Page 7

Chapter Seven

Natalie

A t least the rain has stopped when I step back into my apartment later that night. But the moment I close the door behind me, I regret stopping by.

The drip, drip, drip is still going, echoing off the warped floorboards like some kind of sad, offbeat metronome. The towels I threw down this morning are soaked, the makeshift bucket system is barely holding up, and the air smells like damp regret.

And yet, the only thing looping in my head?

"The best night's sleep you ever had was in my bed."

I make a noise—something between a groan and a strangled yell—and yank my phone from my pocket.

"Sophia. Fix this," I demand the second she picks up.

A pause. Then, dry as hell: "I assume you mean your life and not whatever fresh disaster you’ve just walked into."

I kick at a soggy towel and sigh. "Part of me thought I might walk back in and it would all be magically fixed."

There’s rustling on her end, probably her flipping through her planner like organization alone can solve my entire existence.

"Any luck with a plumber?"

I let my head bounce off the wet wall behind me, glancing around at the massive dark stain expanding across my ceiling. "Not unless I want to drop five hundred dollars just to get someone here before next week . "

Sophia whistles. "Yikes. Okay, well, Blake said—"

I pull my head away from the wall, my phone nearly slipping from my fingers. Of course Sophia has an answer that involves Blake.

Her perfect fiancé with his perfect house and his perfect proposal.

My teeth clench as I stare at the puddle spreading across my floor, at my sad little mixing bowl catching drips like tears.

I groan dramatically.

"If this is about your fiancé solving my problems, I swear to God—"

"It's not. Mostly . But didn't you say that a certain other man might have muttered something about ‘handling it’?"

I freeze mid-step, duffel bag half-packed. "What?"

A hazy, annoyingly sexy memory creeps in. Hunter’s voice, low and certain as he crowded me and caged me in against the wall. I’ll take care of it, he growled.

Did I tell Sophia about that? Huh. It's been a long day.

I glance around my disaster of an apartment.

I should be calling another plumber. Should be figuring this out on my own.

But some tiny, evil, traitorous part of me wonders if Hunter meant it. If he’s already making calls, setting things up, like he still has some kind of claim over my life.

I shake it off, zip up my overnight bag, and march toward the door. "Nope. Not thinking about this. Not entertaining any of it. And definitely not waiting around to find out if Mr. Bossy Pants is interfering in my life."

Sophia hums knowingly. "Mmmhmm. You keep telling yourself that, babe."

I sigh, pressing my forehead to the doorframe. " Fuck. I need to go to my parents for dinner. Wish me luck."

"You’ll survive."

"Shoot me now."

I hang up with a groan, hoist my bag over my shoulder, and head for the one place worse than my sinking ship of an apartment.

***

I pull into my parents' driveway, kill the engine, and stare at the two-story colonial that haunts my childhood memories.

The porch light flickers—same burnt-out bulb from my last visit three weeks ago. Dad's probably still "getting around to it."

My fingers drum against the steering wheel. I could turn around. Maybe if I sit here long enough, they'll forget I was supposed to come.

I could book a hotel. Sleep in my car. Anything but—

"It's not done, Harold! The meat thermometer doesn't lie!"

"For Christ's sake, Martha, it's been in there for two hours!"

Their voices carry through the front door, across the yard, and straight into my car. I bang my head against the headrest. Fuck. Some things never change.

I grab my overnight bag and trudge up the walkway, each step feeling heavier than the last. The argument grows louder with every inch closer to the door.

"I told you the roast needed five more minutes!"

"And I told you it's FINE! You think Gordon Ramsay is about to waltz in here and judge us? It's just Natalie, for Christ's sake, woman."

I pause at the threshold, inhale deeply, and count backward from ten. Nine. Eight. Seven—

A crash from inside, followed by Mom's shrill, "Now look what you made me do!"

Screw it.

I push open the door to find Mom wielding a meat thermometer like a weapon while Dad stands at the counter, arms crossed, jaw set. The kitchen timer beeps incessantly in the background, ignored by both of them.

My bag hits the floor with a thud. Neither of them notice.

"The potatoes are cold now anyway," Dad mutters.

"Well, if you hadn't insisted on serving everything exactly at six—"

I lean against the wall and wonder, not for the first time, why I put myself through this. Twenty-seven years of the same script, different day. If I ever settle for this kind of marriage, someone slap me with a meat thermometer.

My mother spots me and gasps like I’ve just returned from war.

“Oh my God, Natalie, look at you! Did you walk here?”

Before I can answer, she’s already fussing, hands flapping, ushering me toward the kitchen like I need immediate medical attention.

"Mom, it's just damp. Everything at home is damp."

Dad, barely glances up from where he’s slicing into the roast. “She’s fine, Martha. Probably just didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Mom glares at him. “Unlike you , Harold, my daughter knows how to plan ahead.”

“Clearly not,” he grumbles, pointing the carving knife at me. “Weren't you listening on the phone? Her ceiling just caved in.”

I groan, peeling off my damp hoodie as I follow my mother into the kitchen. “Can we not—”

“Oh, we will ,” Mom cuts me off, hands on her hips. “What the hell happened, Natalie? My mother left you a perfectly good apartment, and now—” She gestures wildly, like my mere existence has personally offended the foundation of the building.

There it is. The blame. Right on cue.

Dad, unfazed, plops a thick slice of roast onto a serving plate. “Martha, let her eat before you interrogate her. Jesus.”

Mom huffs but waves me toward the table, and I slump into my usual seat, muscles already aching from the tension.

At least the food is good.

Perfectly buttered rolls, mashed potatoes so fluffy they could double as clouds, roast beef dripping with rich, peppery gravy. Say what you want about my parents, but my mom’s cooking? Absolute religion .

I take a bite, let out an involuntary moan, and Dad smirks. “See? Perfectly cooked. Just like I said.”

Mom shoots him a look so sharp it could cut through the roast.

The dining room hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Same oak table, same floral curtains framing the windows, same antique chandelier that flickers every time the heat kicks on.

Even the faint scent of lemon polish lingers in the air, a reminder that my mother keeps this place in pristine condition, unlike certain people who apparently let ceilings collapse in inherited apartments.

I press my fork into the mashed potatoes, watching the gravy pool at the edges as their voices drift in and out.

“Speaking of leaks, you still haven’t fixed the leaky faucet, Harold.”

“For the last time, it’s fine . ”

“Fine? The drip is driving me insane.”

“Then wear earplugs.”

My mother gasps, offended beyond belief. “I shouldn’t have to wear earplugs in my own home.”

Dad takes a slow sip of his beer. “And yet, here we are.”

He shoots me a wink, clearly mistaken that I care about their arguing enough to side with him. I blink down at my plate, chewing slowly, pretending I don’t exist.

This is so normal. Too normal.

Sitting in my childhood seat, surrounded by the same walls, the same voices, the same argument they’ve probably been having for the past thirty years.

All of it makes my chest feel tight.

I glance at the framed photos lining the sideboard. A younger version of my parents on their wedding day, all smiles and champagne flutes. A photo of me at five years old, clutching a stuffed bunny with a toothy grin.

The past preserved in pretty little frames.

But in real time?

The reality is a roast dinner with two people who can’t stand each other but refuse to do anything about it. I scrape my fork against my plate, zoning out as they now launch into a heated debate about laundry cycles.

Fucking hell.

I don’t want this.

I don’t want this kind of relationship. A life of settling, of tolerating, of barely scraping by on obligation.

I push my plate away, appetite officially gone.

My eyes drift to the overnight bag sitting by the front door, slumped over like it’s given up on life. Damp clothes, a toothbrush, and the overwhelming sense that my life is a complete and utter disaster.

Jesus. This is where I’ve ended up.

Homeless. Couch surfing. Staring down the very real possibility of sleeping in my car like a rejected contestant on some survival reality show.

And the worst part?

I have an out.

Hunter Brody, standing in that hallway, muscles flexed, jaw tight, voice a low command.

"You're staying with me."

I shove my fork into the mashed potatoes, a little harder than necessary.

“So,” my dad says casually, cutting into his roast. “Guess this wouldn’t have happened if you’d settled down with a nice guy by now.”

I stop mid-chew.

Mom sighs. “Harold. No.”

“What?” Dad shrugs, like he’s making the most logical statement in the world. “If she had a boyfriend, maybe she’d have a second income. A backup plan. Someone to—”

I shove my chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood with a nails-on-a-chalkboard screech that makes Mom slam her hands on her ears.

“Welp. That’s my cue.”

Both of them look up, startled.

Mom frowns. “You barely touched your—”

“Dinner was great. Really. Fantastic. Love what you did with the potatoes, Mom. But I gotta go.”

I push away from the table, my pulse pounding in my ears as I grab my overnight bag and swing it over my shoulder.

My dad lifts his beer. “Where you going?”

“Somewhere that isn’t here.”

Mom huffs, waving a hand. “Oh, stop being dramatic, Natalie.”

I pause at the door, grip tightening around the handle.

“I’m not being dramatic,” I say, quieter this time. “I just know I don’t want this.”

I motion vaguely at the house, at them, at the warped atmosphere of the room that's grown so thick over the years that it could be bottled and sold as a mood killer.

Before either of them can say another word, I step out into the night and in my car. The hum of the engine vibrates my hands as I grip the steering wheel, the headlights of my car cutting through the quiet.

I don’t check my GPS. I don’t need to.

My hands know where to turn. My foot knows how hard to press the gas.

The route is burned into my memory.

Past the Summit Café, past the Ridgeview Tavern, past the edge of town where the roads twist into the mountains.

And then—there it is.

A large, intimidating mountain home, warm light glowing from the windows, standing against the night like it’s been waiting for me.

My heart pounds.

And now, I have no idea what happens next.