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Hard no.
Farrow:
My own family barely knows who I am, and I live under their roof.
Ari:
So, what are you going to do now?
Farrow:
Find my way back in there and get the pendant when he’s out of the house.
Farrow:
It’s going to take some leg work, but I can do it.
Ari:
You’re crazy.
Farrow:
Crazy, but lucky.
Farrow:
I might not have won at Go, but I won at Catch.
Like all calamities, mine came to me at a low point.
I scrubbed leftover lasagna, the brain-like texture soaking into my sweatpants when the doorbell rang. Tomato paste brushed across my face like war paint.
Tabby had decided the family’s cleaning business, Maid in Maryland, was not for her. She’d started pursuing a career as a food blogger.
The fact that she was a terrible cook did not deter her one bit.
From the second floor, Reggie’s voice pierced the veil of an Olivia Rodrigo song. “Someone get the door.”
Sometimes I wondered if she was twenty-two, like me, or twelve.
“Too busy.” Something collapsed in the dining room, followed by Tabby’s loud groan. “Ugh, stupid superlong selfie stick.”
“Farrow.” Vera cranked up the living room TV.The Real Housewives of Potomac. She once cornered the producer at a bar and begged for a cameo. “Do something useful with yourself and get the door.”
I gritted my teeth, doing my best not to yell past them. “Cleaning.”
Your grown ass child’s mess.
One of Tabby’s Le Creuset dishes hadn’t made the journey from the oven to the island counter.
The beginnings of candy-red bruises coated my knees from twenty minutes of scooping Bolognese from the kitchen tiles into a bucket with a spatula.
The flesh on my hands and arms tingled and burned, courtesy of the empty bleach bottle beside me.
My mind failed to conjure a single valuable thought past the cloud of fumes I’d inhaled all day.
I’d cleaned two twelve-thousand-foot mansions all by myself because Vera had decided to fire most of our staff to “trim the fat.”
