“Don’t I know it.” With that, she closes the door and I follow suit.
“Gilmore, light of my life, I’m home!” I call into the warmth of my small entryway. Shedding my coat and scarf, I make quick work of hanging them on the peg by the door before grabbing my bag and heading to the kitchen counter where my first child awaits. “Hello, sweetheart. Did you have a good day?” I coo. Getting no response—typical, but I can always hope—I give Gilmore’s leaves a once-over, checking their health before grabbing one of several misters, and set about watering each of my babies in turn.
My apartment is small in a cozy kind of way. One bed and one bath with an open floorplan kitchen and living area makes for overall easy maintenance, which is my kind of living space. With it only being me living here, I don’t really have a need for much furniture, just enough space for Ian and Aaron to sit when they come over. And while the exposed brick walls, big windows and light wood floors should make it feel cold, the outrageous number of rugs and blankets I have on every available surface keep the place in coziness overload. From the corner of the living area, my small Christmas tree blinks in greeting with its multi-colored lights as I bounce from one plant to the next.
All too soon, it’s time to change my paint-covered shirt and head to the one place I dread returning to.
The Rutherford family home.
Pulling on a fresh purple sweater and jeans, it takes all of thirty seconds to realize my hair needs to stay in whatever birdnest-like bun is happening so that I’m not any later to this ridiculous dinner. I’ll be shocked if I don’t hear about that one from Mom as it is.
I sigh, the inevitable finally upon me. “Try to get some grading done while I’m gone,” I tell Gilmore, “Most were able to keep the paint inside the lines, so I’m thinking A’s?” With no response from my first-born, I reluctantly head out the door.
Radio and heat blasting, the drive through the town is something out of one of those cheesy holiday movies that you can never quite get enough of. The square is coated in fresh snowfall and twinkling lights while people walk arm in arm, all bundled up in coats and hats. Storefronts glow, warm and inviting. Couples snuggle together under a blanket of shining stars. Even with Thanksgiving still two weeks away, Christmas is in full swing in Serenvale Springs.
And I love every minute of it.
About fifteen minutes north of town, the coldest neighborhood in all of Colorado greets me with open arms. Estate after estate home passes, silently judging the old sedan I’ve had since I was nineteen and purchased with my own funds. Since I was young, I’ve never wanted anything to do with my parents’ money. It fueled them and most of my siblings to act as superior as they felt, and I always resented them for it. For how it made our entire family look to the rest of the world. As the youngest, I was supposed to simply fall in line in the Rutherford machine. But I was a surprise for the entire family.
Mostly a bad one—and they’ve never let me forget it.
So I’ve worked hard over the years to minimize my footprint on the family finances and lifestyle.
Aaron and Ian’s childhood home passes in a blur, begging me to stop at the Fairchild residence, instead. Their mom would welcome me with a warm hug and homemade bread fresh from the oven, even if I only saw her a couple of hours ago as she closed up her own classroom for the night. Mr. Fairchild would tell me the latest news in the business world, kissing my forehead like the daughter he never had. From the day they moved in next door, the Fairchilds have been more of a family to me than my own.
But I’m not stopping at the Fairchild estate.
Up ahead, the Rutherford estate awaits my displeasure. Three luxury vehicles have already claimed their spots in the circle driveway of the largest home on the block.
Clammering out of my car, anxiety rises up into my chest at my tardiness as I make my way to the door. Hand raised to twist the doorknob, I nearly jump out of my skin when the large oak door opens without me so much as breathing in its direction. “Holy crap,” I gasp.
“Lovely sentiment,” my oldest sister deadpans.
“Sorry, um, do you think you could, you know, move?” Waving my hands, I try to convey that I’m in the process of becoming a popsicle.
Imogene rolls her brown doe-like eyes, stepping out of the way.
“You don’t have to look so put out,” I say sweetly, stepping inside. “What were you doing, anyway?”
“I heard a noise.” Imogene raises mocha brows that match her deep chocolate waves. Tall and willowy with sharp features, my sister looks more and more like our mom with every passing year.
It’s freaky. And disturbing.
“And there you were.” She shrugs.
“Oh, come on. That door’s, like, a hundred feet thick.”
Ever the engineer, she squints to look at the closed door. “I’m pretty sure it’s a standard 2.25 inches.”
Resisting the urge to slap myself in the face, I blink at my sister. “Yes, I know. I mean, I didn’tactuallyknow that. I just mean”—I sigh—“never mind.”
“Everyone’s already at the table. Why don’t you go sit down before you hurt yourself.” Imogene crosses her lithe arms covered in a burgundy sweater by some designer I’ve probably never heard of, matching new Prada shoes flawlessly. Black darted pants and a perfectly curated ponytail complete the ultimate ‘professional woman’ look.
Before I can open my mouth for a retort, my heart sinks a little more as another much deeper voice joins us. “Genny, did you figure out—oh, it’s you.”
Pinning Prescott with my version of a withering glare, my oldest brother hardly bothers acknowledging my presence before turning back in the direction from whence he came. The stuffy smell of expensive cologne lingers even after he’s nowhere to be seen. “You all act like Mom didn’t invite me, or something.”
Imogene only scoffs before following her older brother.
