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.
Brody helps Robert inside while I stand by, trying my best to be helpful without getting in the way.
The interior is dated—wood paneling, worn hardwood floors, furniture that’s seen better days—but clean. Organized. Lived-in.
Not the chaos I expected from Brody’s description of his father’s drinking.
Just…a house where someone’s been trying.
“Couch,” Robert says. “Can’t deal with stairs right now.”
Brody gets him settled. Pillow, blanket, TV remote within reach, and with every passing moment, I’m feeling more and more useless. So I do the only thing that makes sense to me. I head to the kitchen and start rummaging.
The kitchen is small. Galley-style. White cabinets that could use a fresh coat of paint. Brody’s head pops through the door a moment later, brow cinched. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for hot chocolate.” I open another cabinet. “Found it!”
