Peeved? Here’s some word vomit to go with your peeve.

“I don’t want to marry Charles Preston Sappington. Not today. Not any day.”

Fudge me, I was starting to feel good. My head was now floating a full two feet in the air, light as a feather. And oh boy, now I was smiling? Small, but it was there. Smiling.

The same could not be said for my mother. “Explain yourself,” she commanded, and when my mouth opened she said, “and if you say that one more time I’ll—”

I laughed out loud. With a saucy Latin rhythm I repeated, “I don’t want to marry. Charles Preston Sappington. Not today, not any day,” finishing with a hip bump that shook my pinned-up curls.

“I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense!” my mother snapped. “Now straighten up and get it together. We’ve got a house full of people and I won’t have them witnessing a breakdown.”

“Breakdown?” I laughed again. “I think maybe I’d better go get some air. Yeah—air is good.” I hiccup-giggled, my smile now wrapping across my entire face. “Bye, Mother.” I whirled for the kitchen and grabbed my purse and the keys to my convertible. Convertibles were good for one thing only, something I needed desperately right now. Built in air. Let’s go.

“You’ll do no such thing, Chloe. Chloe, you listen to me!” she yelled after me as I raced out the front door, cackling. Wow, breakdowns happened fast. I slid behind the wheel of my BMW, turned the ignition, and was out of the driveway before she made it to the front door.

“I’m calling Charles!” she yelled as I waved madly at my glam squad peeking over the backyard gate.

“I’m not marrying Charles Preston Sappington. Not today. Not any day!” I yelled once more, this time in full opera voice to the tune of Ode to Joy.

I sped out of my neighborhood, took a few crazy turns, and headed out onto the highway, top down, music at full blast. Still in my nightgown and pinned curls.

Point: mother-fudging Chloe.

My mother called my phone. Seventeen times in a row. Then Charles called. Fourteen times in a row. Then my father called. Once. I let them all go to voice mail. My text box was filling up by the minute. I didn’t look once. After driving for a while, I ended up at the beach. I sat on the sand, picked the pins out of my hair, and let the sun shine down through my thin cotton nightgown. I ran my fingers through my curled hair, not caring that there was sand clinging to my fingertips.

I watched as a family of four headed down toward the water. Mom and Dad, Junior and Girl Junior. They splashed and played, Mom looked amazing in a bikini, and Dad was good looking too. They kissed once while the kids were busy building a sand castle. Dad’s hand migrated south, grabbing a handful of buns and squeezing, making Mom laugh and pretend to slap his hand away. The kids saw them kissing and made a great show of pretending to be disgusted, but laughed the entire time. Then Mom and Dad grabbed the kidlets, and into the water they all went once more.

Good-looking couple. Good-looking kids. Happy family. Pretty didn’t have to mean fake. It just did where I was concerned. My family had been pretty, and bickery. I knew full well how something could look pretty on the outside and be wasp-nasty on the inside. After my parents’ divorce, the energy my mother had put into bickering with my father was channeled toward me, and making sure I was always on top of my game. Stage mother, not technically. But pushy, yes. Determined, yes. She never remarried, she never even dated, and bitter she became. It didn’t happen overnight, but it happened.

And a life with Charles would have become a Day in the Life of the Bickersons. Oh, not right away. First would be the pretty. I saw my life line up in front of my eyes as if it had already happened. Marriage to Charles would give me everything I’d been brought up to want. A handsome husband. A beautiful home. A new car every two years. A membership to the right country club. A position on all the correct social committees. Three children spaced exactly two years apart. Then the obligatory “mommy job” where I went in for my tummy tuck and boob lift to keep everything exactly the way it was “supposed” to be. With vacations every summer, Christmas, and spring break, who could ask for anything more?

But I wanted less. I wanted so very much less. And while there were tiny bubbles of “is this what you really want?” all along, I was in denial about it until about forty-five minutes ago. Pretty led to bicker, bicker led to divorce, and divorce led to bitter. I didn’t want pretty, then separated. I didn’t want bitter; I wanted forever. I wanted swoony, sparky, maddening, sexy love. And if we were going to fight, we’d fight, not bicker. Bickering’s the worst.

My phone rang again. Charles. I stood up, dusted myself off, walked down to the water’s edge, and heaved my phone as far into the Pacific as I could.

Then I got back in my car and drove to my father’s house.

When my parents divorced, I was a freshman in college. I was old enough that I didn’t have to pick a side. But in the small ways, which become bigger over time, I unofficially picked my father. Easygoing, nonpushy, quick to bear hug and even quicker to laugh—when I was with my dad, I was a different daughter. Stop slouching, stand up straight, don’t you think the fruit cup is a better option—those were all statements my mother would murmur without a thought. With Dad I was more likely to hear: you looked great up there, you’ll get ’em next time, tiger; you can eat prunes when you’re old—go ahead and get that Big Mac now.

My dad loved me—and that was it. So in the middle of a breakdown and in need of a safe haven? Where else would I go?

He wasn’t home when I arrived, so I pulled my car around back, then curled up in the hammock on the back porch, keeping my mind away from anything too major. I heard his car pull into the driveway, stopping short at the sight of my car.

He walked toward the porch with a concerned look on his face. And after taking in the nightgown and the sand still clinging to my bare feet, he quickly understood more than even I knew at that point.

“Oh, Chloe,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” I answered, then gave a kick to get the hammock moving again.

He stood there for a moment, watching me swing. “Okay,” he finally said, and took out his phone. I listened as he told my mother that yes, he’d found me, yes, I was fine, and no, I wasn’t getting married that day. And that he’d bring me home when I was ready. And no, she couldn’t come over right now. When I heard her screech about sending Charles over to collect me, he told her exactly what he thought about that idea. It may have involved an ass and a kick. Then he disappeared into the house, came back with two beers, and we sat next to each other in silence.