I smiled, wiping at my eyes. I stood there, looking at my screen, with a grin on my face.
I wanted more.
I wanted to see her world with my own eyes, not just these glimpses behind the curtain. I wanted to be a part of it.
But it was by invite only. And I doubted she’d ever ask me.
I was getting ready to head back in when the phone rang again.
This time it was Amber. My good mood disintegrated. I let the phone ring three times before I reluctantly pressed it to my ear. “Yeah?”
“Hey. Um, so I didn’t get the direct deposit this week?”
I scrubbed a hand down my face. “It hasn’t even been seven days since I reopened the house. And I had to comp the stay for my guests last weekend.”
“Uh, okay, why?”
“Just some dumb stuff. The trees dropped some acorns on them and—”
“Okay, Daniel? I don’t care.” Her voice was edgy. “You said I’d be getting money every week.”
I blew out a calming breath. “The house is booked up through Sunday,” I said carefully. “I can send you the money on Monday.”
“How much?” she asked quickly.
I drew my brows down. “Is everything okay? You seem…tense.”
Actually, she seemed wired. She seemed high.
Amber being high wasn’t exactly a new development. She’d been doing better over the last few years though. But if she was getting back into drugs, I didn’t like that she was doing it when the money for the house was dangling in front of her like a blank check.
“I’m fine,” she said, a little too curtly. “I just need the money. If you can’t get me money every week, the deal’s off.”
I nodded. “Okay. Last weekend was a one-off. It won’t happen again.”
“And don’t be comping people. What’s wrong with you?” she snapped.
I let this slide. No point in getting into it with her. Last weekend aside, I was very good at what I did for a living. I didn’t need her advice or her criticisms. I didn’t need anything from my mother and I never had.
There was no love lost between me and Amber. I didn’t want to see anything happen to her—but I also knew there was nothing I could do about it if it did.
Amber’s crises cycled. And she bit the hand that fed her, every time. If I offered to let her come dry out here, like Grandma always did, I’d live to regret it. I’d be more likely to find myself canceling missing checks and searching for family heirlooms at pawnshops in Rochester than I would be saving her from herself. So I had to do my best to save the house instead.
“I’ll have the cash in the account Monday,” I said.
“Fine.”
She hung up on me.
I stood outside for a minute, staring at the mural on the side of the pharmacy. I wasn’t getting six months. I’d be lucky if Amber gave me six weeks. The best I could do was hope for as much time as possible.
In a season, one way or another, my life would never be the same.
Chapter 22
Alexis
This was the second morning in a row that I woke up to Neil ruining my day. Yesterday he turned off the power in the house, and today he was in my kitchen.
He was sitting at the table, sipping an espresso, wearing his gray pants and white golf polo.
I wanted to scream.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling at me. “I made the quiche you like.” He nodded to the bar, where a slice of my favorite spinach and broccoli quiche sat with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice on a tray. There was a ramekin of mixed berries on the plate and a tiny vase with a single flower in it.
I loved that quiche. He made it on special occasions like my birthday.
He was doing the thing.
The thing he always did. He was trying to make nice and act like nothing had happened. Like his bad behavior was a cut movie scene that never took place. Like I was going to suddenly forget that he’d turned the power off to the house yesterday, or that he was living here against my will after subjecting me to years of emotional and mental abuse and I was just going to sit and have a casual and pleasant breakfast with him. In fact, he was probably banking on it.
Only I wasn’t the same woman now.
I used to be so worn down from his mood swings and so desperate for any bit of kindness from him that I’d just give in. I’d just let it go, let him get away with it. I’d thank him for the flowers or act excited about the expensive vacation he’d booked instead of actually saying he was sorry. I’d eat the quiche.
Fuck the quiche.