Page 23

The Birthday Party

Song : Manic Monday - The Bangles

T he house looked perfectly ordinary from the outside—two stories, beige siding, an American flag slightly faded from too much Idaho sun. But the moment I stepped inside, I had a feeling we’d just entered a portal to chaos.

“Kids?” I whispered to Jon, eyebrows raised in that please-tell-me-there’s-an-exit-plan way.

Jon, always the steady one, nodded and said, “Blake’s kids. Valentina and Vance. They come here for the summer.”

He said it like this was a normal thing like we were expecting guests for tea and not opening the door to the Real Housewives: Idaho Edition.

I hadn’t even taken my shoes off and was already considering slipping them back on and pretending I’d left something important in the car.

Like my sanity. Jon, bless his heart, tried to soften the blow with a little background as we walked into the living room.

“Blake had an ex-fiancée—Jeanine. They were together when we were in the Navy. Had two kids. Things got bad… like, really bad. DUIs, assault charges. He had a drinking problem and got violent. She finally left him.” I blinked.

“I… never saw that in him.”

“Yeah,” Jon said with a sigh.

“Anyone can pretend to be someone they’re not. But he’s clean now. Been working on himself.”

I nodded, though internally I was thinking: We’ll see. I’m not exactly one to judge. I was a stripper for ten years. I know all about second, third, and twelfth chances. But still. A woman’s intuition is a real thing, and mine had been buzzing since the second we pulled into the driveway.

“God’s not gonna ask me about Blake when I get to those pearly gates,” I muttered.

We entered the living room, and it was like stepping into a daycare center mid-meltdown.

Four kids. Count them—four. Two I immediately recognized as Blake’s spawn because of the strong family resemblance—ginger hair, Irish skin, and expressions like they were already bored of life at sixteen and eight respectively.

Valentina, sixteen, sat on the couch with her AirPods in, giving major don’t talk to me unless you’re offering Starbucks energy.

Vance, eight, was busy playing his video games at the dining room table, unbothered into what looked like an aggressive death match on the computer. But then there were the other two.

“Oh God,” I whispered. “No. No no no.” Jon followed my gaze and grimaced.

“Patricia’s kids,” he confirmed.

“Janet and Justin.”

Of course. Just what I needed—two miniature Patricias to haunt me before I’d even had a chance to pee.

Seriously, what is it with people naming their kids like they’re trying to start a knockoff cartoon duo?

Janet and Justin? It sounds like a discount crime-fighting team that solves mysteries with juice boxes and bad attitudes.

Janet, thirteen, stood stiffly near the stairs in a sweatshirt that looked like it had survived a few hand-me-down cycles.

Her resting bitch face was already fully formed—impressive for someone barely a teenager.

Justin, seven, was on the floor, legs spread out, shoving Oreos into his mouth like he was preparing for hibernation.

No plate. Just vibes. Oreo crumbs scattered like confetti on the beige carpet.

And then, as if summoned by the chaos, she walked in.

“Hi!” Patricia chirped like this was a perfectly delightful Sunday morning and not the prelude to my nervous breakdown.

“I’m so excited you’re here. These are my babies, Janet and Justin.” Your babies? Lady, they looked like they’d just walked out of a Hot Topic and a mud puddle, respectively.

Jon immediately went over to Valentina and Vance, giving each a hug.

It was obvious they adored him—and I mean lit up like Christmas adored him.

Vance even dropped his death game for a second to give Jon a high five.

Meanwhile, Janet crossed her arms and looked at me like I’d stolen her favorite lip gloss.

I smiled, tight-lipped. Mental note: keep your distance from the mini-patricias.

I’m all for blending families, but something about this one felt less Brady Bunch and more Lifetime Movie.

Jon didn’t even glance in Janet or Justin’s direction.

That was all the confirmation I needed that he too knew this was a whole pot of bad ideas simmering on the stove.

We were just waiting for it to boil over.

I stood by the kitchen island, scanning the place.

The décor was an odd mix of Pinterest dreams and clearance-rack nightmares.

Mismatched throw pillows, one of those live-laugh-love signs (gag), and a candle labeled “Vanilla Oak” that tried very hard to cover the scent of children and microwaved pizza.

It was failing. Patricia followed me into the kitchen, flouncing like this was her home.

“I just love it here. Idaho’s so peaceful.” Peaceful, my ass.

She started chatting about how she and Blake met—on a dating site, naturally. Which was fine. People meet online. What wasn’t fine was the timeline.

“I wasn’t interested until he told me where he lived,” she said with a giggle. Red flag number one. She also casually mentioned that she didn’t work right now, but she had big plans. She was “really into MBTI” and had figured out she was an INFJ, which to her, explained everything. I blinked.

“Oh… cool.” This is what you say when you’re thinking, Dear Lord, she thinks the Myers-Briggs test is a career plan.

Patricia said she used to be a teacher. And a psych tech.

At the state hospital. You know, two jobs that require actual degrees.

But all I found when I ran a background check—because yes, I still have access to my old fraud investigation tools, don’t ask—was that she worked as a cafeteria server at a Catholic school and got fired.

I don’t know what you have to do to get fired from serving tater tots to nuns, but I’m sure it wasn’t for being too qualified.

Oh, and the kicker? She claimed to be hiding from her “toxic family,” but Blake picked her up from a trailer park where she lived with her dad.

You can’t make this stuff up. Two ex-husbands, both allegedly abusive, but no trace of police reports or records.

Just a woman who seemed to have invented a life on vibes and Oreos.

“I believe in energy,” she said, handing Justin another Oreo from the sleeve she’d pulled from her purse like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

“And this house has really good energy.” Yeah. If by “good” you mean tense, possibly haunted, and a few bad decisions away from an emergency room visit.

I smiled politely and nodded. Meanwhile, Justin smeared Oreo cream on the couch cushion like it was an art project.

Patricia didn’t blink. I made another mental note: buy disinfectant.

Lots of it. Blake walked in then, looking slightly less strung out than usual, which I assumed was Jon’s version of “he’s doing better.

” He gave Jon a bro hug, nodded to me, and then bent down to hug his kids.

Valentina ignored him. Vance gave him a cautious side hug.

Janet and Justin were too busy existing in their weird orbit to acknowledge him at all. Patricia clapped her hands.

“I thought it’d be fun if we all had dinner together!”

“Yay,” I said, dead inside. Jon grabbed my hand.

“Want to go check out the backyard?” Yes. Please. Anywhere that wasn’t within earshot of Patricia or the mini-Patricias.

The backyard was a lovely place to escape anything—open, with a view of the mountains, a few pine trees dotting the lawn, and a chiminea that had never been used.

Probably because the minute anyone sat down, they’d be swarmed by unsupervised children asking for snacks. leaned against the railing and exhaled.

“So. That’s Patricia’s kids.” Jon nodded slowly.

“Yup.”

“And Blake’s transformation.” He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not sold.” I snorted.

“Jon, I worked in fraud for eight years. That woman’s entire personality is a red flag buffet.” He laughed, pulling me into a hug.

“Just give it time.” I stared back through the sliding glass door at the circus inside.

“I’ll give it a weekend. After that, I’m faking a work emergency and taking Nacho to a hotel.” Jon kissed the top of my head and sighed.

“God, I missed your sarcasm.”

“Good,” I said, smiling against his chest.

“You’re gonna need it.”

Because somehow, I knew this was just the beginning of all the drama this crazy, psychotic, manic bitch would bring into our lives…

. The basement smelled like incense, weed, and a faint whisper of despair.

Not exactly the welcome committee I was hoping for after a cross-country road trip.

Lauren and Tory were camped out on a worn corduroy sectional, eyes glued to a documentary about Princess Diana like it was the season finale of The Bachelor.

I couldn’t tell if they were deeply moved or just completely stoned out of their gourds—possibly both.

I gave them an awkward “Hey,” the kind that comes out like a question wh en you’re not sure if you’ve walked into a therapy circle or a séance.

They muttered something back, neither of them blinking.

“Either they’re high,” I whispered to Jon as we slipped past them, “or Patricia’s brand of crazy is contagious.”

Jon didn’t argue. Instead, he led me down the narrow hallway to his bedroom, and the moment we got in, we locked the door like we were about to hide from zombies. I dropped my bag and turned to him, dead serious.

“We’ve got to find our own place to live. Immediately. Like, before we’re added to a group chant.”