“Brat,” he cut me off.
“Hmm?”
“Shut up.”
An hour later, the Ford Explorer pulled in front of an all-white Mediterranean-style mansion. The manicured lawn was precisely cut, as if the landscaper had used a ruler. There were grand fountains, dramatic columns, and all the status symbols required of a wealthy Dallas family.
Before Ransom turned off the ignition, an unfamiliar man in uniform greeted us from my side of the car. I rolled the window down.
He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a sweaty face and hard-earned wrinkles. “Sorry, folks, this is a private property.”
“I know. I’m the daughter of the people who own it.” I arched my eyebrows meaningfully, the international signal for back-the-hell-off.
His demeanor did not change. In fact, he looked even more suspicious.
“You’re not Hera.” The accusation cut through his tone like a blade.
“No,” I agreed. “I’m their youngest, Hallie.”
He seemed momentarily confused. Finally, he turned around and pressed a walkie-talkie to his mouth. Static noise followed, along with an answer to his question. He began pacing in front of the car. A cold shiver rolled along my skin. I hadn’t visited for so long. I felt like an intruder. For a moment, I even doubted my own legitimacy. Was I truly Anthony and Julianne’s daughter, or had they disinherited me?
“Relax,” Ransom rasped. “We’re getting inside if I have to run this asshole over.”
A warm rush passed through me. It was odd, and almost felt like I had a stomachache. No one had ever stood up for me before.
Finally, the man approached the car again. I took a quick breath, bracing myself for the worst. I hadn’t spoken to my parents since the nip slip.
“Park at the end of the street, then follow me.” He looked grim and uninviting.
Ransom and I exchanged looks. Ransom did as he was told. When we both got out, I crooned, “I think I finally found someone who gives you a run for your money in the personality department.”
The man, who never bothered introducing himself, guided us through the familiar, melodramatic black and white checkered two-story foyer. The house was vast and empty, the clicks of our shoes ricocheting through the walls with a depressing echo. Maids in blue ironed uniforms hurried along the hallway, keeping their gazes down and posture straight. The sound of a piano lesson in session drifted from one of the drawing rooms. My parents often welcomed gifted kids from low-income families for piano lessons. It was good PR, and my mother was a classical music enthusiast.
I never knew what to think about my parents’ charitable gesture toward children. On one hand, it was undoubtedly cool to give back to the community. On the other—shouldn’t they start by being kind to their own child?
The man led us to what my parents referred to as the guest living room. A preppy, all-white space with a pale bricked fireplace and matching brown leather couches. The entire space was littered with family photos of Mom, Dad, and Hera. Sometimes Craig and the family dogs, Bubs and Bamboo, were also featured. Not a single picture included me. Mainly because I’d refused to show up to any of the functions in which these photos were taken. The one holiday I did tag along for—a ski trip—I refused to be a part of the picture. I didn’t want to give my parents the pleasure of pretending we were one, big, happy family.
My palms began to sweat as I took a seat on a lonely stool. I couldn’t stomach sitting on real leather. I prayed that Ransom did not notice how absent I was from the family memorabilia, but doubted it. He had a sharp eye.
An assistant wearing a black swanky suit trotted inside on high heels. Daphne. Mom’s right hand.
“Hello, Hallie. Hello, Ransom. How wonderful that you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence.” Her subtle but pointed dig was aimed at me. “Mr. and Mrs. Thorne are so excited to have you despite not being given any prior notice.” She smiled broadly, her gaze halting on Ransom for a moment too long as she took him in fully. “Understandably, they are currently tied up in prior engagements, but they should be with you shortly. Anything to drink?” Her scarlet smile stretched. Her platinum hair was slicked back. I hated that I was wearing rags. And I hated even more that I didn’t have anything to change into here. Leaving anything here would be like recognizing this house was a part of my life.
“Coffee for me. No sugar, no milk.” Ransom stood up and walked over to one of the windows overlooking my mother’s lush garden.
“Water for me,” I added. “Tap, please.”
“Your mother told me the environment is your new passion.” She smiled. “Better than designer bags, right?”
I was shocked to discover my mother remembered anything about me, let alone talked about me to someone from her staff. Too bad my “sudden” passion with the environment started when I was five and left unattended to watch a pretty grim global warming documentary that sent me into meltdown mode.
Twenty minutes passed before our beverages arrived. Another ten before Ransom took out his laptop and started working in the corner of the room. We rounded an entire hour without being seen.
This was my punishment. For not taking their calls. For refusing to be a part of their family.
An hour turned into two.
By the third hour, I began pacing, sweating, making excuses for them to cover for my embarrassment.
“It’s probably something urgent. I’ve never had to wait this long.”
Ransom did not acknowledge my words. He kept working on his laptop, which he now plugged into the socket. This was for the best, since his answer would probably be: How long do you usually have to wait to see them?
“I think maybe we should go and come back later. I don’t want to be a burden.” I tried in vain to smooth out the wrinkles in my sweatpants.
“You’re already a burden,” he drawled.
“Not to you, to them.”
“I’m sure they share my sentiment,” he deadpanned.
“Better to be a burden than to be an asshole.” I made quick steps to one of the windows, opening it and looking outside to keep myself distracted.
“Debatable.” His condescending tone rose from the other side of the room.
Something caught my eye in the corner of the garden. Right behind the red yucca bushes and sage. It was my mother, sitting on one of the stone benches, clad in one of her cashmere sweaters and a sensible, ankle-length skirt, leisurely swinging a ball launcher and throwing a ball as far as she could. Bubs and Bamboo, her two Pomeranians, ran toward it excitedly, pink tongues flapping.
“Bubs! Run faster, bunny. You’re getting a bit chubby,” she fussed as the little dog wobbled toward her, the ball in his mouth.
This was why I was left waiting? So that my mother could play with her stupid dogs? I was losing to four-legged creatures? That lived with her on the reg?
I stepped away from the window, turning to Ransom. “I would like to leave now.”
“You and I both.” He didn’t lift his eyes from his screen. “But we’re already here, and I’m not making this trip twice today. Dallas’ traffic is a bitch.”
“So am I, when I don’t get my way. I don’t want to be here.” I raised my voice, aware that I sounded like a brat from hell, exactly what he’d been accusing me of.