“So your stuff is going to hang in museums.”
I laugh. “We’ll see.”
He grunts, not thrilled because in his opinion I’m being overly modest. I don’t elaborate about the complexity of the art scene. It isn’t a topic he’s ever understood, even though he tries to make an effort to study it for me. In addition, he bought my early works when nobody else would, just to support me. He’s been my rock for so long, and his actions have always spoken loudly enough to make up for the lack of words.
The waitress brings our breakfast, and we dig in. I’m starving, since I had a very light dinner yesterday. And God knows how many calories I burned last night.
“So. You any closer to buying the house?” Max asks, munching on his bacon.
I should’ve expected him to bring this up before I did. It’s something I’ve been struggling with, and it drives him crazy he can’t help, even though I told him it isn’t his fault. I know he’s been trying.
“No.” I sigh, torn between anger and exasperation. “Grandma says she isn’t selling. But I think she wants to give it to Sylvie. She’s her favorite anyway.”
“Dumb,” he mutters. “She’s a bitch.”
Max never liked Sylvie when we were growing up in Drover. Says she’s phony…and he’s not wrong.
She doesn’t have many nice things to say about him, either. It pisses Sylvie off that he never sends her backstage passes or free concert tickets. What’s the point of having a famous rock-star cousin if he won’t hook you up?
She’d steal some from me if she could, but he doesn’t send me any, either. He knows that being surrounded by huge, rowdy crowds is basically my idea of a nightmare. The high energy throbbing in the air, the sea of people shouting and swaying to the music…it’s all pretty unnerving for someone like me.
“It was our parents’ home. Grandma has no right,” Max mutters.
“Yeah, but the title’s in her name.” I shovel more pancake into my mouth, like it can magically push the frustration back into some dark corner of my mind.
I don’t understand all the legalities, but our parents’ will stipulated that the house go to Grandma. Our lawyer thinks that Mom and Dad probably just didn’t bother to update their will because of course they didn’t know they were going to die in an accident. But none of that matters at this point. Our only option is a lawsuit, and the lawyer said we might not prevail. Grandma can be vindictive, and she might burn the house to the ground rather than hand it over if she feels that Max and I don’t show her the proper respect—what other people think of her is terribly important to her.
And I can’t have that. Not because the home is especially beautiful or worth tons of money. It’s just a normal four-bedroom house. But it has a studio in the back that Mom designed. She was an amazing architect, and when I showed an interest in art, she wanted me to have my own space to create without disturbance. And the studio also has floating wooden shelves with carvings on the edges that Dad made. He was talented with his hands, and seeing those little flowers in relief never failed to make me smile.
I also left some of my childhood treasures in the compartment under a trapdoor in the studio Mom put in for me. Nobody else knows about it. But most importantly, nothing makes my creativity flow like the studio. The place makes me happy and secure, and it helps my mind wander and create connections and colors in my head like nowhere else.
Grandma doesn’t even live in the house. She hasn’t been to the studio, either. She says she’s too lazy to rent, which I suspect is to ensure I can’t live in my childhood home. It’s a badge of shame to her that I can’t recognize people, and she refuses to accept it’s due to a car accident I had. After all, I can distinguish between shapes and colors. How can I not tell people apart?
To her, my “condition” is an excuse for being rude and uncaring—two qualities that make me “unbecoming.” If I just try harder, I could be a good Southern lady who doesn’t embarrass her. She’s done a lot to coerce me to do better, and won’t accept that there’s simply no cure for face blindness.
So I’ve done everything in my power to hide just how much I want that house back because I don’t want her to torment me with it. But she probably knows. She’s good at reading people, and I’m no match for her.
“Grandma told me if I got married in the next three months, I could get the house.” I don’t mention that she probably said that because she wants to see me jump through hoops. She seems to enjoy watching me bend over backward to do her bidding. As far as she’s concerned, if I can meet her in those things, I can surely recognize people and be a nice, polite girl who won’t embarrass her. “She said she’d make it my first anniversary present.” I scoffed at the proposition. But she showed me a signed document to prove how serious she is.
Max smacks his fist on the table, making our silverware and plates jump a little. “How are you going to find a good man in three months? Men aren’t like a skirt you pick out from a department store rack!”
“She probably thinks I should ask Jeff.” Which is never going to happen now! Especially not after the porno phone call.
“He should ask you,” Max says. He’s never liked Jeff. Must’ve felt the coward vibe off him way back when. “For that matter, any man who values you will get down on one knee and ask. With a properly sized rock. Anything less, and you kick the fucker out of your life.”
“Well, there won’t be any asking or marriage with Jeff. We broke up,” I say before Max offers up more of his philosophy on the kind of romance I should have.
“Good. Some men deserve dumping.”
And an ass kicking. “Yeah, but I only have three months.”
“Tell Grandma you need more time.”
“She’s planning to give the house as either a birthday or Christmas present to Sylvie.”
Max growls. It means, What the fuck.
“She didn’t say it to my face, but I overheard her talking about it. Sylvie’s birthday is in three months, so I figure I should tie the knot in two, just to be safe.”