Chapter 6
Alaric’s lament about Mr. G and Igor’s Pizza Parlor plagued me.
Mr. G had come out from the kitchen right at the end of our meal, wearing his signature black apron and a pair of the ancient, flour-dusted Reeboks he’d preferred since forever.
He’d recognized me instantly, and I’d suddenly felt like the much younger but only slightly more hopeful version of myself reflected in his eyes.
He’d hugged me so hard I thought my spine would snap, then insisted on boxing up two extra pizzas “for the road.”.
He’d told me all about his kids and grandkids, and then introduced me to the latest crop of teenagers working the counter and serving tables, speaking and gesturing as if I were some fabled former employee, one he referenced as often as an example of excellence, and my presence this afternoon had confirmed my legendary status.
Back in the SUV, while Brad drove us to some unknown destination (I hadn’t asked and Alaric hadn’t volunteered) I attempted to remove emotion from the situation and assess the issue of Mr. G’s business being impacted by my VERY VALID and PERFECTLY LEGAL plans from a purely rational perspective.
Fact: when the Weston Company folded and all those workers were laid off, Mr. G’s customer base would dry up overnight. Maybe he’d try to tough it out, but I estimated he’d last six months, a year at most, before being forced to close. He was pushing eighty; the old man should’ve retired years ago.
Also fact: I’d always told myself I’d pay him back someday for all the times he’d let me take home day-old pies or given me extra shifts so I could help pay the rent and keep the lights on at home. And for employing my flakey sister.
Oddly, it didn’t feel like repayment now. It felt like the opposite. A betrayal. Even though the numbers had grown larger in Mr. G’s benefit.
Ah-ah-ah! Stick to the facts, not feelings.
The road blurred past in shades of blue and scrubby gold.
Every time I tried to focus on the scenery, my thoughts turned philosophical.
I hypothesized that, in small towns, a person was always clearing the debts from their own past, whether they wanted to or not.
I suspected there was no act of violence or charity or even just showing up that doesn’t echo forward.
Alenbach possessed the type of memory unique to places where nothing really changed, no matter how many murals or retail chains the town council tried to slap over old storefronts.
Ultimately, I decided to swing by Igor’s again as soon as possible and ask Mr. G about his retirement plans. If he’d let me help him retire comfortably, I’d do it. At minimum, I owed him that much.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice we’d left the paved highway until I heard rocks crunching under the tires.
We were now following a gravel road that traced a fence line into the distance.
The car pulled to a stop in front of an actual ranch house, set like a white stone in the middle of nowhere.
The sun, melting through the horizon, cast everything in improbable colors—pink, then violet, then the misty grey of coming twilight.
“Where are we?” I turned to Alaric, who had been silent since we’d left the pizza parlor.
He unbuckled his seatbelt. “I figured you should stay at my house while you’re in town.”
“You figured?” I didn’t immediately know what to think of this development.
On the one hand, it saved me from paying for a hotel.
Freebies were my favorite. On the other hand, did I want to stay the night at Alaric’s house?
With him? And would there be other people present? Entourage members? Servants?
Alaric placed a hand on the door handle. “I know you weren’t planning to stick around for three days. Seems only fair, after signing the contract, that I put a roof over your head and feed you while you’re here.”
“I could’ve stayed at the motel off the interstate.”
“The one near exit 168? It’s closed for renovations.”
“Oh. I see. . .” Turning back to the house, I pressed my palm to the window, trying to get a better look.
The main structure appeared to be a single story, spread out like a lazy lizard.
Its limestone facade was interrupted only by floor-to-ceiling windows, framed in matte black.
There were no fountains or flagpoles, nothing ostentatious.
Even the landscaping was sparse—just a few cacti and agave, thriving in the gravel yard.
The house itself looked old, but the kind of old that’s been cared for like a family heirloom, restored instead of remade.
I could see, even from this distance, the subtle undulations in the roofline, the thick, slightly warped boards that made up the porch, the way the whole building seemed to sit lightly on the land.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been there for a hundred years and would remain for a hundred more.
“This is your house?” I asked.
“Yes. This is my house.”
“It’s not very big.”
Alaric laughed and I heard him open his door. “I mean, I think it’s pretty big. Especially since it’s just me who lives here.”
Alaric exited the car before I could respond. Seeing no reason to delay, I followed, unsure if I was meant to feel impressed by his lack of pomposity or underwhelmed by his simplicity. Brad, the driver, had already popped the trunk and was waiting by the rear of the vehicle.
As I rounded the back of the car, Brad said, “I’ve got the bags, Ms. Weston.”
“Oh, no need. I can get my things.” The words came out automatically. I didn’t like people helping me with my luggage, mostly because they always expected a tip. As a rule, I never paid someone to do what I could do for myself.
“It’s my job.” He lifted the two bags effortlessly.
“But—”
“You should let me do my job.” His tone wasn’t hostile, but it didn’t leave room for debate.
Alaric called out to me from the porch, “Are you coming?”
Turning away from Brad, I found myself examining the structure once more as I walked to Alaric.
The porch was wide and ringed with what looked like reclaimed timber posts.
Two simple wooden chairs and a battered metal table sat to one side, like they’d been there since before Texas had electricity.
The steps creaked, but the boards didn’t give.
It wore its age openly, unapologetically.
I decided there was a certain dignity and beauty to the house.
I followed Alaric into the front room, honestly bracing myself for something discordant with the exterior and horrible in that way only spoiled, out-of-touch billionaires could dream up.
Instead, I stepped to a space that felt open and warm, the floor a patchwork of quarried tile Every wall was bookended in solid wood shelves or else covered in hand-hewn paneling that managed to look historic rather than rustic.
Many of the surfaces were empty in a way that felt odd.
But those with artifacts—a cowhide here, a blown glass paperweight there—revealed nothing that looked overly precious or untouchable.
The far wall was a full bank of stacking glass doors, each one floor-to-ceiling and slightly reflective.
Through them I could see the back of the property, rolling out in a shallow arc toward the purple hills.
A pool, more blue than the sky, was set off to the right; I guessed this was to avoid interfering with the view.
Even the pool furniture looked more functional than ornamental.
It wasn’t the house I’d expected from a billionaire dude bro—at least none of the ones I’d interacted with over the last decade—but I realized it definitely felt like something the Alaric I’d known eighteen years ago would choose for himself.
“Let me show you your room.” Alaric was already halfway down a hallway lined with art.
As I walked past, I noted they all looked suspiciously like the pieces came from local artists or yard sales rather than upscale, curated galleries.
Trailing after him, I did my best not to gawk at every detail, but there was a relentless and fascinating imperfection to the house.
It felt like a real home where people lived and loved and fought and made up.
Alaric stopped in front of a door with a slightly warped frame, then pushed it open to reveal a bedroom that was almost offensively comfortable.
The ceiling was high, and—like the main area—another glass wall of paneled doors overlooking the dusk-drenched hills.
A king-size bed, covered in a nubbly gray blanket, took up one end of the room.
The rest of the furniture was minimal: a chair, a slim desk, and a single painting of an impressive looking tree.
“The door’s glass panels have a privacy setting.” Alaric picked up a small black remote from the nightstand. He pressed a button and the windows instantly darkened to a deep blue, then returned them to clear with another click.
“Thank you. This is, uh, very nice,” I said. The words felt foreign in my mouth, but I meant them.
“The bathroom’s through there.” He gestured to a frosted-glass door just as Brad appeared behind me with my bags. The driver deposited them on a luggage rack by the closet.
He then nodded to Alaric. “If there’s nothing else.”
“Thank you.” Alaric’s voice softened and I detected a tone I hadn’t heard from him before.
Camaraderie, maybe? “We’ll see you in the morning,” he went on, walking Brad out of my assigned room and toward the front of the house.
Their conversation continued, but they spoke low and were now too far away for me to eavesdrop.
Alone, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone, intending to check emails. No signal. Not even a single bar.
I poked around the room for a wifi code. I found none. I checked my cell service again, this time with the bathroom door open, in case the signal was stronger there. Nothing.