Victoria Aspen's life just turned inside out.
She has been forced to move into the house she used to spend every summer in. It's been so long since she was welcomed back into the family and this time... they didn't really have a choice.
But thi...
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Bugs have just arisen under my skin, crawling under every goose bump and whispering everything that's wrong with what's happening right now, right here. I don't want to be here. I don't want to live in a house with two pretend parents and a brother that despises me and one that just plain doesn't appreciate my company.
I guess I never do.
But here I am, just like every other summer. Only, I'm here a little early. A lot early, actually.
And... I'm staying.
"Victoria!" A man calls over the crowded airport, one arm raised and the other clutching a very expensive cell phone to his ear. He's wearing a pressed suit, tie and polished leather shoes. A most respectable man. A pretty crappy father.
"Hey, dad." I draw nearer, plastering on the most enthusiastic smile I can muster. God, it's exhausting talking to myself. But, that's who you always address when you're around Alan Aspen, the manager of one of the few thriving banks local to Annandale. He's always on the phone and, when his arm gets tired, speaking absentmindedly into an earpiece.
He holds up a hand as if to press pause on his daughter, finishing his conversation on the other end of the line. "Okay, okay, okay. Yes, thank you, Larry. I'll finish this at another time. Yes." He abruptly ends the call and turns to face me, beaming, baring pearly teeth and wide chocolate eyes.
"My darling Victoria," He collects me in the hug that has begun every summer since my parents divorced. It's like that instant hot chocolate; warm, sweet and completely fake.
We collect my suitcases and stuff them into the SUV before beginning the almost-familiar drive back to the house. Hishouse.
Your house, a voice inside of me corrects.
Right.
After a ten minute drive that lasted a lifetime, we finally pull into the stone driveway. I remember sitting at the garage and counting every single stone that there was under a relentless sun. The sunburn wasn't worth the dismal entertainment.
I've been staring at my hands the entire drive, listening to my father's conversation with a Mr Rickman about Ms Daphney's bank loan and how he just doesn't think it's plausible. I used to sit and eavesdrop on him talking to or about his clients, making up lives for each of them.
Ms Daphney owns a flower store on Magnolia Street (it seems only fitting) and has been horrifically widowed. Her husband left her nothing but debt and she's watching as her store falls apart, petal by petal. And she just can't bear to think that she'll –
