Olivia gripped the steering wheel until the leather groaned, a pull in the cover’s stitching biting into the side of her thumb. The for sale sign posted in the thatch of grass beside the mailbox wasn’t a surprise, but actually seeing it with her own two eyes put an unexpected lump in the back of her throat as she pulled into the driveway beside Dad’s Volkswagen and cut the engine.
It was real. Not that she’d honestly believed Brad had the ability or inclination to fabricate a real estate listing—not only did he lack the skills, but he was too lazy to go to such lengths just to . . . what? Prank her? Piss her off? Brad couldn’t even bother to hunt down a garage door opener by himself—but there’d been a tiny part of her that hadn’t wanted to believe it. That had refused to believe it on principle. Dad had always been a man of few words, never the most forthcoming, not even about the small things. But this? This wasn’t small. This was big, and—why hadn’t he told her?
Time to find out.
Olivia hopped out of the car, the door rattling when she slammed it with a touch too much force. Instead of heading immediately up the drive, she walked over to the for sale sign and flipped the lid on the attached plastic box full of flyers. There was only one left, and it was a little damp, the edges of the paper rippled from all the moisture. The ink was blurry, making the copy read as if the house had eight bedrooms instead of three. Paper clutched tightly in her fist, Olivia made a beeline for the front door, pulse ratcheting as she took the porch steps two at a time. Little flecks of black paint stuck to her skin when she rapped her knuckles against the door.
The gauzy curtain beside the front window fluttered, Dad probably curious to see who was banging on his door.
“Livvy.” Dad’s smile fell at the look on her face. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be—”
Olivia shook the flyer in his face. “The better question is why I had to find out you were selling the house from Brad.”
“Brad?” Dad’s head snapped back, eyes widening. “Why are you talking to Brad?”
A flush crept up the front of her throat. To make up for it, she stood a little straighter, lifting her chin. “That is entirely beside the point. Were you ever planning to tell me you were selling the house or was I just going to be in a for a rude awakening the next time I came to visit?”
Dad heaved a sigh and gripped the back of his neck, ducking his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Liv. You usually call before you visit . . .”
Her back teeth clacked together. She was getting really tired of being told she was being ridiculous or that she was overreacting when all she wanted was a straight answer.
“I called. I called twice. I left you a voicemail,” she said. “You didn’t pick up.”
Dad grimaced. “Ah, damn. I think I left my phone in the car.”
He still hadn’t answered her question, the big, overarching one, the one that had brought her here. “And the house?”
Dad scraped his hand over his jaw and gave another weary-sounding sigh before stepping back from the door, gesturing for her to come inside. “You want something to drink? I think I still have a box of that tea you like floating around in the cabinet somewhere.”
She wanted answers, not tea. But if she was going to drink anything, it needed to be a whole heck of a lot stronger than chamomile.
“You know what?” She set her hands on her hips. “I think I’d like one of the beers you keep in the fridge in the garage you think I don’t know about. Thanks.”
Dad headed down the hall without a word, returning a minute later with an uncapped bottle in each hand. At least it was light beer, better for him than the regular kind.
She took her bottle with a tight smile. “Thanks.”
Dad nodded to the sofa before taking a seat in his recliner, the one that was older than she was. He took a long pull of his beer and she did the same, wrinkling her nose at the taste. She’d never been much of a beer drinker, but over the last few weeks, she’d gotten used to the flavor of the dark, bitter brews Margot favored. This tasted like water by comparison.
Dad must’ve seen her make a face because he snorted. “Weak, huh?”
“But doctor approved.” She settled back against the couch and tossed the flyer on the coffee table.
“Okay.” Dad heaved another one of those great big sighs and set his beer on a coaster before leaning forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. I was going to tell you, I swear, but—”
“Never once did you even hint that selling had crossed your mind, let alone that you were already in the process. I just . . .” Her eyes had started to sting, but if she blinked she was terrified she’d cry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Honest to God, I was planning on it.” Dad scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look, Livvy, my insurance covered most of the hospital bills from last year, but there are still some out-of-pocket charges I’ve been paying off because of some rigamarole between the hospital and insurance company.”
Her stomach sank. This was the first she’d heard of Dad having to pay anything out of pocket. “Okay. But not a lot . . . right?”
Dad waffled his head from side to side. “My savings—”
“You had to dip into your savings?” She strangled her beer bottle so tightly the seam where the glass had been molded bit into the palm of her hand.
“Only a little,” he promised, holding a palm up as if to placate her. A little was still shitty when his savings were slim to start. “And I only had to do that because they’ve got me working fewer hours. Remember? I told you I scaled back.”
She nodded.
“I’ve got more money going out and less coming in and . . .” Dad swept a hand out. “Too much house for one person. I don’t need this much space and, to be honest, things have been getting a little tight at the end of the month. Much more of this and something was going to have to give, and I’ve got too much equity in the house to lose it in a short sale.”
A little tight and short sale didn’t go together. “If money was tight, how come you didn’t say something? If you’d have told me, I could’ve—”
Her grip went slack and she nearly dropped her bottle, catching it around the neck. A dribble of beer ran down the back of her hand and she stared at it blankly.
She could’ve what? Offered Dad money she didn’t have? Volunteered to move back home and help with the bills? She winced. Maybe there was more truth to what Margot had said than Olivia had first been able—or willing—to acknowledge. Where was her line? Did she even have one? Something told her the fact that she didn’t know was a problem. An issue she needed to address.
“I’ve got it under control, okay?” Dad said. “This is the best solution all around. Your mom and I refinanced when you were a kid, which set the clock back on the mortgage, but the property values have really skyrocketed in the past five years. I can sell, get the equity out of the house, and downsize into something smaller, with a more manageable monthly payment. Or, hell, I might even be able to buy something with cash.”
Olivia nibbled on her lip and glanced around the living room. Pencil marks that had never been scrubbed away marred the trim of the kitchen entry, each tiny tick capturing her height over the years. If she craned her neck, she’d be able to see into the bathroom, with its god-awful toile wallpaper that Mom had picked out. “But you love this house.”
Dad’s eyes swept the room, lingering on the photos hung on the wall, family portraits and her old school pictures. “I do love this house.” He smiled softly and met her gaze steadily. “But, at the end of the day, it’s just a house. What I loved about it most were all the things that made it feel like home.” For a brief moment, the corners of his mouth tightened. He sucked in a deep breath and released it noisily, laughing while he did, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Your mom and you made it home, Livvy. It’s too much house for one person.”
Her eyelids felt hot and itchy, and there was a burn in the back of her throat that no amount of swallowing could relieve. This was the house she’d grown up in, the first home she’d known. But Dad was right; it was only a house, and it had been a long time since she’d considered it her home. If he wanted to sell, if it was the best solution—which it sounded like—she supported his decision. She just wished he’d kept in her in loop.
“Besides—I’ve been thinking of cutting my hours back even further.” At her frown, Dad chuckled. “Retiring.”
She laughed. “As long as you don’t plan on retiring to a clothing-optional community in Florida.”
Dad’s brows rocketed to his hairline. “You know I hate Florida.”
“And yet you have nothing to say about the clothing-optional community?” She narrowed her eyes, snickering when Dad merely looked confused. “I’m kidding. It’s just something Margot said.”
“Margot, hmm?” Dad leaned back in his recliner, crossing his ankle over his knee. He studied her for a minute, eyes narrowed and head cocked slightly to one side. “Must be nice, reconnecting with her after all these years. From what I heard on the phone yesterday, it sounds like you two managed to pick up right where you left off.”
She dropped her eyes to her lap and picked at her thumbnail. He had no idea. “You could say that.” When Dad said nothing, she bit back a sigh. “We kind of had a fight, actually. Right before I came here.”
“You want to talk about it?”
She swallowed around the sudden ache in her throat. “Not really.”
Dad hummed. “Would you feel better if you talked about it?”
She dropped her face into her hands and huffed. Damn his Dad logic. “Maybe? I don’t know. We—we both said some things and . . .” She took a deep breath and started over from the beginning. “Brad called me. He—”
“Why is Brad calling you?” Dad’s face wrinkled.
She pressed her fingers to the space between her brows. “Are you going to let me finish?”
Dad grumbled something under his breath, words she couldn’t quite make out, and waved for her continue.
“I—okay, he calls me sometimes. About silly little things. I answer because . . . I asked him to keep an ear out.” She cringed, dreading Dad’s reaction. “If he heard anything. You know. About you.”
Dad frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“Because.” She wiped her palms against her legs and stood, needing to move. She stepped around the coffee table and stood in front of the fireplace, wringing her hands in the sleeves of her hoodie, which were too long. “You tell me you’re fine, but what does that mean? I worry, okay? And, I mean, clearly for good reason, since you decided to put the house up for sale without ever mentioning it to me.”
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.” Dad huffed. “And I had every intention of telling you, but then you mentioned this big wedding you were working on and I—I decided to wait until after.”
“We could’ve avoided this if you’d just talked to me. I worry because you leave things out and because you say things like I’m fine.”
Dad threw his hands up. “Because I am fine, Livvy. I am and—okay, I can admit, keeping you in the dark about the house was a mistake.” His brows rose, lips twisting in a wry smile. “Clearly. But when I say I’m fine, I wished you’d believe me. I have it all under control, okay?”
She knotted the excess fabric of her sleeves between her fingers and nibbled on the inside of her lip. “That’s what Margot said.”
Dad bobbed his head. “And I’m guessing you didn’t like hearing that.”
No, she’d hated it. Hated it even more now, because Margot’s points had been decent. But that still didn’t excuse the fact that Margot had told Olivia she was overreacting.
“Not particularly. Brad texted me the link to the property listing after I’d sent him to voicemail, and when I called you and you didn’t answer, I kind of freaked out a little. Margot thought I should wait for you to call me back or wait until after the wedding to drive down, but I was worried, okay? And she accused me of overreacting and told me I needed to stop putting everyone’s needs before mine, and I accused her of”—she cringed—“having a fear of abandonment, which was a pretty awful thing to blurt out, I’ll admit, but also may be true?”
Dad frowned. “Obviously I wasn’t there, so I don’t have all the specifics, but it sounds to me like you both said some pretty hard things you felt like the other needed to hear?”
That was a . . . fair assessment of the situation. “I guess.”
“Can’t say I disagree with her, Liv. You’ve spent enough time taking care of other people. And, just to offer some perspective, saying what she did probably wasn’t the easiest. Think about it. She probably knew you might react poorly, but she said it anyway because she thought you needed to hear it.” Dad stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “It sounds to me like Margot cares about you.”
“That’s what she said. That she said what she did because she cares.”
“It’s not always the easiest to let someone care about you, is it?” Dad’s brows rose pointedly.
God. Her chin wobbled, and she bit down on her lip to keep it from quivering. It really wasn’t. Despite being something she desperately wanted, it was hard to let it happen. To let herself have it and—shit. Margot really was right. Olivia didn’t need anyone’s permission to be happy.
Only her own.
Her teeth scraped her bottom lip. “She’s not the only one. I mean, I care about her, too.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least, kid.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why? Because I care about everyone?”
Dad chuckled. “Because it’s Margot. I might be your dad, and I might not always know the right thing to say or how to say it, but I’ve got two eyes, and it was obvious to anyone who looked at you two that you weren’t just friends.”
Her face burned at the insinuation that Dad knew more about their past—or at least her feelings—than he’d ever let on. She rolled her lips together, weighing out how much she wanted to share. “She was my best friend.”
Dad’s brows rose.
“She was. But fine. I had a crush on her, okay? And for a while I thought . . .” When Dad’s lips twitched, she set her hands on her hips, huffing softly. “You didn’t snoop through my diary, did you?”
Oh, Jesus. She pressed a hand to her cheek, skin on fire. Talk about mortifying. She’d never be able to look Dad in the eye again if he’d read even half of what she’d written.
“Your diary?” Dad guffawed, the recliner rocking with the ferocity of his laughter. “Jesus, no. I probably would’ve had a heart attack a decade before I did, if I had done that.”
Her jaw dropped. “Dad! That’s not funny.”
“Eh.” He seesawed his hand from side to side, nose wrinkling. “Come on. It’s a little funny. If I can’t laugh at myself, what the hell am I supposed to laugh about?”
Her lips twitched. “Nudist retirement villas, obviously.”
“Jesus.” He dragged his hand down his face. “And you said Margot put that idea in your head?” He tsked, shaking his head. “Consider me doubly glad I never read your diary.”
Her chest loosened when she laughed. “Me too, Dad. Me too.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “It’s good seeing you laugh, Liv. You haven’t done nearly enough of that in the last few years. It seems to me like moving to the city’s been good for you. And maybe . . . Margot’s been a part of it, too?”
A flicker of warmth flared to life inside her chest, catching, growing, spreading outward until her fingertips tingled. She pressed her fingers to her lips and nodded, sniffling. “I’m really happy, Dad,” she whispered.
Dad heaved himself out of the chair and wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in a hug. Olivia buried her nose in his chest, breathing in the smell of his laundry detergent, the one he’d been purchasing for years because it was the one Mom had used. “I’m happy you’re happy, Livvy.”
When he finally released her and took a step back, his face was red and his eyes were suspiciously damp, or maybe they only seemed that way because her vision was downright blurry. She bit her bottom lip and sniffled. Dad rested one of his large hands on her shoulders, the heavy weight pleasant, grounding. “Are these happy tears, or . . . ?”
Using the sleeve of her sweater, she mopped beneath her eyes. “I’m just worried I messed up. What I said wasn’t great. I don’t know.”
Like Margot, everything Olivia had said had come from a place of care only . . . her words had been reactionary, in response to Margot pushing her out of her comfort zone. She didn’t regret what she’d said as much as she regretted the way she’d said it, lashing out. Not fighting fair. Margot had made it clear she cared about Olivia, but had she?
“This isn’t your first rodeo, kid. You know not every argument means it’s over.”
No, but sometimes all it took was one argument. And this was their first, their first real one, not a mere difference of opinion. It could be make-or-break. Besides . . . “Look how my first rodeo, as you call it, turned out. That’s a shit—crappy example.”
Dad snorted. “Fair point. But Margot’s not Brad.”
“Thank God,” she muttered, making Dad laugh.
“What is it you said that you’re so worried about? Something about Margot having a fear of abandonment?”
She nodded. “It’s—not just me. It’s with her friends, too, and . . . I stand by what I said. Just not how I said it.”
Dad puffed out his cheeks. “And she wanted you to stay? To wait until after the wedding to drive here?”
She nodded.
“And you left anyway?”
“I had a reason,” she defended. “And I’m coming back tomorrow.”
Dad squeezed her shoulder. “Sometimes the things that trigger our fears don’t make the most sense. Sometimes they aren’t the most logical.”
She winced. The same could be argued for her own actions. “True.”
Except maybe Margot’s fear was rooted in something logical. Not the truth, but Margot’s version of it, her version of the past that she’d believed to be true up until only today. Believing that eleven years ago Olivia had chosen Brad over her. That Olivia had thrown their plans out the window in favor of following Brad across the state.
“You want to know how you make it right?”
She lifted her head and blew out a breath, ruffling the strands of hair that never quite made it into her sloppy bun in the first place, others having escaped confinement since. “I am all ears.”
Dad chuckled and patted her arm. “You show up tomorrow and you keep showing up.”
Olivia nodded. Show up and keep showing up. She could absolutely do that. Prove to Margot that she was in this, all in. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Anytime.” He stepped back and tucked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “You eat dinner yet?”
She shook her head and pressed a hand to her stomach. “No, I was too nervous to eat.”
Dad’s mouth twisted briefly before he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “I made chili. With ground turkey, don’t worry. I’m sticking to the heart-healthy diet.”
Her stomach growled. “Sounds good. Is it okay if I spend the night here?” She bit her lip, shrugging softly. “Maybe we could find a movie or something?”
As long as she hit the road no later than ten, she should make it downtown with time to spare.
“Sure thing, kid. You should know you’re always welcome wherever I live.”
She smirked. “I’ll withhold judgment on visiting you wherever you move, in case that whole clothing-optional community idea grows on you.”
“I don’t know. I’m starting to think Margot’s not the best influence.” Dad shook his head, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. “I’ll go heat you a bowl. You want to find something on TV?”
“Sure thing.” She smiled. “Thank you, Dad.”
He winked and disappeared around the corner into the kitchen.
She collapsed onto the couch and yawned. The stress of the day—skiing, Margot getting hurt, her panic, their argument, the drive down here, all of it—plus the lack of sleep from the night before, seemed to be catching up with her.
Before reaching for the remote, she fished inside her pocket for her phone, swiping and pulling up her text thread with Margot. She’d promised to text, and she was going to keep her promise.
OLIVIA (9:08 P.M.): Hey. Made it to Dad’s safely. He’s okay. We had a good talk, cleared the air.
She stared at her screen. It was probably silly to wait for Margot to text back. It was the last night of Annie and Brendon’s bachelor-bachelorette trip. Margot should be spending it with her friends, not—her phone vibrated in her hand.
MARGOT (9:10 P.M.): I’m glad he’s okay.
MARGOT (9:10 P.M.): Are you still staying the night, or do you think you’re going to drive back?
Olivia winced. Getting back in her car and driving the forty-five minutes from Enumclaw to the lodge on little sleep, only to have to make a similar, if not slightly longer because of traffic, drive in the morning sounded unappealing. Even if she got right in her car, she wouldn’t make it to Salish until after ten.
OLIVIA (9:12 P.M.): I’m going to crash here and head out in the morning. I’ll see you tomorrow and we can talk more then. Okay?
Three little dots danced across her screen, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, almost hypnotic if not for how they caused her heart to race.
MARGOT (9:15 P.M.): Okay.
Her stomach sank. That was it? Okay?
Her phone buzzed.
MARGOT (9:16 P.M.): I’ll see you tomorrow.
MARGOT (9:16 P.M.): ?
How silly was it that a simple heart emoji had the power to loosen the knots inside her stomach? She pressed her fingers to her smiling lips and typed back with one hand.
OLIVIA (9:17 P.M.): ❤️❤️❤️
* * *
“Hey, Livvy?”
God, no. There was no way it was time for her to wake up. Hadn’t she just fallen asleep?
“Whattimeisit?” she slurred, burrowing deeper into her pillow. She cracked one eye open. Through the gauzy curtains covering the window of her childhood bedroom, it was still pitch-black out.
Dad chuckled. “Early. I just wanted to let you know I was heading out. Fishing, remember?”
Fishing. Right. She nodded. “Uh-huh. Okay.”
“You’re okay with locking up?”
She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
Dad laughed again and leaned in, buffing his lips against her temple. “I’ll call you. You drive safe, okay? And good luck tomorrow with the wedding. I’m sure it’ll be great.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You go back to sleep.”
She did. Or something close to it. The blaring of her phone’s alarm jarred her awake at eight thirty, and she dragged herself out of bed and down the stairs, in desperate need of a cup of coffee.
And the pot was empty. She shut her eyes. Figures that Dad would’ve filled a thermos for the road, but he couldn’t have left her even one cup? She sighed and reached for a new filter to make a pot, checking the clock above the stove. She had time to brew a pot and slug down a cup before running through a quick shower and hitting the road.
While the coffee maker sputtered and hissed, the pot filling, she opened the refrigerator, surveying her breakfast options. Eggs, bacon. Dad had no business eating—oh, turkey bacon. That was better. Maybe he was taking his diet seriously after all. The produce bin was stocked, and there was a tub of Greek yogurt tucked behind a jar of applesauce. Kudos to Dad. The next time he said he was doing fine, she’d take his word for it.
After filling a bowl with yogurt and topping it with fresh raspberries and a handful of granola, Olivia perched a hip against the counter, spoon in one hand, phone in the other, studying her checklist for the next two days while she ate. The coffeepot beeped just as she set her empty breakfast bowl in the dishwasher.
Mug in one hand and phone in the other, Olivia padded back up the stairs, setting her favorite Spotify playlist to shuffle and running through a speedy shower. Her ancient blow-dryer—the one she had from high school that smelled more and more like burning metal with each use—conked out halfway through drying her hair, so she let the air do the rest while she rifled through her toiletry case in search of her mascara, which, in all likelihood, was probably buried at the bottom of the bag. Concealer, no. Lipstick, lipstick, lipstick—how many tubes did she have? More than she needed—but no mascara. Screw it. Olivia upended her bag, shaking the contents out atop the counter and—
No.
At the very edge of the counter, her phone teetered before taking a tumble and bouncing not against the tile floor but the open rim of the toilet seat.
Plop.
Oh, fuck.
Her stomach made a slow descent, sinking all the way to her knees, further. She palmed her face and groaned. Gross. Reaching inside the water, she snatched her phone up and grabbed a spare towel from the hook beside the sink. She dried it off, crossed her fingers that by some miracle the screen would still come on, and—oh, thank God.
The screen lit up and she pressed to enter her passcode and—everything went black.
Fuck.
Rice. She needed rice. That’s what you were supposed to do when your phone wound up waterlogged, right? You were supposed to shove it in a bag of rice and it would soak up all the moisture over the course of a few . . . hours? Days? She didn’t have that long.
She’d have to get a new phone later, once she made it back to town. She’d head to the apartment, meet up with Margot, go to the rehearsal, and pop into the Verizon store before the rehearsal dinner this evening. Solid plan. She was past due for a phone upgrade, anyway.
After tossing her phone inside a Ziploc bag and tossing that inside her purse, she snagged a thermos from the top shelf of the cabinet above the stove and filled it with coffee, shutting off the pot so the hot plate wouldn’t stay on. Duffel over her shoulder, purse in one hand and coffee in the other, Olivia slipped into her flats and left through the front door. She dropped everything off in the car before heading back to lock the front door with the spare key Dad kept beneath the flower pot at the far end of the porch.
House secured, Olivia hopped in the driver’s seat, fastened her seat belt, and stuck the key in the ignition, and—
It cranked, but didn’t start. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath before twisting the key again. The starter clicked, clicked . . . and failed to stay engaged.
Sweat broke out along her hairline, dampening the small of her back, too.
One more time. Her car had to start. It had to. Swallowing past the sour knot inside her throat, she wrapped a trembling hand around the key. Please start. She scrunched her eyes shut and twisted the key.
It clicked, and the engine grumbled to life.
Thank God. Olivia let her head fall back against the headrest and sighed. She had no idea what she would’ve done if the car had failed to start. That would’ve been a complete and total nightmare today of all—
A rapid knocking sound came from the front of the engine before it died altogether.
Olivia jabbed the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Fuck.
