CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Maya and Mackenzie are getting ready for work and school, leaving me unsure of what to do with myself. It would probably be awkward for me to stay. I seem to have a room (or at least a couch) here for as long as I need it (even if I don’t want it), but it didn’t occur to me how I’d handle the daytime.
I like Maya’s parents and Mackenzie a lot, but this is too much, too soon. If things keep going as I think, I’ll be part of this family in no time. But for now I’m on self-imposed thin ice. I won’t wear out my welcome, or presume. They may all accept me, but I’m still a drifter in my mind. I’m still the guy who left Maya high and dry. That decade may be water under the bridge for Maya’s parents, who blame the absentee father much more than they blame me, and Mackenzie might not even know — but I’m neither as forgiving of myself nor as forgetful.
When Maya starts gathering her few things, I do the same. Mackenzie begs to keep Carl for the day, and Arthur and Charlotte give their blessing, so I leave him.
Maya is strange this morning. I’m not sure what it could be, other than morning-after regret. She seemed interested in reuniting last night, and I thought I’d followed all the right signs before entering her bedroom. Maya seemed to radiate green lights across the board, ready even before I was.
But this morning, she’s different. Like she wishes we hadn’t. Like she’s lost some of her forgiveness. The night is its own intoxicant, and this wouldn’t be the first time I did something in the evening that I realize I shouldn’t have done in the sun.
If I’m reading Maya right, that’s exactly how she’s feeling now.
You left me, I hear her eyes and body saying to me. You left US.
I loved you once, but then you betrayed us.
I thought you cared about us, but I can’t forgive what you did.
What was in the past should have stayed there.
I had an itch last night, but now that it’s scratched, I can see that we made a mistake that’s best forgotten.
I try to keep my happy face just in case I’m wrong, but by the time we part, I’m sure I’m not. She won’t meet my eyes. She won’t return my banter. I feel stupid for saying I’d stay in town, but even as I get into my truck, I feel reluctant to take it back, even in my own mind. That felt like a grand declaration, and I was sure she’d be delighted when I dared to say it. But now I’m sure she’s shaking her head as she drives away, sorry for me and my delusions.
How could I think that one night would make up for ten years of neglect?
Why would I make such a grand gesture when she was clearly just blowing off steam? She must think I’m pathetic. She must not respect me. All my life, I’ve wanted to travel. But what I said this morning, it’s like professing my love after a mediocre first date. We have all this history, and God help me, I felt sure last night that we still had the chemistry. But I was wrong. And now I feel like an idiot for speaking my mind, for not playing it cool, for not moving slowly and instead acting as if all is forgiven and forgotten when of course that is impossible. Not in one night, and maybe not ever, now that I’ve made things so awkward.
I drive away, about to face another day of nothingness. I have no agenda, and now it’s a workday. Joe is probably on call at the fire station, and I’m sure Brandon is working as any self-respecting non-drifter would be in the middle of a Monday.
With nothing better to do, I call the auction company to see if I can nudge something forward. I have no idea if I’ll stay in Inferno or not, but Ernie’s house is an albatross around my neck regardless. There’s an excellent chance that the house and his crap will make enough to fatten my pockets after his loans are taken care of, but I want to be done with the chore even if it merely breaks even.
I get someone on the phone who I’ve never spoken to then pull into a parking lot, waiting while she shuffles for Ernie’s file.
“Oh, yes,” the girl says. “It’s being shown to a prospective buyer today.”
I blink. That doesn’t make sense.
“It’s an auction,” I say. “It hasn’t gone up yet.”
“It looks like someone is interested in the baseline price.”
Baseline. Yes. Now I remember. The guy I first talked to said they sell houses like eBay sells lamps and other stuff. The sale is advertised as a scheduled auction or a cash purchase at a set price, called the baseline — or the Buy-It-Now price. I remember the explanation, but I was barely paying attention. Ernie’s place is a hole, and the baseline was a non-hole price. The idea that someone would stop by, see that house, and decide to buy it outright at a price that assumed it didn’t suck was so far-fetched as to be unworthy of my attention.
“Are you sure you have the right place?” I spell Ernie’s name then give her the street address.
“Yes, Mr. Dade. There was interest.”
“Someone kicking tires.”
“Actually, because auction prep is our major business, our policy is that there are no showings unless the prospective buyer submits a bank statement.”
“What, for financing?”
“No, sir. To show they have sufficient funds for a cash purchase.”
“You’re telling me someone has ninety grand sitting in their account to drop on my uncle’s crap-shack?”
“Ninety-nine with our fees and commissions. Yes, sir.”
“Who the hell would want it, though?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but the girl must think I’m actually asking. I guess there’s no confidentiality or even discretion at this stage, too, because I hear her rustling, and I know she’s looking up the name of the person who’s making the offer.
I wonder if it’s Brandon. Not personally, but in his company name. Life of Riley has developed a lot of land around here, and although their main thing is developing raw land into large communities, Brandon mentioned they diversify a bit into flipping single properties from time to time. Inferno Falls is a happening place, but it’s still hard for me to imagine anyone recouping their investment in turning a place like Ernie’s — even though it’s admittedly in a growth area. But if Brandon is behind this, it almost makes sense. He may be rich now, but he used to be as poor as I was. I need a break, and even though I kept swatting away his hints about helping me out, buying my uncle’s house at an above-fair price seems like the kind of underhandedly kind thing my old friend would do.
Yes, of course. Of course that’s what this is … and that annoys me because now I’ll have to pin him down and yell at him until he stops giving me charity from Mason James’s coffers.
“Brandon Grant,” I tell the phone. “It’s Brandon Grant who wants to buy the place.”
“No, sir,” says the girl, her rustling finally coming to an end. “It looks like the buyer’s name is Finch. Mr. Thomas Finch.”