Chapter Twenty-Three
Sierra
After the final meeting of the day, I make the half-hour drive home. I cut the engine and look at the green-shingled, three-story home Grandma left me along with Silicone Dream. Despite all the money she made from the company, she never upgraded her living space. She preferred to stay in the same nice suburban neighborhood where she met and married Grandpa and raised their family.
The white picket fence and spacious yard are the same, along with the crabapple tree with the small cinder block just big enough for a toddler to sit on. I open the door and walk inside. The only things that have changed are here: upgraded appliances, threadbare carpet ripped out to reveal the hardwood floor, and some new furniture that Grandma bought, along with the reupholstered armchair Grandpa loved so much by the fireplace.
After Mom passed away, I spent almost all of my time here.
I flip the light switch in the living room. The mantels and floating shelves are crowded with photos, and for some reason I walk over to see them. Maybe I’m feeling a bit emotional after that call from Dad.
The pictures chronicle the family’s history. My grandparents’ outdoor wedding in the yard, the crabapple tree smaller. They look so happy together, gazing at each other like they’d found all they could dream of. A few pictures of them and Dad in various stages: helpless infant, chubby toddler, shyly smiling boy, awkward teenager, quiet young man. Then to my parents’ wedding—both looking like the greatest lovers in the world, their eyes on each other longingly. He might not be the best dad, but he’s a great husband. To him, children were unfortunate byproducts that divided matrimonial attention.
There are photos of me from infanthood to teenage years. My favorite is the one with me sitting on the cinder block in front of the crabapple tree. There are pictures from my high school and college graduations, taken with Grandma and Ellie. My parents are missing from both. Mom was gone by then, and Dad didn’t take any pictures with me because…
Well… He had his new family—Linda and Felicia.
But you would never know from the photos in this room. Despite their grand wedding—with two professional photographers—there isn’t a single photo from the ceremony on the shelves. Felicia graduated from high school two years after I did, but you wouldn’t know that, either. Her pictures aren’t part of the collection.
Grandma made it clear Linda and Felicia weren’t her family when she found out they both treated me like I wasn’t there. She was also disappointed that Dad didn’t do anything to intervene. But then, he hates conflict or taking an uncomfortable stance, and won’t do it unless pushed into it by Linda. That’s why Grandma didn’t leave the company to him—Linda exerts too much influence.
I’ve accepted Dad for what he is. It wasn’t as hard as people think because I had Grandma…and I have Ellie. He isn’t going to change for me, and there’s nothing I can do about that. He’s happy with Linda now, just like he was with Mom.
I’m not part of his inner circle, just as he isn’t in mine. I don’t know why that particular knowledge is weighing me down today. It isn’t like it’s a recent realization.
Shaking off the blue feeling, I walk toward the table on the left of the reupholstered armchair, where the hamster cage is located. Bullet and G-Spot quit running in their wheel and come toward me, their tiny claws wrapping around the thin stainless-steel bars.
“Hey, cutie pies.” I can’t help smiling. Their mere presence perks me up.
Their pink noses flare and quiver, their whiskers vibrating up and down as they sniff me, probably trying to figure out if I’ve brought them anything to eat. Bullet and G-Spot aren’t trainable like dogs, but they’re no less affectionate or inquisitive.
When crossed, they’re quite vicious, too. Mean enough to draw blood.
“I had a great day. How about you?” I ask.
They emit little squeaks, and Bullet lets go of the bars to trundle around the cage. I give them some sunflower seeds and start toward the kitchen to check the fridge. Do I have anything decent to serve Griffin when he stops by? There should be something—I went to the store just a couple of days ago.
I turn on some music, and Killian Axelrod’s husky voice fills the house. His band just released a new album, and it’s absolutely divine. Some bands get stale after a couple of albums, but so far Axelrod has been amazingly creative. Moving to the drumbeat, I sing along with the song.
Inside the fridge are two different kinds of juice and a few bottles of lemonade. They should do. Starting to get hungry, though. I pick up my phone to order a pizza. As I enter the topping options—extra cheese and pepperoni—the doorbell rings.
Must be Griffin. And just in time for pizza if he wants some. I’ll see if he likes something other than cheese and pepperoni, although he doesn’t seem fussy. Todd likes grilled artichoke hearts, anchovies and goat cheese on his, which severely limited our pizza options.
I cross the living room, my step brisk, and open the door.
A man I’ve never seen before is standing on the porch helping to support a lump of what appears to be a human being. Except the supposed human smells like a rat that drowned in a vat of alcohol.
The man shifts so I can see the drunkard’s face better.
Oh shoot.It’s Todd!
“This your husband?” the man asks.
“No. Ex-husband.”
He shrugs. “Close enough.” He pushes Todd in my direction. “He’s all yours.”
I move back, not wanting to touch Todd. He slumps onto the doorframe like a sack of smelly flour.