While my father flashes smiles for clients and charms juries into setting monsters free, at home, it’s him—he’s the true monster. And I’m the one left to face the real cross-examination.
I take a step back until there’s a sizable gap between us, and then I spin around and walk out the front door, my pace morphing into a jog when the fresh air overpowers the scent of brandy and Cohiba cigars.
It’s a quick drive to Stevie’s house, three miles south, and I make sure to disable the location tracking on my phone. The drive is quick because I speed like a jackass, swerving in and out of traffic, cruising through stop signs, and gunning it thirty over every speed limit sign.
A pack of cigarettes weighs heavily in my front pocket, my fingers twitching as I drive with one wrist draped over the steering wheel. I’m tempted to pull one out, but I don’t think Stevie smokes, and she’s probably the type to give me a lecture about it.
I’m tired.
I can’t remember the last time I slept. An hour tops. Maybe two days ago. The past week has been a foggy swirl of insomnia, family bullshit, and practicing this role to the point of debilitating exhaustion.
I really want that cigarette, but it’ll have to wait.
When I park my McLaren in the same spot I did last week, I glance over at the big walnut tree. No blanket, no book, no ceramic bowl of grapes. My gaze dances across the lot to the humble farmhouse, and I wonder what lurks inside. Probably love. Warmth. The prospect is a magnet as I spill out of my vehicle and traipse through the patches of green-and-yellow grass.
I don’t make it to the front door before I catch movement in my periphery.
Stevie is swaying lightly on the wooden swing. She dips her head down when I halt a few feet away from her. “I thought you were going to text me before you came over.”
I scrub a hand through my hair, glancing between the house and the swing. “Sorry. Forgot.”
“It’s fine.” Swinging her legs one more time, she hops off the swing and flattens down her billowing T-shirt. It’s a faded turquoise hue, almost the same color as her car, which is nowhere to be seen. “We can practice out here if you want. The weather is nice.”
I’m pretty sure it’s weird to tell her I want to see the inside of her house. But I’m curious if the splashes of color on her walls feel more cheerful than the ones on mine, and I want to see if family photos line the hallways and rooms with unsullied memories. The only picture we have—aside from high-end, abstract gallery prints—is a blown-up canvas of Mom in her golden years. Strawberry-blond sheaves of otherworldly hair spilling down her back. Flirtation in her eyes. An off-the-shoulder violet dress she now has vacuum-sealed and stored away in a five-figure jeweled trunk.
She loves that picture.
More than she loves most things.
I can’t muster the courage to ask, so I just shrug. “Yeah, that works.”
“Can I get you anything?” Stevie ambles toward me, slipping her fingers into the back pockets of another pair of denim shorts. Then her gaze travels to my empty hands, propped on my hips. “A coffee maybe?”
My bone-deep fatigue perks up at the offer. I’d planned to stop for one on the way over, but I was driving on autopilot. “I wouldn’t say no to a coffee.”
“Come on.” Flicking a hand at me, she gestures toward the gravel walkway that leads to a weather-beaten wood door. “Mom and Dad are still at work, and my sister picked up a double shift at the diner today. So it’s just us.”
The big door creaks open, revealing a quaint living area: a tan-colored couch, a rocking chair with a knitted throw crumpled on the seat, and a vintage-looking coffee table settled in the middle of a rusty-orange area rug. It’s a little dark inside, not a ton of sunlight seeping through, but it feels bright somehow. Inviting.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee tickles my nose. “Were you already making coffee?”
She strolls ahead of me, leading the way. “I figured you’d be coming over at some point.”
Stevie must know that I drink a concerning amount of coffee. She’s noticed.
I brush off the strange feeling that comes along with that thought and follow her into the cluttered eat-in kitchen. There’s a generic black coffeepot sitting on the counter, stained with the remnants of countless hurried mornings. It’s a night-and-day difference from our five-figure espresso machine. I watch as she reaches into an upper cabinet for a mug and catch sight of an assortment of well-used seasonings, jars of homemade jams and pickles, and a container of strawberry-milk powder.
She pours me a cup of coffee.
I’m not used to this—hospitality borne from genuine care versus paid obligation. We have two housekeepers on rotation at our house.
“Thanks,” I tell her, taking the ruddy mug and skating my gaze away from the soft smile she sends me. A moment of silence passes as I take a big sip, ignoring the lava that splashes across my tongue. “Am I going to get a tour?”
Her eyebrows arch. “A tour? Of my house?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“It’s old and dated,” she says, nose wrinkling with embarrassment. “Besides, you can practically see all of it from here.”
