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These are the moments when I love Benjamin the most, when he puts his heart out there. When he shows me how much he cares. This is when I imagine our future together.

Ben’s hand trails the length of my long hair before cupping my cheek. “We’re going to have an amazing summer here.”

Nodding, I shut my eyes and lean into his touch.

“Liv, your dad is… amazing.”

And the moment has vanished. Not exactly what a girl wants to hear after a kiss like that. I clear my throat and study my boyfriend. “My dad is amazing. Is that really what you want to talk about? Now?”

“He’s brilliant. And—” He tilts his head, his eyes searching the ceiling of Katie’s old room, searching for another adjective to describe my father.

I live for our moments. We’ve been together so long, it seems we have less and less of them. Maybe that’s normal as the newness of our relationship has long faded. But when they come, I try to feel every second of them—but does he?

I’ve read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice a hundred times. I have half the classic memorized. That infamous first line pops into my head as I stare at the man before me.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

And back then, if a man didn’t have a fortune, he was most likely looking to obtain one. But what constitutes wealth?

A successful father?

“Benjamin, did you know that in the 1800s women and men were often sought after—married, even—solely for their fortunes? Isn’t that sad? I’m sure it still happens today.”

He tilts his head, squinting at me in the dim light. “You are a funny girl, Olivia Benson.” Leaning in, he places a quick peck on my mouth. “’Night, hon.”

“Goodnight, Benjamin.” I watch him leave, repressing thoughts of being sought after for the good fortune of having been born Jonathon Benson’s daughter.

It’s ridiculous. He’s in this, committed just like me.

I run my hands over my tired eyes, then glance at the alarm clock I plugged in earlier. 2:12 a.m. The humming of my parents’ voices filters into my room. Wait. Someone called. At this hour. And on the old landline my father refuses to get rid of.

My thoughts flit to my brother, away at college, arriving later in the week, and I leap from the bed. Has something happened to Grayson?

I hurry out into the living room to an ongoing conversation between my parents.

My father is in his sweats, his eyes tired, his arms crossed. “I have four new people coming in tomorrow, Shelly, including Benjamin and Olivia.”

Mom slaps a hand to her head. “Jonathon, you aren’t seriously considering not going. Work can wait.”

They’re face to face, neither of them noticing me. Dad stares at Mom. I know that look—his mind is made up. But what are they talking about? It can’t be Grayson; my mother would be panicked, and my father would be in motion, fixing the problem.

So, what is the problem?

“She’s your mother, Jonathon!”

“Amelia?” I whisper. They’re talking about Amelia? We haven’t seen my estranged Wyomingite grandmother in years. Not since Grandpa Burt died.

“I know! I don’t need you making me feel guilty. The absent years are doing that already.” Dad rarely raises his voice. As a top-tier attorney, he knows how to keep calm through a raging tornado.

Chill bumps erupt over my arms. I’ve never seen my parents argue like this in all my life. “What’s going on?”

Dad’s head snaps over to me. And then he’s glancing at Mom.

Pinching her lips together, Mom stares back at him.

Huh. Another first. Dad has always leaned on Mom’s gentle ways, and Mom’s always allowed it. Not tonight.

The air grows thick with their silent tension. “It’s Amelia,” Dad finally says. He doesn’t call her ‘mother’ or ‘grandma’ as he should. “She’s dead.”