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“Don’t be a dick.” Her voice is clipped, and I expect her to hang up. That’s usually what she does when I call her Mom. It’s cruel because our mother was a fucking saint, and she’s also dead. Comparing Charlotte to her only reminds my sister how different the two of them were. My sister chose to skip the marriage and kids gig, breaking our mother’s heart before she passed.
“Sorry.” I chuckle, though I’m really not.
“Meet any neighbors yet?”
“Yeah, there’s a nice family behind me. Had me over for drinks today.”
“That’s nice. I can just see you out there around the grill with other guys in cargo shorts and Crocs.” Her husky laugh fills the phone line for a moment while I let a smile creep onto my face.
“No guys at this house,” I add.
She groans. “Oh great. Well, stay away from that house then.”
What my sister is implying is that I have a problem with women. I’m impulsive, indulgent, and reckless. Of course, it’s all fucking true, but I won’t satisfy her with that admission.
Just then, I peer out the glass patio door toward the yard. The six-foot hedge just barely hides the view of the deck where I recently shared a margarita with a middle-aged woman hornier than a cat in heat.
It’s dusk out now, and the air is getting cooler, but there’s still someone standing by the pool. At first, I think it’s the one I first met. The busty brunette.
Then, I catch a glimpse of her long, slender legs as she dives in, disappearing into the water until she pops up on the other side, ducks back under, and glides across again.
Her head breaches the water, and this time, I can make out the softer features of her face. It’s the younger one. The one in the chair with the eyes that stopped me in my tracks.
Nothing about her was dolled up or intentional. Her beauty was different than her sister’s. She was all freckles, wild hair, and sun-kissed skin. And a softly bumped bridge to her nose—elegant in its imperfection.
She had a cold, harsh, no-fucks-given stare. The look in her eyes was like a line from a Dylan Thomas poem: dark and defiant. More poetry than girl.
She steps out of the water and stops. Without a towel, she’s standing on the deck, shivering in nothing more than a thin bathing suit, water sliding down her bare legs in thin silver trails.
Then, her head turns and her eyes trail up to my house where I’m sure she can see me watching her from my brightly lit window.
She doesn’t wave. And neither do I.
Shaking without the sun to dry her, she finally turns away from me and rushes toward the house, hidden by the leaves of the tree.
“Are you still there?” Charlotte calls for the second time before I shake my head and answer her.
“Yeah, I am. Sorry, just tired.”
“Get some rest. Call me tomorrow.” We say our goodbyes, and she hangs up.
The house is quiet, dark, and too goddamn big. There are four bedrooms in this house, three of which I guarantee I won’t even touch, but this is what I wanted—a home.
Something quiet, calm, and a good place to focus.
This is what I wanted, and if I keep reminding myself, I might start to believe it.
CHAPTER 3
SUNNY
Laughter spills up the staircase like booze-soaked static, high-pitched and obnoxious. Once a month—sometimes more—my mom invites dozens of her country club friends to the house. They all get drunk, act like overgrown children, and pretend they are somehow better than everyone else.
On top of the friends, Mom also got the house in the divorce—a six-bedroom, five-thousand-square-foot estate that is somewhere between a house and a mansion. My mom was raised in a double-wide trailer, so marrying my dad, a wealthy talent scout with an impressive client list, made her adulthood one indulgence after another.
“Come have a swim with us,” Cadence calls from the doorway.
“No, thanks.”
