Kristen
Stop. Working.
Go home.
I roll my eyes but only because my office bestie knows me toowell.
Me
I am, I swear. Leaving now.
With my client crisis settled for the time being and the office void of life outside the solo desk lamp glowing next to my monitor, I collect my purse, shut down my computer, and call it a night.
Half an hour later, takeout in hand, I knock on the bright red door of my youth, synonymous with the artistic whims of my free-spirited, fearless mother. My chest inflates heavily and I brace myself for what’s sure to appear on the other side when Mom answers.
The door swings open. Mom stands wrapped in the blanket I bought for her first round of chemo eight years ago. Something sharp squeezes in my chest again.
Mom’s expression falls flat, her mom-eyes shooting daggers at the familiar to-go bag from our favorite Chinese place in my hand. “Hannah Gwyneth James, what the hell are you doing here?”
2
pants on fire
Rowan
The doorknob clattersto the beaten wood floor. I stare down at the offending ball of brass and grit my teeth.
“I can fix that.” Add it to the ever-growing list of repairs necessary to get this house ready to sell.
“I’m sure you can, Mr. Shaw,” the realtor replies as she moves to the dining room where I’m sure we’ll find another irksome piece of hardware that hasn’t seen a screwdriver in five decades.
Judging by the state of this place, I don’t think Pops has been here much since Nana died.
Following a couple paces behind the realtor, I pass the tired picture frame on the hall table. A layer of dust coats the top—probably hasn’t been moved from this exact spot for the past twenty years.
Pops sits frozen in time on the edge of the dock at the lake house, his arm wrapped around my scrawny ten-year-old frame. I can hear Nana behind the lens, hollering,“Say cheese.”
“Well, I think I’ve seen enough,” the agent’s voice snaps me back to the moment. “Make the repairs we’ve discussed, fresh paint on the walls, clear out some of the bulky furniture. Should have no problem selling at or above market value.”
“Great,” I sigh.
“How much time do you need to get the property ready?”
I scratch the overgrown hair along my jaw. Three weeks doesn’t seem long enough, but it’s all I’ve got. “Can the sale be finalized without me here?”
“Sure. I can arrange for all the paperwork on your end to be taken care of wherever you’re at.”
“Good. Then I’d say give me a couple weeks and then we can schedule that photographer to come out like you mentioned.”
“That works.” She digs through her purse and pulls out a business card. “All my numbers are here. In the meantime, I’ll collect some comps for the area so we can begin discussing asking price.”
I stick her card in my back pocket and open the front door to see her out.
“If you change your mind on that lake house, Mr. Shaw, you let me know. That property would sell before it even hit the market.”
I offer a mirthless chuckle and thank her once again for her time. Pops and Nana’s lake house is not for sale.
As her SUV backs out of the cracked concrete driveway, I settle on the porch swing. Nana with her morning cup of decaf and Pops with his hot chocolate—their imprints forever dented into the dingy cushion beneath me, a sunrise ritual memorialized in the creak of the chains that hang from the ceiling.