5. Chapter 5
5
Bella
“ L ila, for the love of God, you are not going to an unsupervised party after school.” I shove the last piece of toast into my mouth and wash it down with coffee that’s already lukewarm. The mug has a chip in the rim, but it’s the one Dad used to use, so I can’t bring myself to replace it.
Lila leans against the counter, one sock on, the other dangling from her hand like it’s too heavy to lift. Her dark hair, messy from sleep, is pulled into a lazy ponytail, but a few strands cling to her flushed face. She’s still in her oversized hoodie that says “BITE ME ” in neon red letters and a pair of leggings with a tear at the knee.
“It’s not a party,” she argues, but her voice goes up at the end, betraying the lie. “It’s just… a hangout.” She waves her sock for emphasis, like that’ll sell it.
“A hangout with who?” I cross my arms, leaning against the fridge. The grocery list taped to the door flutters, taunting me with all the unchecked boxes. “Your friend Maya’s cousin who looks like he moonlights as a SoundCloud rapper?”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of her head.
“He’s a DJ, not a rapper.”
“Because that’s better.”
Julian’s voice cuts in from the kitchen table. “Happy birthday, sis.” He’s buttering toast with the precision of a brain surgeon, the knife scraping against the plate just loud enough to make me wince.
“Thanks, Jules,” I say, turning my head to smile at him. His shaggy brown hair flops into his eyes, and he pushes it back with his forearm before going back to buttering. He looks so much like Dad sometimes it hurts, but he’s also the only one in this house who doesn’t actively try to ruin my sanity before 7 a.m.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Lila says, yanking her other sock on and hopping dramatically like I’ve asked her to climb Everest. “Everyone’s going. Even Maya’s mom is cool with it.”
“Maya’s mom lets her wear crop tops to church,” I deadpan.
Julian snorts into his toast, and Lila glares at him. “You’re not helping,” she snaps.
“Not trying to,” he says, taking a bite and talking through a mouthful of bread. “You’re lucky Bella hasn’t locked you in the attic yet.”
“I could still do that,” I add, raising an eyebrow at Lila.
“Oh, please. You’re the fun police, not the Gestapo,” she grumbles, grabbing her backpack from the floor. “And for the record, you’d make a terrible dictator. You’d try to guilt-trip your enemies into surrender.”
Julian actually laughs at that, and I throw my hands up. “Great, I’m being roasted in stereo now.”
“Happy birthday,” Lila says, her tone flat, but she tosses me the tiniest smirk as she shoulders her backpack. “I guess I love you or whatever.”
“Wow. I feel so special,” I reply, pulling her into a quick hug she pretends to hate.
Julian stands and slings his backpack over his shoulder, looking at me with that serious expression that makes him seem older than 17. “You okay, Bella? You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” I say, ruffling his hair as I press a folded twenty into his palm. “Grab something for you and Lila after school, okay? Pizza or burgers, whatever you want. I might be late tonight.”
He nods, his brow furrowing like he wants to argue but knows better. “Don’t work too hard.”
“Don’t be too perfect,” I reply, kissing his cheek.
Lila’s already halfway out the door, yelling something about not wanting to miss the bus.
“Love you, bye!” I call after her.
“Bye, dictator!” she adds, her voice fading.
I shake my head and grab my coat, my gaze lingering on the picture of Mom and Dad on the mantel. The house feels quiet now, even though it’s still humming with life—dishwasher running, coffee maker sputtering.
One day at a time, I remind myself as I grab my car keys and head for the door. One day at a time.
I step onto the porch, locking the front door behind me. The faint click echoes through the quiet morning, a sound that feels more final than it should. My gaze lingers on the peeling paint around the doorframe—Dad was supposed to repaint it the summer before the accident. He even bought the supplies, a bucket of cream-colored paint still sitting in the garage, probably dried out by now.
The house looks tired but proud, like a veteran soldier. The sun-faded cream siding, light blue shutters, and wraparound porch might not catch anyone’s eye, but to me, it’s everything. Every crack, every scuff, every creak of the floorboards feels like home.
I glance at the swing set in the backyard, visible from the side of the porch. The chains sway faintly in the breeze, creaking just enough to make me smile. Julian and I spent hours out there when we were kids—me pushing him on the swing while he screamed, “Higher, Bella, higher!” until Dad came out to warn us not to flip the thing over. Mom would stand on the porch with a glass of iced tea in her hand, laughing as she reminded Dad, “You used to push her just as high.”
Mom’s laugh. I can still hear it sometimes, echoing in my head at the strangest moments. Warm and full, like she was bottling sunshine just to pour it out for us. She had this way of making everything feel safe—like no matter how bad things got, as long as we were together, we’d be okay.
I walk to the edge of the porch and brush my fingers over the railing. She and Dad built it one summer, insisting on doing it themselves, even though neither of them knew a thing about construction. “It’s good to learn something new,” Mom said as she wiped sawdust off her hands, and Dad muttered something about hiring professionals next time.
She was always like that—unapologetically ambitious and endlessly optimistic. She made the house feel alive, every corner touched by her creativity. The flowerbeds in the front yard were hers, planted with a mix of roses and wildflowers because she couldn’t decide between “elegant” and “chaotic.”
When I keep them up, it feels like she’s still here, like I’m tending to a piece of her. And when I can’t—when weeds start to creep in—I feel like I’m failing her.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of the memory. I grab it and see three notifications light up the screen:
ELENA: Happy birthday, babe! Celebrate like the world revolves around you (because it does)! Also, remember to live a little today—do not make me come rescue you from work hell.
I can’t help but smile, even as I shake my head. Celebrate? Sure, let me just roll out the red carpet and cancel all the chaos in my life. Still, Elena’s enthusiasm is infectious in small doses. I type back:
ME: Thanks, queen. I’ll celebrate once I survive this morning. Bring tequila later, and maybe I’ll forgive you for texting me this early.
I hit send just as the next message catches my eye.
Promo Text : “Happy Birthday from Central Savings Bank! Unlock your exclusive loan offer today with rates as low as 4.9%!”
I blink at the message, then snort. “Wow, Central Savings, you really know how to make a girl feel special. Forget flowers or cake—nothing says we care like debt.”
The small laugh fizzles out as I open the third notification.
CINDY (Lexicon Law Partners) : Received countersuit from Mike and Peggy regarding property claims. Need to discuss ASAP.
My stomach tightens as I read the words. Countersuit?
Of course. Because it’s not enough that Mike and Peggy are already trying to sell the house out from under me—they need to escalate things, drag it out, make it even messier. They’ll argue that selling the house is the “responsible” thing to do, that I’m clinging to something impractical. But they don’t see the flowerbeds Mom planted, or the dents in the porch rail where Dad bumped into it with the ladder every Christmas, or the tiny pencil marks in the hallway marking Julian’s and my heights over the years.
To them, it’s just property. To me, it’s home.
It’s the one piece of my parents I have left, and I’ll be damned if I let them turn it into another notch in their real estate portfolio.
“Of course they did,” I mutter, locking the screen and walking down the porch steps. My boots thud against the wood, the sound grounding me. The car is parked along the curb, the same spot where Dad used to park his SUV after a long day at work.
As I step onto the sidewalk, I glance down at the phone in my hand, debating. Should I reply now or wait until I’ve had a moment to breathe? On the one hand, Cindy will want a plan—and soon. On the other, I can feel the heat behind my eyes, the kind that warns that a full meltdown is coming if I don’t pace myself.
I press my fingers to my temples, breathing in slowly. “They couldn’t just let it go, could they? Oh no, let’s ruin Bella’s birthday and her life in one neat package. Efficient, really.”
I slip into the driver’s seat, tossing the phone onto the passenger side. My reflection stares back at me from the rearview mirror: dark circles, a loose strand of hair refusing to stay tucked into my bun, and the distinct look of someone who just barely held it together through morning chaos.
“You’ve got this, Bella,” I say, trying to sound convincing. “Just a countersuit. Totally normal. People fight their family over property all the time.”
“Talking to yourself again, Bella?”
Mrs. Harrison’s voice makes me jump. I look up to see her standing in her driveway, leaning on her ever-present rake. Her silver hair glints in the sunlight and her floral sweater—a kaleidoscope of clashing pastels—would look ridiculous on anyone else.
“Not at all,” I say, raising the phone. “Just enjoying some light morning reading. Court documents make the best birthday presents.”
She frowns, the kind of disapproving look only an octogenarian neighbor can pull off. “Those two should be ashamed of themselves. Your parents worked so hard to build that home, and now they want to tear it apart.”
“They’re termites,” I reply, letting out a dry laugh. “But I’ll deal with them. Mom always said we don’t back down from a fight.”
Mrs. Harrison nods, leaning on the rake like it’s a sword. “Your mother had more grit in her little finger than most people have in their whole body. She’d be proud of you, Bella. Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”
Her words hit harder than I expect, a lump forming in my throat. “Thanks, Mrs. H,” I say softly, giving her a small wave as I close the car door.
The engine sputters, coughs, and finally roars to life like an asthmatic cat. The dashboard is a sea of warning lights that I’ve been ignoring for months. I glance in the rearview mirror one last time, my eyes catching on the house. The sunlight makes the flowerbeds glow, and for a split second, I imagine Mom stepping onto the porch, waving goodbye like she used to.
“Happy birthday to me,” I whisper, pulling out onto the street.