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His gaze follows my hand, his fingers twitching like he wants to touch the photo. He reaches for the closest water bottle instead and takes several gulps, giving me a strange feeling it’s not the act of swallowing that’s making his throat work so hard.
A woman around his age comes down the back stairs. Straightening her navy blazer, she sets a camera on the counter. “I have all the pictures I need.” She’s laidback pretty, her outfit screamsconservative business—his favorite—and her tentative smile says she’d go out with him in a quick second if he smiled back.
“Shari, this is Gabe.” He hardly spares her a drive-by glance as he introduces us.
I’ve never seen David with a woman, and his only family was a black-sheep brother whowent and died before he had a chance to redeem himself. David’s words, not mine.
The Realtor offers me her hand, her smile turning nervous. “I don’t mean to be a silly fan, but I’m so looking forward to meeting your mom. I own every season ofRaising Ryder. Should we wait for her to get started?”
My stomach becomes an acid bath. But my smile’s trained to hold, and it doesn’t let me down. Waiting for Mom isn’t an option. She’s gone in a way that getting her back is as impossible as my stuntman free-climbing a glass skyscraper slicked with oil.
“Meredith sends her apologies” David says. “She extended her vacation last minute.” Nothing in his matter-of-fact response gives away that if we were in court he would’ve just perjured the hell out of himself.
Disappointment deflates some of the stars in Shari’s eyes as she slides a packet in front of me. “Based on the comps and five percent below the asking price, you’re looking at clearing somewhere around two million.”
Two million dollars. I grip the counter. Coley’s college fund. Mom’s security. A way to save our asses after she lost everything. Two million dollars that will cost me my sister.
Coley will never get over me selling all we have left of our family, and I can’t pay for Mom’s care if I don’t. That acid bath eats through the lining in my stomach and dissolves the glue holding together my pasted-on smile. I drop my head, catching the signatures at the bottom of one of the documents.
Next to Mom’s signature as the buyer is David’s signature... as the co-buyer. What the hell? I lift the paper. David freaking owns half my house?
He snatches it and sticks it into a file folder I can’t reach.
“What was that?” I ask him.
“Original sale documents,” Shari answers.
“Your name is on them.” I meet David’s eyes.
“Yes, it is.” His tone stays strong, but his gaze wavers. His OCD on overdrive, he reorganizes his piles.
“Why?” Rocking on the balls of my feet, I squeeze the edge of the counter until my hands ache.
My answer is earsplitting silence. David’s specialty.
“Why?” I ask louder, my voice as tight as the burn on my stressed-out knuckles.
His swift glance toward the Realtor comes with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, the warning clear—there’s always the chance that anything I say can, and probably will, end up on some Hollywood highlight reel. Even if Shari seems sweet.
I yank my car keys out of my pocket and march out of the kitchen.
David catches up outside on the porch, pulling the door closed behind him. We’re the same height. Eye to eye. “Now’s not the time to make a scene.” His tone saysnot here, not now, maybe not ever.
“When were you gonna tell me you own part of my house?” Done with David’s playlist of expectations, I jerk away. “We’re meeting the Realtor so you can get your half of the money. Not because you think ‘it’s a viable option to explore now that no one’s living here.’” I quote the words he used to get me to this meeting.
“You don’t understand.” His words are strained.
“You’re right.” I run down the steps.
“I’m putting the money in a trust for your Mom.” The tightly strung chord choking his voice whips me around. As if each step costs him years, he navigates down the porch.
“You’re turning down a flat million.” No one turns down that kind of money. Except Saint David.
“I’d pay The Oasis bill too if I could.”
I think he really means it. “Why would you do that?” Why does he do anything for her? I grip the keys so hard, the jagged indents carve into my skin.
David’s signature on those papers snags me by the throat. The crazy idea that he could be my father forces me to study his face. Demands I search beyond the generic version of him I’ve always seen. The angle of his jaw, the set of his eyes, the shape of his face suddenly become life-altering brands as I dig for signs ofme.“Do you know that Mom’s only told me one thing about my dad?” My voice is gravel, my throat sand.
