“Just get dressed, Dad.” Brody’s voice is flat. “I’ll bring the car around.”
He walks out before Robert can respond, leaving me standing there awkwardly with his dad.
“Brody didn’t really get a chance to introduce us,” I say, trying my best to fill the silence. “I’m Chloe, the girlfriend.”
The word rolls off my tongue. I like the sound of it a little too much.
“Ah, it’s nice to meet you, Chloe,” Robert says, wincing as he extends a hand. I take it. He pulls back, reaching for the clothes hanging on the chair. “I’m sorry you had to see this. Not exactly the best first impression.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” He meets my eyes. “But thank you for being here anyway.”
The drive to Brody’s childhood home is silent.
Robert sits in the back seat, arm in a sling, staring out the window. Brody drives with both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched, not speaking.
I’m in the passenger seat, trying to figure out what my role is here.
Supportive girlfriend? Professional arrangement fulfillment? Random person who decided to insert herself into family drama?
All of the above?
We pull up to a house that makes me blink in surprise.
Because this is not at all the house I imagined.
I don’t know what I pictured—maybe something small and run-down, a bungalow barely holding together, evidence of years of struggle and chaos.
Which would have been just fine.
But this?
This is a historic brick Victorian—probably 1920s, based on the architecture—with arched windows and a covered front porch and this beautiful gabled roofline that makes it look like something out of a storybook.
Small, yes. Modest too.
But gorgeous.
The kind of house that has character. History. Bones.
“Wait.” I’m staring. “You grew up here?”
“Sure, if you count middle school as ‘growing up.’” Brody’s voice is flat. Embarrassed, maybe. “It’s not much.”
“Are you kidding? This is beautiful.”
He glances at me. Surprised.
“I saw the magazine spread,” I continue. “The one with your penthouse in Minneapolis. All glass and steel and minimalist furniture. Very fancy.”
“That’s for show.” He turns off the engine.
The words sit in my chest.
Because of course Brody Kane would grow up in a house like this, then end up somewhere sterile and modern for his public image.
Because nothing about his public life is real.
