Chapter 3 #2
I get rid of the robe, leaving it on the floor, and pull on the dress, tugging it into place.
Snatching an old scrunchie from the top of the dresser inside the closet, I twist my hair into a sloppy bun on top of my head.
I consider grabbing my toiletries and makeup bag out of the bathroom, but I left everything out on the counter, and that’s where the damage is the worst. What if I walk on the floor and fall through it?
A shiver steals through me at the thought.
As I’m struggling to take my suitcase down the stairs—it’s heavier than it looks, I’m such an overpacker—my phone rings. I only check it once I’m outside and have the suitcase stuffed into the trunk of my rental car, my heart dropping when I see it was my father.
The phone starts ringing again as I stare at the screen, and I answer it, bracing myself for his anger.
“Hi, Daddy,” I start, but he speaks right over me.
“Jesus, Rachel, how bad is it?” My father is shouting, and I wince, holding the phone away from my ear as he continues on a tirade for at least another thirty seconds.
I already spoke to him earlier, when the fire trucks were still here.
He’d received a notification from the security company that a smoke alarm was triggered, and it made me realize I can’t get away with anything.
The man knows all, keeps track of everything I do, and while I suppose it makes sense that he has this system in place, it also makes me realize that I am 100 percent controlled by this man. Just like the house is.
“Everything in the bedroom and bathroom is covered in heavy black . . . dust.” I grimace at my wrong word choice. It’s like he starts asking questions, and I lose all ability to speak. I’m sure my father thinks I’m an idiot.
At this very moment, I think I’m an idiot too.
“Dust? You mean soot? Ash?”
“Yes. That.” I force my tone to be cheerful, trying to alleviate the dark mood I can feel emanating from my father through the phone. Thank God he didn’t FaceTime me. If he actually saw the damage, he might stroke out. “But I’m sure it’ll be an easy fix.”
“Just like everything else is in your life, correct?” He sounds frustrated.
“Now, Howard, there’s no need for you to be so cruel,” my mother croons. She’s also on the phone, and she’s the balm to my father’s fiery soul. “Rachel just went through a traumatic experience. A house fire. That must’ve been so scary, my darling.”
I’m about to vocally agree it was terrifying, but my father starts talking instead.
“Oh, I know, Mari, but the girl needs to get a grip! She’s an adult. Not some careless teenager who accidentally set the curtains on fire. Shouldn’t she be more responsible by now? How long do we have to wait for her to take care of things on her own and not screw everything up?”
We all go silent. I’m pacing in front of the house, wishing I could turn back time and decide not to take a bath. Funny how those small, seemingly innocent choices end up altering your life forever.
“The fire started in the bathroom, correct? You took photos already?” Dad asks.
“Actually . . . no. I didn’t take any photos.”
“Seriously? Considering you’re constantly on your phone, I’m surprised you didn’t take the opportunity to snag a selfie with the flames before you ran out of the house,” he mutters, and that’s what does it.
His choice of words, the disgust in his voice, make the tears flood my eyes.
They track down my face, and I don’t bother wiping them away.
“Stop being so cruel,” my mom snaps at my dad, which surprises me. She rarely gets angry with him. “Do you want me to book you the first flight home, darling? You certainly can’t stay there.”
“No. I, uh, need to figure a few things out first.” Clearing my throat, I try to take some responsibility. “You could give me the phone number for the insurance company, though, and I’ll take care of—” I start, but my father cuts me off before I can finish the sentence.
“Absolutely not. I’ll call them. If I let you handle it, with our luck, you’d screw everything up. I’ll place a call first thing in the morning and get the ball rolling. Hopefully, they’ll be able to send a company out there quickly who can clean up the mess you made,” my father mutters.
“Howard,” Mom says, but he silences her too.
“Enough with the excuses, Mari,” he says, his voice impatient. “Rachel, you need to learn how to stand on your own two feet. Running away from your problems doesn’t solve them. Looks like it only makes them worse.”
I nod, despite no one being around to see me. My chest is tight, and tears prick the corners of my eyes once again, but I refuse to cry on the phone with my father. I need to remain strong. Somehow. “I know, Daddy.”
“I agree with your mother. You need to come home. Spend the rest of the summer in the Hamptons with your friends instead of out there in California by yourself. We haven’t been to that house in years. I should put it up for sale,” he continues.
My heart drops. The last thing I want to do is spend the rest of my summer in the Hamptons with my so-called friends, who are probably gossiping nonstop about the epic dumping that I just experienced. “I’m—I’m not ready to go back home yet. It’s just so nice here. Quiet and peaceful.”
“But we miss you, darling, and you’re so far away.” This comes from Mom, and I know she means it. “Your friends do too. They ask me about you all the time.”
All the time? That makes me uneasy. Everyone’s probably eager for me to come back so they can get all the juicy details about my epic public breakup. I’m not ready to talk about it. Will I ever be?
Probably not.
“If you insist on staying out there, you do realize you can’t stay in that house. You’ll have to find somewhere else to stay,” my father reminds me.
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Resolve fills me, and I straighten my spine, heading toward the rental car and settling into the driver’s seat.
My Birkin bag sits on the passenger seat, like she’s ready to go on an adventure with me, and again I’m so glad I ran back into the house and grabbed it.
What if it got ruined by the fire? I wouldn’t have been able to break the news to my mother.
She would’ve been devastated. “I’ll go to a hotel right now and check in. ”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Mom asks me, concern filling her voice.
“I just—I can’t stomach the idea of going back there.
Spending time in the Hamptons. That’s where I was when I .
. . found out about everything,” I confess, pressing the back of my head against the seat and closing my eyes for the briefest moment.
Exhaustion settles over me, heavy and almost overwhelming, but I tell myself I can handle this.
I can.
“I understand. Please tell us where you end up staying,” Mom says, her soothing tone tempting me to give in and agree to go back home.
But I don’t cave in. We say our goodbyes, and I end the call, then start the rental car, staring up at the three-story structure, marveling at how it appears almost perfect on the outside yet is somehow an utter mess inside.
It’ll be fine, I tell myself. My father will reach out to the insurance company, and they’ll take care of everything.
And if they’re a little too slow, I can look into a local cleaning company or whatever, and they can take care of everything.
I’m sure the insurance company will reimburse us.
And my father will be so pleased that I took the initiative for once and acted like a grown-up. Yes, that sounds like a perfect plan.
Just perfect.