“You can rent month-to-month.”
“Stella,” Pen hisses, and I know she’s come up with this on the fly too.
“I’ll take it,” I say. A month solves my immediate problem, and if I don’t like it here—and I’m betting I won’t—I can find something better almost immediately. “When can I move in?”
“If you have the money, right now.” She eyes me like she doubts I have the funds, and it pisses me off.
I don’t come from money. I come from New Iberia, and I sound like it. She thinks she knows just how to label me. Coonass. She’d never guess in a million years that I was one of four recipients for the National Geological Society’s full scholarships last year.
I reach into my back pocket for my wallet. “Cash okay?”
This throws her, and I love it. My smirk makes me feel better than I have in days.
“Y-yeah, cash is fine.”
Do I usually carry hundred dollar bills in my wallet? Hell, no. Again, I had to take the stuff I wasn’t about to leave behind in the apartment. These crisp bills represent the emergency stash I keep in my sock drawer.
Before I walked out, the money went into my wallet. The socks stayed there.
But as I count out the bills into Stella Mouton’s palm, I’m still smirking because she doesn’t need to know that. Judging by her parted lips, she’s having to rethink who I am. An oil exec’s brat? A drug dealer?
Know what? She can keep guessing.
I e-sign the lease she texts me and send it back.
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
Chapter Seven
STELLA
“Don’t say it,” I warn as soon as the front door shuts behind Lark Bienvenue.
Pen doesn’t speak. She just cackles like the witch she is.
I grit my teeth. “We should have advertised that we only wanted female tenants.”
Pen’s amusement doesn’t wane at all. “Then why didn’t you say so?”
“I never even thought about it.” I shake my head. “I only ever pictured girls. College girls like Livy.”
At her name, Pen’s grin flags, and she licks her lips. “I think one Livy is going to be enough,” she says soberly.
I can’t say I disagree. “I just mean college-age girls. Not necessarily Gen Z warrior goddesses.”
I swear, Pen’s eyes glaze over. “Sh-She is that, isn’t she?”
I cock a brow at my friend. “Thirsty, Pen? Can I get you some water?”
She scowls. “You’re the one who needs water. You must be running a fever after meeting that hottie.”
My laugh is sarcastic. “What are you talking about?”
“You—” Pen points her long finger at me before aiming it at the front door, “and him. Your energies might as well have been mud wrestling.”
“Ha. That’s crazy.” I force out a few more ha-ha-has, but now that I think about it, I do sort of feel like I just climbed out of a boxing ring. Adrenaline is leaching from my limbs. I might even need to sit down.
Instead, I turn and stomp toward the kitchen before my legs start shaking.
Pen follows. “You can’t deny there was a charge between you,” she accuses, excitement in her voice. “I knew it the minute I saw him. And the reaction you had as soon as you looked at him just confirmed—”
“That was just shock at seeing a strange man in my kitchen,” I say, yanking open the fridge door. The chicken kabobs have been marinating since this morning, but I pop open the container and rotate each skewer one more time before firing up the broiler.
“More like a shock from seeing a fine man in your kitchen,” Pen mutters.
That was a bit of a jolt, but I’m not about to admit it. “That kid is barely legal,” I say, layering on as much judgement as I can.
Pen snorts. “He’s younger, but he’s gotta be in his twenties.”
“Irrelevant.” I pull Nanna’s broiling pan from the cabinet next to the oven and mist it with cooking spray, not, I repeat, not trying to guess Lark Bienvenue’s age. He did say he was a senior. So, Pen is right. He has to be at least—
Stop, I scold myself.
Pen takes the plastic bag of mushrooms, sliced bell peppers, chopped zucchini, and cherry tomatoes that have also been marinating since this morning out of the fridge. She stands next to me and lowers her voice. “You ever slept with a younger guy?”
I stop lining the pan with kabobs and turn my head with menacing slowness. “You know every guy I’ve slept with,” I hiss in a whisper.
Her shrug is minute. “Don’t know their ages.”
Pen and I are both twenty-eight. I’ve slept with a total of five guys. Way less than Pen, but way more than I’d like to remember. “My only experience with anyone younger was Brody.”
Out of the five, Brody Michot is the one I’d like to forget the most, but that’s tough to do since he’s Maisy’s father.
Pen’s brows knit. “I didn’t know he was younger.”
“Two years if we’re counting actual age. Ten years if we’re talking maturity.”
“Heard from him lately?”
I snort. “Not since June.”
Pen’s eyes are all question marks. “Child support?”
“Pu-leeze.” I say, giving that question the ridicule it deserves. “He dropped off Maisy’s birthday present at the salon.”
Pen frowns. “But Maisy’s birthday is in May.”
“Are you beginning to see why younger men hold no appeal?”
She bats her lashes thoughtfully. “I think our new tenant has an old soul.”
I love my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She is the rainbow in my Skittles. But that girl is forever trying to get me to go on a date.
“Stop.”
“Seriously, you can’t let Brody put you off younger guys as a rule.” Her voice rings with disappointment.
“Oh, I’m not.”
Hope brightens her eyes. “Really?”
“We’ve been through this.” We seem to have to revisit this topic once every couple of months. “I’m off guys in general. Younger. Older. Breathing. You name it.”
Again, those lashes flutter with theatrical suggestion. “And you haven’t had second thoughts about playing for the other team.”
She’s trying to make me laugh. It works. “Sadly, no.”
“Well,” Pen says primly. “Just remember that you’re not in as much control as you think you are.”
I almost choke. “Have you looked at my life, oh, in the last five—ten—twenty-eight years?” My eyebrows are probably disappearing into my hairline. “What illusions about being in control do you think I have?”
Pen purses her lips, considering. “Good point.” But her witchy smile emerges anyway. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I roll my eyes. “No warning necessary.”
As if to make my point for me, my phone rings. The screen declares it’s my dad. Perfect timing.
My Nanna taught me a lot of things. One of the hardest lessons to learn was that even when people close to you disappoint you, you can’t just flip a switch and stop loving them. Or stop wanting them to love you.
If only it were that easy.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Stella, my star,” my dad croons. “Any chance I could swing by for a haircut?”
“What, now?” I pull the phone away from my ear to check the time. “It’s after six. I need to get dinner on the table and spend some time with Maisy.”
“C’mon, Stella. You can make time for your old man, right?” He chuckles. “After all, who put you through beauty school?”
My back molars grind together, but I make a conscious effort to relax my jaw before speaking. “Dad, we aren’t in Grease. It’s called cosmetology school.”
“Cosmetology school. Got it. How about I pick up burgers for you and the squirt and you could keep me from looking like a degenerate for my client meeting tomorrow?”
It won’t do me any good to argue, but
I can’t seem to help myself. “You know, you could have called me earlier and made an actual appointment.”
“And pay that ridiculous mark-up to your boss? Ha. Fat chance.” Dad scoffs at the very idea. “Whaddya want? Big Mac with cheese? A Happy Meal for the kid?”
I suppress a shudder. “Neither. I’m literally in the middle of making dinner.” Still, I can’t help but notice that Dad hasn’t asked about what Tyler wants to eat. You’d think he’d know by now that it’s not like my brother can just fend for himself. Not yet anyway. I mean, he can manage cereal and PB&J’s, but nothing that requires a recipe or cooking implements.
“Oh, so you’re making Chateaubriand or something? Twice-baked potatoes and seared asparagus?”
“Funny, Dad,” I deadpan. If I tell him it’s kabobs and rice pilaf, he’ll wind up staying.
“You know I’m just kiddin’. C’mon. Help me out. It’ll take ten minutes.”
He does have a point. I’ve already spent precious time on the phone trying to get out of something I already know I won’t get out of. But I’m not going to let him bring us crappy food and think we’re square.
“Fine. Come over. Skip the burgers. But you’re washing your hair first—”
“Aww,” Dad grumbles. “That’s the best part.”
“Well,” I tsk. “That’s the part that comes with making an appointment.”
His laugh ratchets over the phone. “Dang—” And here it comes… his favorite line. “If only God had given you as much sense as sass.”
“I get it honest,” I say, as usual.
“That you do,” he mutters. My dad may dish it out—he may do little else besides dishing it out—but he can also take it, which may be one of the only things that makes him bearable. I know I have Nanna Estelle to thank for that. “I’ll see you in twenty.”
Dad’s twenty minutes is my forty, so I get busy with dinner, and while I do, I tell Maisy and Tyler about Lark Bienvenue renting the third bedroom. Maisy barks in response. Tyler just stares into the empty dining room. Of course, Dad shows up right when I’m serving their plates, so I fix him one too.
“I probably shouldn’t have the rice,” he says, rubbing his gut. He’s standing in Nanna’s kitchen with his wet hair curling over his collar. He was right. He looks a bit like an 80s country singer instead of director of marketing for a multi-million dollar oilfield tool fabricator. “Marjory says I’m getting too fluffy.”
Pen snorts from the table, and my father shoots her a glare.
Did I mention that Pen and Dad don’t much care for one another? It’s been like that since, oh, my sixteenth birthday. When Dad cancelled our day trip to New Orleans where the three of us were supposed to have brunch at Commander’s Palace and see the matinee performance of Wicked.
He blamed it on work and said he’d make it up to me another time. Did that ever happen?
Nope.
Dad did, however, buy me a car. But even then, Pen had said that anyone who valued possessions over experiences was not to be trusted with one’s hopes.
She had a point. I can’t say that my Dad and I have shared all that many experiences.
“You sure, Dad?” I say, holding out the plate I’ve prepped for him, bearing two kabobs on a bed of pilaf.
He eyes the dish with obvious longing. “Well, I suppose I have to eat dinner, right?”
“Who doesn’t like a little fluff?” Pen asks, and then quickly turns to Maisy so she can avoid the daggers I send her way.
Ignoring her, Dad takes my offered plate and chooses the spot at the table next to Maisy, who’s at the head, and across from Tyler.
“How you doing, son?”
My brother says nothing, but at least he shrugs, acknowledging the question. Dad studies him for a second, looking like he’s waiting for more, but when it doesn’t come, he dives into his dinner.
That’s pretty much the way it is now between the two of them. Tyler is hesitant to talk, but he will if he’s given time. But Dad hasn’t figured that out yet. Probably because he doesn’t give Tyler the time. And since he doesn’t give him the time, Tyler’s not going to put in the effort to try to get any words out.
I serve my own plate with a sigh.
There’s two empty places left at the table, and I take the one at the foot, which was where Nanna used to sit. I expect it to feel strange, taking her place, but it doesn’t. It feels right. Over Maisy’s head, I can see clear through the formal dining room to the front hall. I can’t help but think that Nanna staked out this spot so she could not only see everyone at the table but watch the comings and goings of the house. Maybe being able to keep an eye on everyone gave her the sense that she had everything under control.
Or maybe that’s just me.
The dinner table isn’t a buzzing hive of conversation. I can usually count on Pen to keep us entertained, but not with Dad here, I guess.
For a few minutes, it’s nothing but forks scraping over plates and the thump-thump-thump of Maisy heels against her chair legs. Even she’s quiet, too busy poking holes in a mushroom cap with her wooden skewer.
As soon as I notice, Dad does too. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to play with your food?”
He says it with a smile on his face as if no one could possibly find this commentary offensive.
Pen makes a kind of guttural noise. It’s soft, but we can all still hear it. Maisy’s gaze goes from Pen to me, gaging how to respond. She’s done that since the days I carried her on my hip. Let me tell you, if that look from your child doesn’t make you want to get your shit together, there’s no hope for you.
I’m not saying my shit is together. Not by a long way. But I want to get it together.
It’s this knowledge that allows me to smile at Maisy. Ignore him, the smile says, you’re doing just fine.
With added vigor, Maisy jabs the doomed cremini. “Mama says playin’ is learnin’.”
And now my smile feels like a floodlight. Maybe I’m doing just fine, too. Grinning, Pen leans back in her chair with a little chin strut.
Dad shakes his head, but he must sense he’s out-matched because he turns his attention to me.
“What’s been going on around here? You four settling in?”
“Us four and then some,” Pen says before taking a sip of wine.
“What’d’you mean?” His gray eyebrows bunch in question.
I haven’t mentioned to him our decision to take in renters. It’s not a secret, but it’s also not a conversation I’ve been dying to have with him. Trust Pen to get everything out in the open.
I shoot her a look of mock thanks. “We’ve rented out three of the rooms.”
Dad’s frown of confusion turns to one of irritation. “We? Who’s we?”
I empty and fill my lungs. “I suppose I have rented out three of the rooms then. Pen is helping me.”
“Four if you count me,” she says with added cheer.
“I do.” Again, he flashes that smile that says It looks like I’m joking, but I’m not really joking.
Pen smiles back, but hers says, It looks like I’m smiling, but I’m really hexing your balls.
I’m a little concerned that both of them have sharp skewers at hand, but Dad blinks first and turns to me.
“Who are your tenants?”
I shrug, mentally filing through the three renters and realizing I don’t want to tell him about any of them. Not the domestic abuse victim. Not the Black activist. And not the hot guy—I mean—the geology student.
I clear my throat. “UL students.” I spear my last bite of chicken on my fork when a noise comes from Tyler’s end of the table.
I look up to find my brother frowning at me.
“No...t… all.”
I understand him perfectly, but what I don’t understand is why he’s frowning and why his statement has come out more like a question.
“Not all,” I confirm. Tyler blinks and his frown clears as though I’ve reassured him.
“What do you me
an, not all?” Dad asks.
In a way that Pen loves to call auspicious, we hear the creak of the screen door followed by the bolt knocking open.
I see the moment Nina steps inside and registers the five of us watching her enter. Even with makeup, even from this distance, her black eye is still obvious. But what I notice most are the whites of her eyes when she takes in Dad.
She bolts the door behind her and disappears up the stairs.
“Excuse me for a minute.”
Nina is at her door by the time I reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Nina? May I speak to you real quick?”
She freezes there like I’ve caught her stealing.
I soften my voice. “Everything’s fine.” I mount the bottom stair and make my way up. “I just need to talk to you.”
She turns around, but her movements are so wooden they make my joints ache.
My stomach drops. “Have you been hurt again?” I practically whisper the question, aware that the silence in the kitchen means everyone is listening.
Nina shakes her head, her hair falling from behind her ears. “No. I’m okay.” Her alert expression fills with a look of dread. “Did he come here today?”
“Who?” I ask like an idiot.
“Kaleb. My boy—” Her nostrils flare. “My ex-boyfriend. Did he come here today? He showed up at the restaurant, and it was—” She shakes her head and shuts her eyes.
“No. No.” I reach out to put a reassuring hand on her arm, but she shies away, so I step back to give her space. She doesn’t open her eyes. It’s like she’s trapped in a memory. I wish I could help her. “If there’s anything I could do—”
“No.” Nina opens her eyes and stares straight at me. “You’ve already done so much.”
I remember the reason I came after her. “Well, I’ve done something else you might not love.”
She blinks.
“I rented the last room.” I wrinkle my nose. “To a guy.”
Nina pales. “Did he say his name was Kaleb or Matthew? That’s Kaleb’s middle na—”
“No,” I shake my head quickly. “His name is Lark Bienvenue. He’s a geology student at UL.” At least that’s what he said. I didn’t bother to check his I.D. Panic rises, and I whip out my phone, double-checking the information on the lease agreement.
Dream House Page 8
