Page 14 of The Beach Trap

CHAPTER FOUR

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My life is about to change forever.

That phrase has been rattling around my head during my journey to Destin. I divided the twenty-hour drive into two days, which felt even longer because I had to stop and let the Vanderhaavens’ dog out to pee every three hours. Now my butt is sore and my eyes are gritty with fatigue, but I’m almost there. And the closer I get, the louder those words echo:My life is about to change forever. Forever.

The dog is in the back seat, sticking his head out the window, his long pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. I’m talking with Martina on speakerphone as I drive; she told me to call her atanytime if I felt tired. She remembers, all too well, the time I was driving us both home from a school dance junior year and fell asleep, driving Granddad’s pickup into a telephone pole. Luckily neither of us was hurt, but we were both pretty shaken up.

“Tell me your plans for tomorrow,” Martina says, which is a welcome change of topic from the past thirty minutes she’s spent telling me how much she loves being married. She and Ricky are adorable, but they also make me feel deeply, distressingly single.I haven’t dated anyone in a few years, and most of the time, I’m fine with that. Between nannying and visiting Granddad, I don’t have time for much else.

“I’m meeting with the real estate agent tomorrow,” I tell Martina. “She’s going to tell me how much we can sell it for, and then we’ll get it listed ASAP.”

I searched online for real estate agents in the Destin area and found several that looked promising. I didn’t know how to decide which one to call—until I saw the name Harriet Beaver. I snort-laughed so hard I choked, then immediately called her. Any woman with the confidence to put that name on her business card is a woman I want in my corner.

“Let’s hope she can get you a couple million, since you have to split it in half,” Martina says.

I laugh. “That would be fantastic, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Last I spoke with Harriet, she told me that a three-bedroom beachfront house could get at least a million. It’s such a staggering amount I can hardly grasp it, even if half of it goes to Kat.

I’ve never had more than a couple of hundred dollars in my bank account. My grandparents lived that way, too, always just barely making it through.

My life is about to change forever.

“Speaking of the other heiress,” Martina says, “have you heard from her?”

“No,” I say, somewhat abruptly.

I don’t plan to speak with Kat at all. I’m going to work completely through Mr.Callahan. Ihavebeen checking her Instagram—a bad habit, I know, but I have a bizarre fascination with her. She’s the type to overshare on social media, posting daily on her feed and constantly blabbing in her stories. It feels weird toknow the intimate details of her life—like what she eats for breakfast or the brand of vitamin C serum she uses—when she knows nothing about me.

But strangely, she’s made no mention of her father’s death online. Zero. She hasn’t missed a beat, staying busy with her shopping hauls and organic smoothies. Any sympathy I had for her has dissolved. I’ve never seen a more self-centered person in my life.

“You should’ve seen her post today,” Martina says. She’s joined my semi-obsession with the #KatWalk. “She was showing off this denim jumpsuit that costs twothousanddollars. That girl is so high-maintenance it’s hard to believe you ever got along with her, even as a kid.”

I know what she means—Kat radiates luxury. Expensive clothes and shoes, dewy skin, shiny chestnut hair. Even the supposedly casual shots are too perfect, too put together. I can’t imagine the time and energy Kat must spend in order to look like that—the eyebrow waxing (and probably upper-lip waxing—even at twelve Kat had peach fuzz there), the manicures and pedicures (I have had exactly two pedicures in my life, both forced fun when I was in a bridal party), the spray tans and lash lifts (I didn’t even know that “lash lifting” was a thing until Kat posted about it, and I’m still horrified that people put those chemicals near their eyes). Even the pictures she posts with her shopping hauls, floral arrangements, and foodie shots look like something out of a magazine.

In contrast, I’m so low-maintenance that the last guy I went out with called me a “bruh girl,” and he didnotmean that as a compliment. Currently, I’m wearing a free T-shirt I got from a fun run at the Vanderhaaven kids’ school, cutoff jean shorts that I cut off myself, and flip-flops I bought for one dollar at Old Navy. I’m not wearing any makeup, but when I do, it’s the kindyou buy at Target, not at a fancy department store cosmetics counter.

It’s not that I don’t care what I look like, because I do—in fact, just last week I was staring at myself in the mirror, wondering how I got all the way to twenty-seven without knowing how to properly apply eyeliner. But I don’t have the time, money, or skills to hold myself to Kat Steiner’s standards.

“She seemed different back then,” I say, bringing myself back to the conversation with Martina. The operative word is “seemed.” More likely, she was exactly the same but was slumming it with me during those weeks at summer camp.

Then I look around and notice my surroundings, and gasp. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Martina asks.

“I wish I could show you,” I say, taking in the beauty in front of me. I’m driving across the long Mid-Bay Bridge that leads from the mainland to the little strip of land where Destin sits. Water stretching on all sides, dotted with boats, the sun setting in the western horizon. “It’s beautiful. Breathtaking.”

“You deserve a little beauty,” Martina says.

“I’ll only be here for a couple days,” I remind her. “How’s my granddad doing?”

“Great. He was watchingTrue Gritwhen I came by with his lunch.”

“The original?” It’s Granddad’s favorite movie, and I love it, too. John Wayne earned that Oscar for his portrayal of crotchety old Rooster Cogburn.

“Obviously,” Martina says, a smile in her voice. “Gotta go—Ricky just got home from work. FaceTime me later? I want to see this amazing beach house!”

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