Page 51 of Pity Play

On my way to the cashier, I pick up five bouquets of flowers that I'll put in vases around the house. They’re for my mom. She’s been through a lot, and she deserves a dose of joy, too.

As soon as I get back to my parents’ house, I put the pot of soup on. Not only will the aroma be comforting as it cooks, but it will make a nice dinner for them. I triple the recipe so there will be leftovers for a couple of days.

After cleaning up my mess, I put a batch of my dad’s favorite chocolate chip cookies into the oven. Then I get busy assembling aplate of peanut butter, jelly, marshmallow, and banana sandwiches. Truth be told, I still make them for myself occasionally. Not only does it bring back great memories, but I really do think the combination is somehow medicinal.

At eleven o’clock, my mom texts that they’re about to leave the hospital. I run around making quick work of placing flowers throughout the first floor. I even build a fire in the living room fireplace so that my dad can watch it while he’s in bed.

I know I can’t make my father talk to me about his younger years, but I can change the way I treat our relationship. Forcing him to accept responsibility for our divide isn’t going to get us on track. Instead, I’ll be kind to him, and show love. I’ll try to be more understanding of his wounds that I know nothing about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

LORELAI

Luke’s comment from this morning runs through my head on a loop.We make our own opportunities.We make our own opportunities. We make our own opportunities.And darn if he isn’t right!

I didn't love my first job out of college, but I took it because I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. Then I followed my boyfriend to a city I didn’t want to live in and got another job that didn't excite me. I didn’t make my own opportunities. I settled, and I’m going to call a do-over.

I know I want to live in Elk Lake, which means I have to figure out how to make that happen. The only problem is that I like so many things, I’m not sure what to focus on. Having said that, I need to pick something that will pay the bills so I suppose that limits my options a bit.

I think about it while picking up paint samples. I toss around several ideas while brushing different shades on the walls. I ultimately conclude that nothing I enjoy has anything to do with my English degree. Unless someone is willing to pay me to read romcoms.Why can’t that be a thing?

As much as I don’t want to leave this house, I love the thoughtof renovating it. I’m having the time of my life picking out colors and planning how to update and rearrange the furniture once the walls are painted and the new carpet is laid. I even look into how much it will cost to convert the wood-burning fireplace to gas. I make a note to call Anna and see if that upgrade will add enough value to make it worth doing.

I hate the thought of leaving my childhood home, but I adore turning it into my own vision. I don’t know if anyone would hire me as an interior designer, but if this place turns out like I think it will, I’m going to have some great before and after pictures to show clients. Luckily, the day my parents told me they wanted to sell, I took a bunch of pictures so I could always remember how it was when my family lived here.

Now that something has clicked in my brain, I’m experiencing an invigorating new sensation. Icanmake my own opportunities. And Iwill. I don’t know all the nitty and gritty details yet, but I’m determined to keep moving forward.

After washing down the built-in bookcase, I dab a small amount of Oyster White on the first shelf. I enjoy watching the dingy old paint get covered up by something brighter, shinier, and newer. Before I know it, I’ve covered half the shelves, and I’ve run out of paint. It’s like painting has become a metaphor for my life. I can make change by simply making a change. It really is that easy.

I go back to the hardware store before the day is over, and I stop by the carpet store to get samples there, as well. When I get home, I spend the rest of the day on Pinterest looking for inspiration. The thing about old houses is that they’re full of so many little details that newer construction never tries to replicate. So that’s a win. The hard part comes with trying to create an open concept that everyone seems to expect these days.

On a whim, I call Allie. I know her parents are on a cruise for a few more days, but her dad’s a contractor and I want to pick his brain about an idea I have. After explaining my vision to my friend, she demands, “You want to do what?”

“I want to see if the wall between the living room and dining room is load bearing. If it’s not, I want to take it down.”

“What do your parents think about that?”

“I’m not going to tell them.”

“Lorelai, have you lost your mind? I know you’re creative and all, but you can’t knock a wall down and not tell your folks. It’s their house! Not to mention, how are you going to pay for it?”

With a smile on my face, I tell her, “My dad added me to his credit card. I just got my copy in the mail yesterday.”

"You’d knock a wall down and charge it to your parents without telling them first?”

“Why not? They put me in charge, so I’m taking charge.” The more I think about this idea, the more I like it.

“Okay, Lor, but I think you’re crazy.”

Borrowing one of my mom’s favorite sayings, I tell her, “Crazy like a fox.” I’m not even a little concerned about what my parents are going to say when they find out. They want me to be a boss, so that’s what I’m going to do. I’m certainly not going to let one little wall get in my way. And if I’ve learned anything from my HGTV addiction over the years it’s this—knock that wall down!

I just have to keep them from finding out until after the deed is done. And the only way to keep them in the dark is to make sure my brother doesn’t come home. He’s just the kind of blabbermouth that would tell them everything. “I need to go, Al,” I tell my friend. “Let me know when your dad gets back so I can make an appointment to talk to him.”

Once she hangs up, I call Noah. “Hey, bro.”

“Lorelai.” His tone and lack of verbiage make it clear he’s still upset about our last conversation.

“I got to thinking about how busy you are.”

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