There’s nothing I can do about the shabby carpet until the furniture is gone, but I head into the bathroom to see what awaits me. The en suite is small, barely the size of a walk-in closet, and contains only a shower and a small vanity. There is diamond-patterned linoleum, and the shower is yellowing cream fiberglasswith a frosted glass door. The whole things is deeply nineties and very not cute. I flop onto the bare bed and search YouTube to see how easy it is to replace drop-in showers and vanities, then scour Pinterest for ideas on updating small bathrooms.
The problem is, none of it looks right to me. I want a bathtub big enough to lie in after derby practice, but there’s no way I can fit one in here. There’s only one tiny window, making the whole place feel incredibly cave-like.
And even if I could fix all those things, I just…don’t want to. I don’t want to redo my parents’ bathroom. I don’t want to move into my parents’ bedroom with its two small windows positioned high on the wall so I can’t see outside. Not if I don’t have to.
And with the gift of this house, I have the assets I need to make my own home.
So I pull up Zillow.
I spend nearly an hour scrolling listings in Bloomington, falling in love with little stone houses with cozy fireplaces and picture book cottages with original built-ins. I imagine what it would be like to live in the house with the pink-tiled bathroom, or the one with the wide front porch, or the dark wood midcentury modern hidden in the trees. I look at houses for sale around Cardinal Springs, trying to see how far my money will go if I sell this house. Not far, it turns out, but my salary is more than enough to rent an apartment near campus while I figure out my next steps. And if I’m close to IU, I could easily work toward my master’s in elementary education while I’m teaching, which would mean a raise that would help me eventually buy a house.
Seeing the contours of an actual future, one I’m choosing for myself, makes a tingling excitement start in my chest that surges out to my fingers and toes. I’m practically levitating off the bed with the energy that comes from this daydream.
No, not a daydream.
A plan.
I’m several pages deep in a real estate rabbit hole when my doorbell rings.
“I heard a little something while standing in line at the bakery this morning,” Grace says, side-eyeing me as she hands me a bag of muffins from Crimson ’n’ Cream.
“What flavor?” I ask as I glance down into the bag, following her toward the kitchen.
“White chocolate raspberry,” she says, then pulls out a chair and points at it. “Sit.”
I do, plucking off a chunk of muffin and shoving it into my mouth. What with all the sex and real estate research, I’ve managed to make it to almost noon without feeding myself. I’m absolutely famished and in need of some serious carbs.
Grace takes the chair across me. She leans her elbows on the table, hands clasped, and studies me like an interrogator.
“What?” I ask.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sleeping with my brother?”
“What?” I shriek. It’s only been, like, twelve hours. How could she possibly know that?
“Apparently Mrs. Eberle saw you two at CVS buying condoms. She says that you said they were for Wyatt and Owen, but Wyatt has an IUD and a big mouth, so I happen to know they weren’t for her. And anyway, you’ve been all moony over Dan for a while.”
The muffin turns to sand in my mouth. It takes effort to swallow it. I don’t know what to say. This might actually be harder than letting my mother know I’m sleeping with Dan.
I settle for a simple shrug.
“Are youkiddingme?” Grace cries—the truth must be all over my face. I have never been a very good liar, and Grace knows me better than anybody. Of course she can tell when my hand is in the proverbial cookie jar. “I can’t believe this!”
I thought maybe it was guilt I was feeling. Or maybe a little bit of shame. But once I catch my breath, I realize that the sensation roiling in my gut is anger. Anger at my mother for keeping me on such a tight leash, anger at myself for letting her, and now angerat Grace for sitting across from me like a cop, talking to me like I’ve committed some kind of crime.
I drop the muffin bag on the table.
“Why are you mad at me?” I cry.
Grace blinks like she wasn’t expecting that. And maybe she wasn’t. My Midwest nice usually manifests in an awful lot of apologies for things I haven’t done and graciousness where none is warranted. But I’m good and pissed now, and Midwest nice has left the premises.
“Because you’re my best friend,” Grace says. “You’re my best friend, and I had to hear it from Daphne at the bakery, who heard it from Lizzy at the salon, who heard it directly from Mrs. Eberle. Why didn’t I hear it fromyou?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Because every time Dan comes up, you shut the conversation down.”
“I’m trying to protect you! I know my brother. He’s moody and secretive, and you’re a talkative ray of sunshine. He’ll hurt you, Carson. He won’t mean to, because he’s not an asshole. But you’ll wind up hurt nonetheless. Starting something with him is a bad idea. He’s bad for you.”
All I can think as she rants is,I don’t think you know your brother at all.
