Page 23 of Under One Roof

A man who throws his arm around her shoulders and spins his hat backward to kiss her.

A woman who has kids who obviously love her with smiles and hugs.

They walk back to the parking lot, all physically connected by holding hands.

It makes my heart ache.

Not that I expect the twins to love me, but I would hope they don’t hate me.

Though they clearly do, because as soon as I open up the driver’s side door, they immediately stop talking from their seats in the back. Logan had run ahead to the car while I watched his coach’s family for a few seconds—time that feels important.

Like I’m walking into something. A trap.

I ignore the bubble of nerves in my stomach and slap on a grin. “Okay! Let’s go home and eat. Logan, I told your sister I bought your favorites from White Orchid, so I hope you’re hungry.”

When neither of them answers, I do what I’ve done since I arrived at Griffin’s house and carry the conversation. I blabber on about the funny Instagram reel I saw and this new album I downloaded. I ask what music they like and if they ever thought about playing instruments. I offer to teach them how to play the guitar or piano, if we could find one…maybe convince their dad to buy a keyboard. And when none of that works, I up the volume of the music and enjoy the ride with the windows down.

I’ve never lived anywhere with four seasons, and over the last week, I could actually see spring blooming. Today is the first really warm day since I arrived in town, and even though it’s been a rough start for me here, I can’t help but hope I’ll have a new spring, too.

Words pop into my head, lyrics I can’t quite grasp about life and love blooming in harsh conditions, a desert flower, a winter rose, and I’m a little distracted as I dump all the food into bowls when we get home, hurrying to write them down before I forget while the kids set the table.

For once, they’re animated, thanking me for the food instead of following the menu.

“I’m just glad y’all are happy,” I say, and Grace meets my eyes with a small frown.

“You’re not like the others,” she says quietly, and Logan elbows her.

I don’t understand the silent communication between them, but I laugh anyway. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

Grace digs into her food instead of answering.

“This smells so good,” I say before popping a heaping spoonful of what I think is mild curry into my mouth, but as soon as I swallow, I start coughing. My eyes water, and for a moment, it feels like I can’t breathe. I avoid spicy foods because they don’t sit well with me, and I’m not used to this spice. I cough a couple more times then chug down my water as the kids giggle.

“You okay, Miss Andrea?” Logan asks, grinning.

“Yeah, it’s…” I cough a few more times. “It’s hotter than I expected.”

I eye the curry, then look at them. I swear I dished out the mild one for myself. But the kids set the table and… No, I’m being paranoid. They wouldn’t mess with my food, right? Especially because Grace offers me some of her fried rice, which is really nice of her.

I push away the thought of them playing a trick on me and enjoy the rest of my non-spicy meal. Afterward, the kids complete their chores and then scatter, leaving me to my own devices. I play guitar for a while, FaceTime Dahlia, and double-check the locks after I’ve made sure the kids are asleep.

Downstairs, I decide on some self-pampering to keep my mind off what Griffin might be doing at this very moment. If he thinks about me at night, the same way I think about him. If he imagines me touching myself, like I imagine he touches himself. Because even though it’s been tense between us, I still use that vibrator every night with the picture of him in my mind.

I take it out now, drawing the tip over my stomach, tickling my skin. After I moved out to LA and realized I had the time and space to explore what I liked, I found a small female-owned boutique off Santa Monica with a woman who kindly walked me through the store, asking what I was interested in. I stammered nervously and told her I wasn’t sure, so she introduced me to my bright-pink boyfriend, the one who’s been with me for a long time, and taught me that I didn’t have to be ashamed of my desires. At least, not alone in my bedroom.

I close my eyes and think of Griffin. Of what his fingers might feel like on me, rough and solid, how his breath would feel on my neck or breasts before he took my nipples in his mouth. I slide off my shorts and underwear then turn on the vibrator, teasing my upper thighs with it before pressing the tip against my clit. It doesn’t take long for me to get wet, and I push it inside me, groaning, pretending it’s Griffin’s cock. Fantasizing what his weight would feel like on top of me, the best kind of pressure. He’s so big, he’d cover all of me, completely cocoon me, and I like that. I like that he could protect me, shield me, be tender and strong.

Yet somehow I know he’d be the exact right amount of unrestrained with me. Take me how he wanted.

I come, thinking of his hips pistoning, rubbing exactly where I need, and when I’m done and open my eyes, I spend a few seconds being sad that it’s not real before standing and shaking it off.

In the shower, I squirt a dollop of shampoo into my palm and start lathering up, but something’s off. It’s too thin, and the smell… I bring my hand to my nose and sniff. It’s not my shampoo. It smells like…dish soap?

I rinse it off quickly, cursing under my breath. I don’t know when they could have done this, but it had to be the kids. With dinner and now this, I know it’s not paranoia.

Especially when I think about the questions Griffin asked before he hired me. What I would do if I were locked out of the house? That’s like when people or businesses put up warning signs not to do something dumb because someone did the dumb thing at some point. Well, I guess Griffin asked me because the kids have locked nannies out of the house before.

I hurriedly finish rinsing off and wrap a towel around myself to think this through. I recall all the ridiculous tasks Ryder had me do, and while giving me spicy food and switching out my shampoo with dish soap aren’t exactly pleasant, they’re also not the worst problems I’ve ever experienced. These little tricks are their way of hazing me, testing my boundaries. I can handle it.

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