when they know something heavy is coming.

“Okay, so I was told to deny everything if it ever came up, but… yeah. I am so sorry, sweetie.”

“Yeah, it’s cool, I don’t mind you knowing. But look, I felt things for her, and those were real. And I get why she felt so backed against a wall that she even considered it. I know she isn’t like that, just golddigging to buy designer clothes and all. But still… I felt very hurt and insulted and used. Then again I keep wondering what I would do if our paths ever crossed again. Then I see you and Dad, compared to Molly and Dad — both ex‑wives — and it’s night and day.”

I paused, so she spoke.

“Okay, listen Nate, first of all, do NOT ever compare me to Molly. That dragon made my life with your Dad hell and for no good reason at all. Your Dad hates her with a burning passion and the feeling is mutual, so I never understood what the drama was even about. That being said, I get where your mind is at. You wonder if you and Elodie could be friends. So here is my take: no. And I will tell you why.”

She leaned closer, elbows on the table, pastry forgotten.

“Your Dad and I loved each other — still kinda do — but a different kind of love than, let’s say, I have for Grant and Brad has for Briar Rose. But he needs the love Briar Rose can give, and I needed what Brad could never give me, but Grant can. I was starved for that level of love and didn’t know it until I ran into Grant and my heart did weird things. Once we realized and acknowledged that, separating wasn’t as hard as break‑ups or divorces normally are. Your parents and I are friends. Real, honest, friendship right there. There is no weirdness, no competition or jealousy between your Mom and me, I actually came her to see her, not Brad, so. And yes, we all know that is something very rare and special. Now Grant, my husband, is iffy about all this. Which is why he never wants to come here. He doesn’t know how to act around all this affluence, let alone someone like your Mom, and then hanging with his wife’s ex just isn’t it. Add that you know Charley and he just can’t with each other. But that’s beside the point. Fact is, Brad and Bri and I are genuine friends.”

She touched my hand, warm and steady.

“You are not that with Elodie. She broke your heart — doesn’t matter why, the result and the pain are the same. So… if you ask my honest opinion, no, that chapter should stay closed forever. If you were to ever run into her — which isn’t outside the realm of possibility, I mean, you still go see Briony and that’s where Elodie is from — only natural she goes home, you go visit and run into each other — then be polite and friendly, and move on. Like a neighbor.”

I let her words settle, and nodded. “Yeah, that makes perfect sense. Thanks, Vee.”

“Anytime, sweetie. Now, see that pinkish decadence over by your cup? Will you hand that to me? You just grab it — I am not high society.”

I had to laugh, while turning the treat tower, as she used to call these three‑tier pastry servers, toward her.

“Here. I don’t know where my hands have been, so…”

“Eww, TMI, sweetie. So, tell me about Evie. All the details… and a photo, please.”

I grinned and did exactly that. All the sweet moments, the facepalm ones, the funny ones. When Dad came back out he found us leaning against each other snorting and wheezing, making him smile.

“What did I miss?”

“Secret stuff, Braddy. Oh, and sorry — I think I ate all the pink pastry thingies. Hope your heart wasn’t set on them.”

“I know where to get more, glad you enjoyed.” Dad smiled and joined us, Mrs. Marwood already bringing him coffee. The steam curled up from the cup, mixing with the warm pastry smell.

Enter The Dragon

While we spoke the doorbell rang. Mrs. Marwood came back with a gloomy face.

“Dr. Cunningham … umm .. .it’s … ahem …”

“It is Mrs. Winthrop. It’s not so hard, is it? Hello Brad. Nate. Oh, and look who slithered in the moment Briar Rose turns her back. Some things just never change. How on-brand for you Bradford. Once a cheater …”

Yup, Molly. Dad’s first wife, who likely transformed during a full moon into a fire-breathing witch. Ugh. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble, her perfume too strong, her expression already sour. She used to be beautiful, looked a lot like Lauren when she was younger. Now she looked like something circling those dying in the desert.

Viola barely managed to keep a straight face.

“Yeah, on that lovely note, I will leave you all be. Brad, just tell Charley to meet me at the Bay Cafe when she gets back.”

Dad looked startled for a second, his eyes pleading her to not leave him alone with Molly, and I could watch a full conversation happening in his and Viola’s eyes, but she shook her head, planted a kiss on Dad’s cheek — she rarely did that but now on purpose as a special F.U. at Molly — then left, while Molly slid into a chair.

“Bradford, I need to speak to you about Lauren. Hey, Nate can you go and give us a minute?”

I pushed back my chair, and started to rise, Dad pushed me back down.

“Molly, this is his home. There is nothing about Lauren he couldn’t hear. She is his sister.” Dad stood up for me against that woman ordering me around in my own home.

“Half-sister, unfortunately. This doesn’t concern him. But it concerns us. Nate, please …”

“Nate, stay!” Dad insisted.

I honestly didn’t know what to do, my eyes caught Mrs. Marwood and she gestured me to stay, so I did. Yikes. The air felt heavier, like the house itself was bracing.

“Coffee?” Mrs. Marwood offered and Molly didn’t even look at her.

“Yes, of course. Dumb question.”

“Don’t talk to her like that!” I blurted out.

“How dare you? Brad did you even consider actually raising your children with some manners? Compare how Graham was and how Lauren is to that one. You know why that is, don’t you? That is Briar Rose’s bad influence with her retched family stumbling from one scandal into the next!”

“Leave Bri out of this! And I thank you not to meddle in how I raise my children, Molly …”

“Margaret!”

“Margaret then. All my kids grew into young, successful, wholesome and solid young adults.”

“Well, considering they are basically bastards.” her tone was sny.

“MOLLY!” Dad warned.

“MARGARET!” she corrected.

Dad closed his eyes and exhaled. I closed my eyes and wished myself elsewhere. Didn’t work. Still here.

“Fine, Margaret, what did you want to discuss about Lauren?” Dad was nearly vibrating with suppressed anger. I wished Mom were here. She didn’t have Dad’s Old Guard inhibitions on using foul language and she’d absolutely throw down with Molly/Margaret if pushed too hard. One time she had. Molly/Margaret had slapped Dad and Mom nearly off’ed her for it. Blaine, Dad and Chad had to hold Mom back, while Mom’s bestie Maeve dragged Molly out the door.

“I think she and that Blaine are trying for another kid!”

Blank stares from both of us.

“So?” I asked, in another episode of mouth freelancing without consulting my brain. I mean, what business is that of anyone else?

Her glare could have killed small animals.

“Can you please leave?” she snarled.

“We already established that he lives here, unlike you, and he will stay.” Dad’s patience was running out. “Molly, …”

“Margaret!”

“Right. What exactly do you want me to do about our adult daughter’s family planning? That is her choice and Blaine’s. Not yours, not mine …”

“You know her first pregnancy was rough. We almost lost Ashton. Then that fast second pregnancy, smooth, but the birth almost killed Lauren. We already lost Graham, do you really want to chance losing her too?”

“Mol-Margaret …” Dad sighed hard, took a purposely slow sip from his coffee, then looked at her “Maternity care has come a long way …” he tried but she cut him off.

“Since when? Since Easton was born barely even a year ago? Really Brad?”

“Well, she survived those pregnancies, didn’t she?” Dad finally snapped.

“Barely! No thanks to you!” There it was again. You may not know, but we all did, that subliminal message, which often didn’t stay subliminal, where she honestly blamed poor Dad for Graham’s accidental death while away on vacation. A fire, no less. You tell me how that was my Dad’s doing. Graham was almost 30 then and not like you could have told him not to go. Which, to be fair, Dad actually had.

Marking Territory

Dad was turning redder by the second. He was about to unleash when Caroline walked in, an eyebrow raised, instantly grasping the situation. She looked at me, acknowledged my cry for help and plopped down. Her perfume smelled like citrus and something sharp — confidence in a bottle.

“Coffee, Caroline?” Mrs. Marwood asked with a smile. “Or would you prefer a matcha latte?”

“The Matcha, please and thank you.”

“You raised these kids into spoiled rich brats,” Molly annotated, and I saw Caroline’s eyes narrow — that one hit a nerve.

“Listen,” Caroline said, “I’ll give you rich brat, because I’m self‑aware. But spoiled? Because I care about healthy living and a clean diet? Some of us just don’t want to look like a Shar Pei at thirty.” She tilted her head, voice sweet and venomous. “And some of us clearly don’t care what we look like at any age.”

“You think slurping expensive green mud will help genetics? We all get older, Caroline — it’ll happen to you too. All that trend‑following does is suck money out of your father’s wallet,” Molly lectured my sister.

“I don’t mind giving my children things that make them happy. If I did, why have kids in the first place?” Dad pressed out between gritted teeth.

Death glares between Molly and Dad, especially when she hissed, “Well, that logic works if they’re planned. Some here at the table were conceived while you were still married to someone who wasn’t their mother.”

Ouch. Straight at me. The air went cold.

Caroline stepped in while Dad turned shades of crimson, trying not to say things everyone would regret. I felt ashamed even though I had no control over how, when, or by whom I was conceived. Caroline didn’t let that stand.

“Right — that’s so much worse than getting knocked up by a heartbroken drunk guy at twenty and then being forced to marry him while still in college, just because someone here wanted into the affluent crowd. Truly aspirational stuff. But sure, that was planned… at least by one of the parents involved.
Same goes for that second kid — going off birth control, spinning sob stories, and dragging drunk Dad into bed to conceive Lauren as a last‑ditch patch for a dead marriage. Ever consider having children with the father fully conscious? I hear that’s the holy grail for a successful marriage.”

“Caroline!” Dad barked, but mostly pleading, while now Molly turned shades of red so deep it bordered medical emergency flags.

She jumped up so hard that her chair tipped over, pointing at us, her voice reaching a painful volume level and pitch.

“You know what, fuck you. All of you! If you don’t want to save our one surviving child, while you helped kill the other already, then so be it. I will hate you forever if anything happens to Lauren, while you play house with your awful brats by that whore Briar Rose!”

Dad jumped up too, deep red now “Out! Get out of my house – NOW! Or I will call security and have you seen out, ass first!”

Caroline had to hide her face because Dad didn’t curse, like ever, and when he did, it was always kinda funny in a very unexpected way. I had to fight a grin too.

Molly stomped out, heels clacking like gunshots, Dad exhaled, rubbing his temples while Caro and I lost the fight and burst into laughter.

Dad looked at us like we had lost our minds.

“I am so sorry you had to witness this. I should have known better and let you leave, Nate.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dad. I wanted to stay.” I chuckled, trying so hard to sound genuine.

“Daddy, chill. She’s a bitch, we all know that. Nobody takes her crap serious. Even Lauren thinks she’s over the top, but she’s her mom, so she has to love her, even though there isn’t much there to love. All I know is I would be hella humiliated if that nutcase were my Mom.” Caroline said, calmly sipping her matcha latte.

Dad pinched the bridge of his nose, the way he always did when he was trying to hold onto patience by its last fraying thread. The jazz in the background felt almost comically out of place now — soft saxophone drifting through a room that smelled like tension, citrus perfume, and the faint bitterness of cooling coffee.

“Caro …” he warned, but his voice was tired, worn thin.

Caroline rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair like she owned the place — which, honestly, she kind of did. The sunlight caught in her wavy hair, turning the strands gold, and she crossed her legs with the kind of confidence Molly could never fake.

“Dad, for real now. When is the last time she went to see the twins?” she asked, her tone sharp but steady. “Yeah, ra‑ra, my poor son is dead, but she can’t be bothered to go spend time with his twin boys — her grandkids? And why does she act like it only happened to her? Graham was Nate and my brother too, so chill your titties bitch, we’re all coping. She is such a dumpster fire.”

Dad flinched at the mention of Graham — barely, but enough that I saw it. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the air thickening around us. Even the breeze from the terrace felt like it paused.

“Caro, please, choose real words, not this street-talk you kids seem to find cool.”

“I think you meant to say ‘straight-talk’, Dad. And I wasn’t done yet. Lauren is a fucking doctor,” Caroline continued, her voice rising just enough to make Dad wince at that and her cursing. “If she wants to have another kid, who would know better what the risks are? DUH! I get that Molly never gave a damn to know Charley, Nate or me at all, since we aren’t her DNA, but Lauren is, so are Graham’s babies, so seriously Dad, I am struggling to respect someone like that!”

Dad opened his mouth, closed it again, then rubbed his temples harder. His coffee sat untouched, steam fading into nothing. Mrs. Marwood hovered in the doorway, clearly torn between wanting to intervene and wanting to flee the scene.

“Caroline,” Dad tried again, softer this time, but she wasn’t done.

“No, Dad, seriously. Molly acts like Lauren is some fragile Victorian ghost who faints when someone says ‘uterus.’ She’s literally looks are gory injuries and delivers babies for a living, up to her elbows in all that medical trauma stuff. She knows her limits. She knows her risks. She knows her body. You’re a doctor too, tell me I am wrong. So where did Molly get her medical degree again? That’s right, at the School of Nonsense. She just wants control because she has nothing else going on, aside from watching men run away frightened at the sight of her.”

I snorted before I could stop myself. Dad shot me a look — not angry, just exhausted — and Caroline smirked like she’d been waiting for someone to appreciate her commentary.

“Are you done then?” Dad asked tiredly.

“Yep, thank you for asking.”

Dad sighed — long, heavy, the kind of sigh that came from years of absorbing Molly’s chaos. He sank back into his patio chair, shoulders slumping, the weight of the entire Cunningham family tree pressing down on him.

“I just…” he started, then stopped. His voice cracked. “I just want peace. For once.”

The patio fell quiet. Even the breeze seemed to pause. Caroline softened, her expression shifting from fiery to sympathetic. She reached out and squeezed Dad’s hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“We know, Daddy,” she said gently. “We do. But she’s not peace. She’s a nuclear blast with a grudge. Ignore her — we all do. Unless she pisses one of us off and needs a reality check. Since Mom isn’t here, I took that over. And I know exactly what you’re thinking: ‘Oh Caroline, you are your mother’s daughter.’ Correct. I am. And I’m proud of it.”

Dad huffed out a laugh — small, tired, but real. The tension on the patio loosened just a little, like someone had opened a window even though we were already outside.

“You know, I have five children — one no longer with us, but still mine — all of whom I love dearly and more than life itself. And out of those five, nobody has to guess which two are with a Cameron.”

He chuckled, drinking the fresh coffee Mrs. Marwood set before him. While she usually kept a fully professional demeanor around guests, now she was laughing too. It was true. Caro and I always stood out somehow. Never on purpose.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the breeze from the terrace wash over me. The pastries on the table were half‑eaten, the coffee cups scattered, the jazz still playing like nothing had happened. Rosebriar Haven had seen a thousand arguments, a thousand reconciliations, a thousand storms — and it always stood, always held us, always absorbed the chaos like it was part of its foundation.

Dad looked at both of us, eyes softer now.

“I’m glad you stayed, Nate,” he said quietly. “Even if it wasn’t pretty.”

I smiled, warm and genuine this time. “It’s family. It’s never pretty.”

Caroline snorted. “Especially ours.”

Dad chuckled, shaking his head, and for a moment — just a moment — everything felt calm again. The sunlight warmed the terrace, the bay breeze carried the scent of salt and distant boats, and the jazz curled through the air like a sigh.

Rosebriar Haven exhaled with us.

Mrs. Marwood appeared again, smiling. “Excuse me — a visitor has arrived.”

“Not another one. What now?” Dad was over it.

“Oh, I’m sure this one is welcome,” she said — and Evie stepped into view.

This time I shot up so fast my chair tipped over behind me as I ran to her.

“Oh God, here we go…” Caroline muttered, followed by Dad’s chuckle.

We hugged — tight, breathless — and then came the awkward pause where both of us wondered whether to kiss or not. Two months apart, and that single impulsive airport kiss before I flew back to campus hung between us like a question.

We stared at each other. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

“Oh my God, just kiss her already!” Caroline demanded.

“Caroline.” Dad snapped — sharp, warning.

Evie and I burst into laughter.

“Mrs. Marwood, please get Evie a coffee as well — unless she’d prefer something else?” Dad said, breaking the spell.

“No, coffee would be great, thank you,” Evie replied, turning toward the table.

But I pulled her back and kissed her.

“Oooooooooh!” Caroline squealed — followed by a strangled yelp. When I looked up, Dad had pinched her and was sending glares her way, while she rubbed her arm, pouting.

Blushing, we sat down.

We held hands under the table, shooting each other those ridiculous looks I used to mock my sisters for — the ones new couples always have. I always thought they were laughable. Now here I was doing the exact same thing, and suddenly it made sense.

Evie entertained us with stories from her research trip and everything that went wrong. She stayed over, and it was perfect — sitting out on the porch with her, both wrapped in blankets, the outdoor heater humming, the ocean rushing in the dark, and her next to me.

This was life.

At some point I felt someone shake my shoulder. Dad. Evie and I had fallen asleep together. He carefully woke us and directed us to our rooms. Yes, we each spent the night separately.

It took me a while to fall asleep, lying there in the quiet, staring at the ceiling, wondering — honestly wondering — if I now had a girlfriend.

I didn’t know it then, but that day marked the beginning of a very different season of my life.

Moving On

The next few months felt like my life finally clicked into place. I didn’t go back to San Sequoia. I begged my parents to pull strings so I could finish the semester remotely, and somehow, they made it happen. Mom’s celebrity status and Dad’s influence as a surgeon with a global medical network opened doors I didn’t even know existed. One day I was packing to fly back to San Sequoia, and the next I was enrolled in a “special remote continuation track” that didn’t officially exist. I didn’t question it. I didn’t care. I was home. And for as many times as I had been accused of being nothing but a spoiled rich kid who never had to work hard for anything, might as well use that sort of ‘street cred’ for good.

And Evie was here.

We saw each other constantly.

She was enrolled at the San Myshuno campus — the East Coast city we all treated as our local hub — and Charley and Caroline were there too, just different programs and different buildings. The campus was huge, so they didn’t exactly run into each other.

My sisters had chosen to stay local, partially remote, partially on campus, which meant Evie and I ended up studying together a lot. Sometimes at Rosebriar Haven, sometimes at her campus library, sometimes in cafés overlooking the river, often at her place. We held hands without thinking. We kissed whenever we felt like it. We never actually discussed what we were, but I was pretty sure we were a couple. It felt obvious. Natural. Right.

Charley was starting her fifth semester. She’d broken up with Edward — the future Duke of Henfordshire — at some point, nobody knew exactly when. Or why. No explanation. No drama. Just silence. Mom was disappointed, Dad assumed it fizzled out. I wasn’t convinced. Charley doesn’t fizzle. She either commits or detonates. But she didn’t talk about it, and I didn’t push.

Caroline had just turned nineteen, was now in her third semester of the arts program, splitting her time between the San Myshuno campus and remote classes. She still trained with the horses daily, still competed, still lived half her life in riding boots. Her boyfriend Chad was technically still her boyfriend, but he’d become a ghost. Busy studying, Dad said. Busy avoiding the world, I suspected. Dad related to Chad in ways I never fully understood — two reluctant heirs to empires they didn’t ask for. Chad’s family was a mess of gossip and bad decisions, the kind that stain reputations for generations. His much older brother had practically raised him, which was strange enough, but the fact that Chad’s niece Arden was older than him by a few months… that was stranger still. Dad said it explained a lot. I didn’t argue.

Happy. Effing. Birthday.

Charlotte’s twentieth birthday was exactly the kind of event Rosebriar Haven was built for — loud, warm, chaotic, elegant. Her mother Viola came, along with her husband Grant and Jonas, her stepson. I never understood why Charlotte bristled around Grant. I’d met him several times — blue‑collar, grounded, polite, funny, friendly. Yet one look or one word from him could make Charlotte huff and stomp off like she was twelve again.

Jonas had been a kid when Viola married Grant — maybe six or seven — and he grew into a teenager during those years when Charlotte was still little. He was grieving his mother, suddenly saddled with a stepmother and a stepsister he hadn’t asked for. I’d met him a few times. Always aloof. Always distant. Always borderline standoffish.At some point during the party, Evie and I slipped away, as we always did, to find our spot behind the hedge near the old fountain. Except our spot was taken. And when I saw who it was, my jaw hit my knees.

Charlotte.
Making out with a boy.
One that very much was not Edward Kensington.

This one had dirty‑blonde hair — dirty as in actually unwashed — a beat‑up leather jacket, and worn‑in dark jeans. He looked like a wannabe biker who’d lost the plot somewhere between adolescence and adulthood.

And they weren’t just talking. They weren’t hugging. They weren’t doing anything that could be explained away with a “oh, that’s just friendly.”

No.

They were fully, unmistakably, undeniably making out. Hard.

Let me paint the picture without crossing any lines, just so we are clear what we were seeing and what this definitely was not. This was not a polite greeting. Not a “happy birthday, friend.” Definitely not “happy birthday, stepsister.”

But what this was, was the whole dramatic, over‑the‑top display — intensity, urgency, zero hesitation. The kind of moment where you instantly know this wasn’t the first time, and probably wasn’t going to be the last.

My eyes were about to fall out of my head. My stomach dropped. My jaw dangled around my knees.

I cursed under my breath, because there was simply no other reaction available to me.

Evie’s head snapped toward me. “Okay… that wasn’t a normal Nate noise. What’s the context here?”

“Uh…” I said, still staring, “well, you see what I see.”

“What I see,” she said, leaning in, “is your sister kissing a guy. Why not? She’s freshly single. Let her have this.”

“I don’t care what she’s doing,” I muttered. “I care about who she’s doing it with.”

Evie turned slowly. “You know him?”

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “That is Viola’s stepson — Jonas Fairchild.”

Evie grabbed my arm. “Oh my God. Eeeew! That means he’s Charley’s—”

“Stepbrother,” I finished. “Yeah. We have to tell Dad.”

She nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah. We really do. Are you starting to hear banjos too?”

“It’s a toss‑up,” I said, rubbing my forehead, “between the rushing in my ears — which might be a stroke — and the screaming of borderline incest. Is dating stepsiblings even legal?”

“I don’t know,” Evie said, wrinkling her nose. “I grew up poor, not white trash. I can tell you it’s cringe.”

“Yeah, I got that too,” I muttered. “I thought she hated him.”

“Some girls like the bad boys,” Evie said thoughtfully. “Maybe all that was an act. Maybe they’re secretly married and all.”

“Evie,” I said, staring at her, “please shut up. You going with me to tell Dad?”

“Make it tomorrow morning,” she said, “and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “If I ruin the party, Mom would kill me, Viola would definitely kill me and Charley would never forgive me.”

“I like you better alive,” Evie said lightly.

“I like myself better alive too,” I replied. “Why can’t my family ever be normal?”

“You’re asking a girl who has no family left,” she said softly, “so I’m living vicariously through yours. For all I know, this is normal.”

“I need a drink,” I muttered.

“I need two drinks,” she countered.

“We’ll get two bottles and hide in my room?”

Evie grinned. “Lead the way.”

Tale of the Tattle (and other misunderstandings)

The next morning we found Dad in his home office, Mom perched on the edge of his desk, both of them reviewing something on his tablet. They looked up when we entered — and immediately sensed something was off.

“Ah, Dad,” I started, “there’s something Evie and I have to tell you, and it will be very hard to hear and…”

Their eyes widened. Huge. Terrified. I didn’t understand why.

Dad stood, poured himself a drink, gulped it, poured another.

“So,” I continued, “at the party yesterday, Evie and I snuck away, as we do, and things happened that we… that are… well… very shocking news for you and Mom.”

Mom took Dad’s glass and ex’d it like she was bracing for impact.

Dad cleared his throat. “Umm… you do know things like this are not instant. That sort of thing takes time.”

Evie blinked. “Oh, this wasn’t the first time, clearly not. That happened a lot. That and much, much more.”

I added, “Oh God, yes — so much more!”

Mom grabbed the bottle. Dad grabbed the other bottle.

I stared. “So… what do we do, Dad?”

Mom asked gently, “Have you taken a test?”

“A test?” I repeated. “What test?”

“Well, to see if your worry is founded,” she said.

“Huh?” Evie and I exchanged glances.

Dad frowned. “Nate, Evie… you know how all that works, don’t you? So… when do you think the pregnancy happened and why do you suspect you would be pregnant?”

“Pregnant? What?”

Dad blinked. “Isn’t that what you’re trying to tell us?”

Evie’s eyes went huge. “Oh wait — you think we are—”

“OH MY GOD, DAD!” I shouted.

“We haven’t even… umm…” Evie blurted, then she and I both turned crimson and mute.

Dad collapsed into his chair, exhaling like he’d just dropped a mountain off his chest. Mom plopped into his lap, equally relieved, exhaling theatrically. Each still clutching a bottle of Bourbon. It would have been hilarious under different circumstances.

Dad rubbed his face. “Okay. So if that isn’t what you’re saying… what are you saying?”

I took a breath. “We saw Charlotte kiss Jonas is what we are saying. And not a hello‑welcome kiss. They full program—”

“Yeah,” Evie added, “with tongue and wandering hands and all. They are in this deep.”

Dad froze. Mom froze. The world froze.

War Room

And that was how the real conversation began.

Dad called Viola and Grant over, laid out the story for them, and they freaked out. A few glasses of Dad’s best bourbon for the men and Mom’s favorite wine for her and Viola later, they called in Charley and Jonas.

I am not gonna lie, I was plastered up against the office door with one ear, Evie and Caroline next to me until Mrs. Marwood showed up and shooed us off while lecturing us on eavesdropping and proper behavior of young adults.

Caro and I tried to get something out of Charley a few times and she exploded, then ran off every time. So, clearly a sore subject, confirmed by the fact Mom and Dad wouldn’t talk about it either. Well, I mean, it was cringe, but not illegal. But still cringe.
In my head I had this ten-year plan, graduate, establish myself in the career, get engaged, travel, get married, eventually have a bunch of kids. With each whammy that happened, the bunch of kids shrunk. Before long I’d be down to one.

Eventually even this kinda blew over.

Fall Semester

It was fall now and at one point everyone went somewhere, leaving just Evie and me at Rosebriar. We lived it up. We ate like crazy people, drank fine wine, danced across the entire house, jumped on the couch, watched movies. Anything and everything.

At some point I decided to give her the full tour when I realized she never had one, though she knew most of the estate by now. Been here often enough, often overnight, she practically lived here too. That one guestroom near my room was now always refered to as Evie’s room. That much.

We ended up in Mom and Dad’s bedroom — they weren’t home — and I showed her the view from their private balcony onto the Bay and the lighthouse where it all began again.

We sat out there on the cozy two-seater Mom had flown in from Tartosa years ago after spotting it window-shopping with Dad during one of our family vacations, enjoying the soft breeze, wrapped in a blanket Mom always keeps there. Then it got too chilly and we went inside.

Naturally we went crazy and started a pillow fight with all those many pillows Mom liked to have on the bed, which quickly turned the tide.

After whacking each other in the face at zero distance and laughing like idiots, we ended up kissing.

Kissing turned into making out.

My heart was racing when the atmosphere shifted to something new.
Uncharted territory.

I felt her hands on me, that part wasn’t new, but something about it was different this time, so mine explored her in a way I never had before, and before we knew it, we crossed that last line we had not crossed yet. No plans, no romantic date nights, no fanfares. It just happened because the time was right.

It was special, different, a first in a way — bliss, elation, something I don’t have a word for. I know how cheesy this sounds but I have never felt anything like this before. It was hands-down one of the best experiences of my entire life.

Afterwards we lay embraced, still kissing, both smiling and crying and whispering affirmations of love, both still surfing that strange ‘high’, talking about the past, the present, the future…

… when the door opened.

We both shot upright, her pulling the blanket up herself and clutching it to her chest, me trying to reclaim some to cover my nakedness while we stared at my parents — who were staring at us with eyes so huge they threatened to fall from their sockets.

Dad woke from the shock first, directing Mom out of the room, and with a tight voice left us with:

“Get dressed and come to my office.”

The door shut.

Evie and I stared at each other, shocked, humiliated.

And then we started laughing.

I don’t know why.

This was not funny at all. I was mortified and knew so was Evie.

When we left, Mrs. Marwood went in.

And the look she gave us — that slow, knowing, I‑raised‑you‑and‑I‑know‑everything‑you’ve-ever-done stare — told me everything.

She knew. Oh God. She knew.

This would have been horrifying had it happened in my room. But no, NO, we put a giant cherry on that steaming pile of worst decisions ever made.

She knew Evie and I had… done things… in my parents’ bedroom.

My parents’ bedroom.

The room where Brad and Bri Cunningham sleep. The room that is basically a sacred parental temple. The room no child should ever enter for anything other than retrieving a sweater or asking for permission to go out.

And Mrs. Marwood — the woman who had been in my life since I was born, who’d practically been a bonus‑grandmother to me, who’d tucked me in, taught me manners, scolded me for climbing furniture, who’d taught me to tie my shoes and scolded me for tracking mud through the foyer, baked my birthday cakes, and made me soup when I was sick — was now walking into that room to… clean up the … crime scene of unbridled passion Evie and I had caused without a second thought.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor. My soul tried to evacuate my body. I was pretty sure I died for a second.

Oh GOD.

I was definitely the furthest away from laughing when knocking at my father’s home study.

“Come in.” his voice sounded like his business-tone.

Gulp.

We entered, but Mom instantly directed Evie out and left with her.

The door closed softly but felt like a cannon shot to me.

“Sit.” Dad gestured at one of the visitor chairs.

I sat.

He inhaled, pulled off his glasses, folding them reverently, then setting them aside, while he rose and poured two glasses of bourbon.

Not sure I need to specify this but I am twenty‑two and never had bourbon.

He handed me a glass, raised his, while I was back in my usual stuffed‑animal freeze, so he clinked his glass to mine.

“Drink, son. Makes you warm and fuzzy inside, as your mother likes to say. Then again, you probably are plenty warm and fuzzy.”

“Dad, I can explain…”

He raised one hand, then gestured for me to drink.

I sniffed it — it was strong — then took a tiny sip that pulled everything in my mouth together like a lemon.

“Take a drink like a man, Nate.”

I bravely attempted it and saw stars. “Damn, that’s some strong shit!” I blurted out, making my father laugh. Normally he would reprimand cursing, but he was beyond amused as he leaned back in his chair, then sighed.

“Nathaniel,” he said — and by my full name and his tone I knew this was where the lecture would start. “Your mother and I are beyond thrilled that you found love again, and from the looks of it, with someone who shares a lot of similarities with you — or as your generation likes to say, you vibe. However, with a house as large as this, a separate pool house, and a number of available guest rooms, one might expect you to find a more suitable location than desecrating your mother’s and my bedroom with your unbridled passion.”

“Dad, I am sorry…”

“Nate. This is about as pleasant for me as it is for you, so let’s not make it into a thing. I had to voice my disappointment to you, which I have now, and I expect this to remain a one‑time lapse of judgment.”

“Absolutely. I do want to say we didn’t go to your room with plans. I gave her the tour and wanted to show her the view from your balcony and then suddenly… well… I don’t have any real explanation.”

“I do. You are in love, son. And I am very happy for you. You once asked me if Evie reminded me of your mother, and I had a hard time answering then, barely knowing the girl. I feel like I know her enough to cast judgment now, and the answer is yes. I fully understand why you fell for her. I really do. And I hope now we may officially refer to her as your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I guess that was more than sufficiently implied, Dad.” I said, then coughed because I wanted to look cool and adult and took another big sip.

Dad waited until I calmed down enough before he continued.

“I have to bring this up, as I am almost certain I can guess the answer, mostly confirmed by you mentioning that this was a spur‑of‑the‑moment thing. Have you or Evie wasted a thought on protection?”

I had just attempted to prove I was a real man and taken a manly sip of the bourbon, which now spewed out of me like a broken fountain, making Dad jerk back.

“Nate! Get a hold of yourself! I have important paperwork here for my review, which I prefer to return without unsightly bourbon splatter!” he grumbled, patting around on his desk with a stray golf towel.

“Pro — protection?” I parroted.

Ummm…

Oops.

Oh shit.

Oh God.

I was fifty percent Cameron, a family famous for unplanned conceptions at the worst possible moments — so much so that generations ago a term was coined for just that: the Cameron Curse.

Dad saw me turning pale, so he gestured for me to calm down.

“It’s okay. Your mother is speaking to Evie right now about just that, and we will get this under control somehow.”

“Mom is… oh GOD!”

Nothing like your mother having an unsolicited birds‑and‑bees talk with your brand‑new girlfriend whom you just got caught nookying with in your parents’ bed. I might well be single again after this.

We survived this too.

And I know what you all are thinking now, I know I am 50% Cameron and Camerons are almost more famous for the Cameron Curse than for all their arts combined, but I have to disappoint you. I don’t date stupid chicks, and my girlfriend has an IUD, which counts as one of the safest birth controls out there. Not that I knew that when the deed was being done, but I do now and am more than grateful for it. And not oversharing here or anything, but for any potential next encounters of that sort, which I am neither admitting nor denying happened or are happening, we doubled up protection just in case.

It was weird for a while and I stayed over at Evie’s more than her with me.
Eventually it felt more normal again.

Performing Hussy

It was a Friday night, and Evie and I were sprawled across the couch in the living room, half‑watching a movie with Caroline and her boyfriend, Chadwick Lockwood. Things were quiet — until they weren’t.

A commotion erupted in the hallway. Loud voices. Footsteps. Something thudding against a wall. We all glanced over, distracted, just in time for the double doors to burst open.

My mother stormed in like she was making a stage entrance, Dad right behind her, desperately trying to keep his blazer wrapped around her shoulders while she fought him off like he was a malfunctioning prop.

She finally succeeded, slapping the blazer against his chest with a crack, then spinning around so fast her hair whipped across his face like a honey‑blonde lasso.

It was almost funny watching him claw his way out of her curls while she presented herself with the flourish of a seasoned performer — showcasing a tiny, barely‑there sequined number that aspired to be a dress but hadn’t quite made it. A breath of coverage, sparkly as a disco ball, and absolutely not leaving much to the imagination.

I mean, we had a pool. I’d seen my mom in bikinis that were basically engineering marvels. But this? This was… conceptual. Then again, she’d been a performer my whole life. Outfits like this were practically her uniform.

“This is one of my stage outfits for the upcoming tour after the new album goes live!” Mom declared, hands on hips. “Do I look like a slut to you?! Because my husband seems to think I should be up on that stage in a burka or something! Just because you wear scrubs for a living!”

“Bri! For heaven’s sake!” Dad sputtered, horrified. “I said none of that I do rarely wear scrubs!”

“Ah yeah? Then why is it called getting scrubbed in when you go into surgery? Huh?! Yeah, that’s what I thought!”

We all froze. Glances traded. Silent panic.

Because do you want to jump into a conversation with your parents about whether your mom’s outfit qualifies her as a… gulp… slut?

If you do, feel free. I do not. Neither did Caroline.

Chad, however — in his usual bone‑dry, emotionless tone — decided to contribute.

“Stage outfit? Yeah, totally cool. Very Sabrina Carpenter‑esque. I think you look like a hot MILF, Mrs. Cunningham.”

“Dude – what the fuck!?” I blurted, while Caroline shoved him so hard he nearly fell off the couch. She gave him the Girlfriend Glare — the one that could peel paint off walls. I wondered if he even noticed it. Chad — the walking dead — didn’t even flinch. Evie and I secretly called him Lurch, like that giant monotone butler from The Addams Family, because honestly? The resemblance in emotional range was uncanny.

“Nate! Language!” Dad snapped.

Mom whirled on him.

“No, let him talk! You hear that, Bradford, even Chad knows this is a perfect stage outfit! Yet you, my supposedly loving and supportive husband – HA! – you practically called me a slut. You know nothing about performing for an audience! And that’s after all these years! One would think you’d take some interest!”

She stormed out, sequins flashing like emergency lights, Dad scrambling after her.

“Bri, I never called you any of those words! I would never!”

“They were implied!”

“No — what I implied is that there isn’t much to that dress, and knowing how much you move around on stage, you’re running the risk of flashing everybody everything you have—”

Their voices faded as they disappeared down the hallway.

Evie exhaled, wide‑eyed. “Your family is wild.”

“Yup,” I said. “Hit that nail on the head.”

“Are they gonna be okay?” she asked, worry threading her voice.

Caroline answered before I could. She didn’t even look up from the couch — just spoke like someone reciting a well‑known weather pattern.

“They’ll be fine. This isn’t a fight; it’s foreplay. Dad loves how Mom looks, he’s probably drooling over her in that dress, but hates that she shows so much of herself on stage and in her videos. So, he complains cos he doesn’t want other men to see what should be for his eyes only, she gets pissed that he doesn’t get it’ ‘s part of being a singer, both hate that they will be separated and are freaking out hard, so they do this little dance before every tour and every shoot. Always have, always will. Like clockwork. Every damn time she goes on tour for longer than Nate and I have been alive.”

I couldn’t help adding some TMI “Well, not really longer than I have been alive, since they only got married cos I was on the way and Dad finally dumped Molly so fast she’s still dizzy from it. So, a solid twenty-two years of … this. And Caro’s right. Every damn time.”

Evie blinked. “That… was a lot of information.”

Caroline shrugged. “For a while it’s tiny jabs, then it builds, then it becomes the crescendo you just witnessed, and after that? All is well again in parental La‑La‑Land. Their marriage is strong, both have grown above all interferences and they will never split up again. This is just how they clear friction. However—” she pointed a finger at Evie, deadly serious, “word of caution: immediately after what you just saw, once they enter a room? Do not go in there. Trust me. We all learned that the hard way.”

Chad — the walking dead — didn’t even lift his head, just said in his usual bone‑dry monotone, “Yep. It’s true. I did learn the hard way. That was… something no therapy can ever fully erase.”

Evie laughed, shaking her head. “I can’t believe this is normal for you.”

I leaned back, letting the absurdity settle — the movie paused, the sequins still glittering in my mind, my parents yelling down the hallway, Caroline delivering a TED Talk on the normality of the insanity that was the Cunningham marital chaos, Chad looking like he finally had something resembling a heartbeat, and Evie tucked against my side, trying to understand all of it.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Welcome to the circus.”

Evie nudged me. “You love it.”

I didn’t deny it. Because she was right.

This noise, this chaos, this ridiculous, messy, loud, affectionate disaster of a family — it was mine. And for the first time in a long time, it felt like the ground under my feet had stopped shifting.

And that was the moment — sitting there with my girlfriend, my sister, her boyfriend, and my parents screaming about burkas and sequins — that I realized something.

This chaos? This noise? This absolute circus?

This was home. This was us. And somehow, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.