Page 17 of Bargaining

Resolve hardened my heart. It was bad enough that we had to sell. At least we could sell it to the right people. Dad would have wanted decent people moving in here, not people who didn’t appreciate his rose bushes or took the piss out of his bathroom. And absolutely not the kind of psychopaths who didn’t take their outdoor shoes off in the living room.

The woman twisted in a circle, surveying Dad’s bedroom. Nobody came up here. A stale smell hung in the air, even when I opened the windows. Dad had slept downstairs. I’d spent most of my nights next to him on a camp bed. It was easier when he needed to use the commode.

A saccharine smile formed on the woman’s face. “I like it, actually. It’s cozy. I always felt like, when it was the right house, I’d know. It’s like falling in love, isn’t it? When it’s right, you just know.”

No. You don’t know. Go and fall in love with someone else’s house.I gave her a polite nod when really I wanted to roll my eyes so far back I’d see my own brain. It didn’t matter what my heart was saying. I had to dig deep and get this done. This wasn’t just about me. It was about Tiff. Tiff had kids and loans. She needed the money.

I smacked my hands too loudly on my thighs. “Shall we wrap it up? Thank you for coming.”

The couple chattered happily as they followed me to the front door.

“Oh.” The woman clapped her hands suddenly. “I forgot to ask the obvious. Why are you selling?”

Because Dad is gone. Because my sister is forcing me.“I’m not.”

The words hung in the air between us. My heart pounded.

The woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’ve had another offer? Already? The estate agent said we’d be the first to view.”

“Right. I’m sorry. We made a mistake. It’s not for sale anymore.”

Stop. What are you doing?Panic gripped me. My mouth was spewing words that my brain hadn’t approved. If this woman phoned the estate agent to tell them the house wasn’t for sale anymore, then Tiff would know I’d messed this up.

Maybe it would be different if it was someone nice. Someone who had complimented Dad’s roses and didn’t want to bulldoze a structural wall. No. Who was I kidding? Even if the world’s best person walked in here, I’d struggle with it. Malala could show up carrying her Nobel Peace Prize and declare she wanted to set up a school for girls, and I’d still be annoyed she needed to knock a wall through to fit in the desks.

“Sorry about the inconvenience.” I folded my arms. “Thanks for coming.”

“Are you sure?” She exchanged a glance with the man that was so soppy it made me wish I hadn’t thrown the sick bucket away. “We kind of love this house.”

Tough luck. I loved it first and much harder.“Yes. Sure. Big mistake. Not for sale. Goodbye.”

I closed the door before I had to face any more excruciating awkwardness. Tiff was going to kill me. We’d been having the same conversation for six months. I sank down against the hallway wall to sit on the faded carpet. The constant ache in my chest was like a knife buried so deep, I’d never be able to remove it. We had to sell. It was the only way.

Framed photos cluttered the opposite wall. They were all group shots of boys standing shoulder to shoulder in bottle-green uniforms. The hairstyles changed over the years: mullets, buzz cuts, curtains, even a mohawk. What had happened to all these kids from Dad’s school? They probably had dazzling careers and partners and kids of their own. They’d probably traveled. They’d probably done exciting things.

My gaze landed on Cole in the back row of one of the photos. A strange heat buzzed through me. I stood and traced a finger over the sullen-looking teenager who had once been the most important person in my life. Cole Thorner could afford this house. It was such madness. He’d shown up here like a genie offering to grant my wishes, and all I had to do was marry him. The problem was, he hadn’t made it clear whether the deal would also involve rubbing his magic lamp. Marrying a man who had treated me the way Cole had was preposterous. No one in their right mind would ever consider it. But Ihadbeen considering it. How could I not? The offer had drifted to mind constantly over the past six months. My head was such a mess after losing Dad, I couldn’t give it the proper attention. One of my old paintings on the wall caught my eye—a carpet of bluebells among tall trees. I’d spent every spring in thewoods painting. I’d been obsessed with the way such beautiful flowers could bloom in the coolest, shadiest parts of the forest. Back then, my future as an artist had glittered brightly in front of me.

I pulled out my phone and texted the number I’d saved. My thumb hovered over the keypad. Six months had passed since the wake. It was so surreal that maybe I’d imagined the whole thing. I took a deep breath and messaged.Is the offer still open?

I added another line in case he was regularly proposing to women from his past.It’s Lottie, by the way.

I chewed my fingernails, feeling increasingly nervous. Maybe he’d propositioned someone else and already had another fake wife. Cole wasn’t the type to wait around for things. He was impatient. If he wanted something, he’d always gone after it. I added another line.It’s fine if it’s not open anymore. I just wanted to check.

Blue ticks appeared next to the messages, but no reply. Perhaps I was going crazy. Grief could send you mad, couldn’t it? Maybe that entire conversation with him was some epic multilayered hallucination. Dots danced on the screen as he replied.Hello, Charlotte. The offer is still open.

A jolt of adrenaline went through me. No. It was ridiculous. My head was a mess. This was too much to process. I tapped out a reply.Actually, forget it. Sorry. I changed my mind. I can’t.

I shoved my phone deep into my pocket.No more of that.Cole Thorner was a genie best kept firmly in the bottle.

Chapter 8

Charlotte

I couldn’t begin to guess how long I’d been standing in the hallway, staring into space. Instead, I drifted from room to room like a ghost, taking paintings off the wall and putting them back up again. Those people were mad, wanting the house in this state. There was so much wrong with it, I didn’t even know where to start. Paint had chipped off the internal doors and skirting boards. The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling. It was like being caught in quicksand. I’d step into the spare room and catch sight of the gray mold blooming in patches, or the garage and see the pile of rusted bicycles and tools, and I was sinking. Easier to shut the door and retreat.

It was my fault the house had fallen into such a mess. Looking after Dad took up so much of my time, and I’d tried to fit in shifts at the local pub to keep us afloat. Now, I just didn’t have the energy. It needed to be emptied and cleaned. Tiff had suggested a clearance company, but that was no good. There was too much that needed to be hand sorted. They’d just throw everything away.

A key twisted in the front door and I went back to the hallway. Tiff stormed inside, stopping to tug off her boots and hangup her leather jacket in the closet stuffed with Dad’s old coats and umbrellas.