Page 42 of This Is How It Started
“Rachel, are you home?” It’s Brooke.
I slam down the lid of Josh’s laptop and push away from the desk like a kid who’s just been caught rifling through her mother’s change purse.
Shell-shocked, I’m slow to answer Brooke. I’m too busy reeling.
“Rachel?”
“Yes,” I croak. “I’m here.”
“Can you come down for a minute?”
“Uh, yeah sure.”
I do my best to pull myself together, almost happy for the interruption, and tell myself I’m going to delete the messages and pretend I never read them. The whole thing is silly. Just an old girlfriend, that’s all.
“Coming,” I call, wondering whether I forgot to turn off the coffee maker or some other small infraction that has Brooke in a dither. Though admittedly she’s the most chill roommate I’ve ever had.
Brooke is standing at the foot of the staircase dressed in jeans, a bulky sweater, and a pair of knee-high worn leather boots. Nothing about her outfit is special, yet she looks like she just walked off the cover of one of those British countryside magazines.
“What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk if you have time.”
Uh-oh. She’s going to kick me out.
“Sure,” I say, mentally preparing myself to move in with Adam until I can find a place.
She leads me into the kitchen and motions for me to take a seat.
I’m tempted to tell her to just get it over with and quit dicking around. If she wants me out, I’ll move. It’s as simple as that.
Out the back window I can see the Bleu Construction crew packing up for the day. It’s hard to tell from this vantage point how much they got done. Perhaps Brooke is unhappy with their work and plans to lecture me about it. That would be better than the alternative, I suppose.
It’s getting dark, and the rain seems to have stopped. There’s a thin layer of fog hovering over the pool, making it look like smoke on the water. Brooke really should’ve covered it. Come summer, the water will be green as split pea soup.
“I have an offer to rent the house out for a week in March,” Brooke says.
Okay. Not as bad as I thought. But she’s dreaming if she thinks this can happen that soon.
“When? Because the guys said they need five weeks until completion.” I’ve lived through enough of my mother’s projects to know that really means two months. So even March is cutting it close.
“Not the pool house. This house.”
I stare at her, not sure I’m understanding correctly. “What do you mean this house?”
“I stuck it on Airbnb with an obscene price tag just to see what would happen. And I actually got a serious hit. A group of mystery authors are planning a writing retreat in the city, and this fits their needs.”
She can’t be serious. I hold eye contact to see if she’s messing with me.
“It’s ten thousand dollars. Twelve if I include food and maid service. That’s roughly seven times what I make in a week. You and I can bunk in the guest cottage. I’ll do the cooking if you do the cleaning.”
I think the British call it gobsmacked. And I can’t tell for certain, but I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open. “Brooke...are you...like...broke?”
I suppose there’s always a possibility that she has a gambling problem or a shopping addiction, though you’d never know it by her clothes.
“Not broke.” She shakes her head. “I make a good living, even by Bay Area standards. But this house...property taxes and insurance alone are killing me. And that doesn’t cover upkeep.”
“Didn’t my dad leave you money for that? Life insurance?” My father was loaded. Hannah, Adam and I were each left a generous sum. Not enough to make us rich by any stretch of the imagination, but enough to start college funds for our kids if we had any. Or in my and Adam’s case, a start toward buying a home.
