I went from working for my dad part-time in college to working full-time in Karl’s law practice? I have two and a half years of law school and eleven years of experience running a legal practice. I have skills, just not the ones that people like my dad find important.
Dad throws his arms up in obvious frustration. “What you need to be focused on is getting Karl to take you back.”
I wince. It isn’t something he hasn’t said a dozen times this week, but still, it hurts.
My dad loves me and only wants what’s best for me; I know that. Sure, divorce is a four-letter word in my family, but really, that isn’t why he keeps harping on taking Karl back. I spent the better part of a decade showing everyone that my value began and ended with Karl’s accomplishments rather than my own. Why should I be shocked now that they consider my life worthless without him?
And for a moment—just a moment—I almost give in. I almost give up. On the house. And more importantly, on myself. But then I think about Karl’s smirk when I told him I wanted a divorce, the pitying looks on my parents’ faces when I showed up on their doorstep with three packed suitcases.
And then Aunt Maggie’s words.
Sweat beads at the nape of my neck, tickling my skin as I try to take slow and steady breaths so my stomach stops feeling like I’m skydiving instead of sitting in the probate attorney’s office, taking a stand for the first time in my life.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say, my palms sweaty.
“You need to sell, Mallory. It’s the right move,” Dad says, using the firm tone that means the discussion is over and his judgment rendered. “I know you loved your aunt, but you need to be logical.”
Logical. An interesting term. It’s the word Dad used when I said I wanted to get a Master of Fine Arts in photography. There’s no money in that—be logical, he said. So I went to law school instead and met Karl.
“I’m keeping the house.”
And I’m going to fix it up and fix my life in the process. Period. I can totally do this.
God, I hope so.
Chapter Four
There’s no way in hell I’m going to do this.
Standing on the sidewalk outside of Aunt Maggie’s house is like taking a trip down memory lane, but the nightmare version of it.
Where once there was lush, neatly trimmed grass I ran around in barefoot while hopping through the sprinkler, now the grass is nearly a foot tall and strangled with dandelions. The trees and bushes were left to grow hog wild for who knows how long, like the yard is auditioning to be a set piece for Jumanji.
I eye the tall grass and shudder. There are definitely snakes somewhere in there, and I shuffle farther away from the grass onto the driveway that looks like protest art with cracks and crevices everywhere. Piles of leaves from last fall have been pushed up into the corners of the wide porch. And the porch swing Aunt Maggie sat on with me as she drank afternoon gin fizzes while watching the sunset hangs lopsided, swaying listlessly in the spring breeze.
But honestly, what really has me gazing at the house in shock is the giant tree limb currently laying in the vee of what used to be the wide wooden porch. It’s obvious a storm recently ravaged the neighborhood—well, if you look at Aunt Maggie’s house.
I glance around the neighborhood at the perfectly groomed lawns and realize whatever damage anyone else sustained was quickly swept aside and repaired, my aunt’s sad house the only evidence that shit happens in the world no one can control.
I’m not the least surprised that all the houses in Huckleberry Hills are perfect. The grass is cut to just-so height. The landscaping is so tasteful, a weed wouldn’t even consider making an appearance. Each of the two-story Victorian-looking homes with wraparound porches and quirky little details are like an idealized dollhouse that was supersized. The cars parked in the driveways are shiny. The men and women outside now are totally put together. The kids look Instagram-worthy, and their pets are probably all AKC registered.
I slowly turn back to Aunt Maggie’s house and idly wonder how someone didn’t “accidentally” torch this eyesore before now. Hell, I’m half tempted to do it, and I’ve only been standing here for five minutes.
It’s obvious the other homes were built years later around Aunt Maggie’s,