Page 39 of The False Flat

He waited for me to go on. If I was ever going to let him in, tonight was the open door.

“Have I ever told you about my brother?” I knew I hadn’t. My mother never would.

He looked pensive for a minute. “Maybe. What was his name again?”

“Brandon.”

“Yeah, I think maybe you did, but I don’t remember ever meeting him. I’d like to meet him,” he assured me. “Unless there’s bad blood or something . . .”

“No, no bad blood.”

“Then of course I want to meet him.” He smiled, moved a strand of hair back away from my face. The gesture was tender. He was trying.

“I like the couch.” I surprised us both by changing topics.

His eyes lit up. “Yeah? I’d been holding off, hoping you wouldn’t be here that long, but when the time comes, we can sell it. No big deal.” He shrugged.

“No big deal,” I repeated, ignoring his comment about time.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower; then let’s get some rest, put this day out of its misery. I almost lost a case today.”

“Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll check the doors and meet you up there. You can tell me about the case as we fall asleep.”

He kissed the top of my head. “You’re one tough cookie. That’s one of the things I love about you. Nothing ever gets you down.”

I let my lips turn upward, the mask I knew how to wear way too well. “Right. I’m fine.” I knew it was what he wanted me to say. It’s what they all wanted me to say. Almost all.

He grabbed his bag and jogged up the stairs.

My legs moved to the door, but my muscles were heavy and awkward. A breeze stirred the trees outside, drawing my attention to the cool air hitting my thigh. The door was still slightly ajar.

I looked back at the stairs, heard the water come on.

And then I closed the door and locked it.

CHAPTER 17

IT’S BEEN EIGHT MONTHS, AND SHE’S AS ICY AS EVER

Every single one of my six-hundred-plus muscles tensed as I sat in an Uber on the way to my mother’s house an excruciating two weeks later.

I was back in Minnesota to take the Fletchers to dinner because they’d put me off every time I’d tried to make contact. They were busy people, but they had an abundance of money because they made money a priority, so it was time for a physical appearance to let them see I’d do anything for them and their business. Houston could try to spin this as a violation of my noncompete, but Erin’s involvement aside, Mrs. Fletcher had contacted me. And I was getting worried because, despite my better judgment, I’d put all my eggs in their basket, essentially waiting it out until they were mine.

None of my other previous clients had contacted me, even the ones Erin said were looking for me. I had hosted a free webinar on retirement planning, but only four people showed; none of them signed. But it hadn’t shaken me because I’d assumed that, any day now, the Fletchers would sweep in and I wouldn’t have to worry about huge marketing gestures.

My original plan had been to fly in and fly right back out of my hometown and not even tell Chad or my mother that I’d be in Minnesota. This trip was purely business, and I didn’t want either of them getting the wrong idea about me coming back here.

But if they found out—well, it wasn’t worth it, which was why I’d arranged the Uber without my mother’s knowledge because I couldn’t spend thirty minutes trapped in her car, her hands at ten and two, eyes on the road while she talked at me. I’m not sure when my mother stopped talking to me and started talking at me, but that’s definitely how it was now.

As Arthur the Uber driver drove, the trees and houses sped past my back seat window, and I pretended not to smell feet or think about how horrifying it was that Chad was staying with my mother until he found a new place, one without his soon-to-be ex-wife. My mother’s idea, but he’d been all too pleased to comply.

I also tried not to think about the last time I’d been to my mother’s house, when I’d attended my father’s funeral and white calla lilies flanked the entryway. My hand had brushed one of the cup-shaped blooms when I’d left my father’s catered wake, heading for a bar, where I unknowingly paid homage to my dad’s memory by doing what he’d spent his life doing: drinking too much and picking up someone married.

I certainly hadn’t wanted to be that person, but in all fairness, my dad hadn’t wanted to be that kind of person either. I think he’d tried to tell me that a few years ago, one afternoon when he’d been drinking heavily. His deep-brown eyes were glassy when he looked at me.

“I do it to forget, you know. Your mother thinks she’s responsible, and maybe she is, but maybe I want to believe she is so I can put my blame somewhere.”

“What?” My heart raced. What did he mean? My mother responsible? For what? The alcohol? The cheating? Brandon? Was he going to acknowledge how much our family had changed? But my mother had overheard and pulled him into the kitchen for some silly reason that we all knew—but wouldn’t acknowledge—was a ploy to shut him up. And just like that, the sudden burst of emotion was contained, like a fire without oxygen.