Page 22 of Give Me Strength

She reaches over and squeezes my hand, her touch a lifeline. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“It’s ancient history.”

“Psychiatrist or not, he has to be feeling some type of way about taking in the daughter of the man who nearly broke his nose at his wife’s funeral.”

She laughs at that. “Yeah, well. It’s what your mother wanted, and Gilbert is not the type of guy to shirk off his responsibilities.”

I nod, turning my gaze back to the window. The houses grow even larger now, their architecture more elaborate and their lawns sprawling. We pass a park where I used to play as a child, the swings now empty and swaying gently in the evening breeze.

“Do you like him?”

Her hand on mine tenses up, albeit slightly. “That came out of nowhere.”

I heave both shoulders. “You don’t seem all that concerned about me living with him. I also saw how you were with him outside the Greenfield and Barret Legal Group’s office building last week.”

“Lynn,” She squeezes my hand once more. “In case my dating history hasn’t made things clear enough, I like women.”

“And men,” I add, to which she doesn’t deny, “but you haven’t dated one in a while. Except for leading on poor Mr. Greenfield, that is.”

Her groan of frustration is music to my ears. “When are you going to let that one go?”

“When are you going to give me a straight answer?” I counter with a question of my own.

She blows out a breath. “I don’t know why Everett punched him, okay?”

“And I’m going to pretend you didn’t just lie to me, Aunt Bonnie.”

We drive through the more affluent part of town, and the houses grow larger and more extravagant, with grand driveways and ornate gates. Each one is more impressive than the last, a glaring reminder of the wealth that surrounds us.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re too smart for your own good,” she eventually says. “It’s not him I like per-se; it’s his house.”

“You’re going to flirt with him for access to his house?’

“No, I want to buy it from him.”

My eyes narrow to slits. “Did he say it was for sale?”

“Not exactly.” From the corner of my eye, I see her shake her head. “He decided to stay after all, because he’s not one to shirk off his?—”

“—responsibilities. Yes, you said that already. You have a house; what do you need his for?”

“It’s not for me, Lynn.”

Her meaning sinks in, and my heart starts to race as we turn onto the street where the McKenzie’s home stands. The familiar street stretches out before us, each house grander than the last, like little palaces. We pass the old oak tree where Mom and Rachel taught me to ride a bike. The memory pierces me, but it’s a bittersweet kind of pain, a reminder of happier times.

“We’re here,” Aunt Bonnie says as she pulls up to the gate. The mansion looms ahead, grand and imposing, a stark contrast to Dad’s house. A rush of emotions hit me all at once — nostalgia, sorrow, and a flicker of hope.

She lowers her window, leans out and punches in the code. “Huh. He never did get around to changing it.”

“My birthday,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. Rachel set it to that years ago, as it was easy enough for me to remember my birthday.

As we drive through the gates and up the long driveway, a mix of dread and anticipation churns in my stomach. We park the car, and I take a deep, steadying breath. This house, this new chapter — it’s overwhelming, a storm I’m not sure I’m ready to face.

Stepping out of the car, I glance at Aunt Bonnie, who gives me an encouraging smile. The towering oak tree in the front yard, once my castle and fortress, looms large and familiar. The sight of it stirs up yet another whirlwind of memories.

I walk up the path to the front door, my heart pounding in rhythm with my steps. After another deep breath, I ring the doorbell, the chime resonating through the quiet evening air. Seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity before the door swings open.

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