Instead, I went grocery shopping for myself. I bought eggs, coffee, chicken, strawberries, a frozen pizza, and a chocolate cake from a bakery in Davidson that usually had a wedding waitlist. I put the cake in my freezer and promised myself that Friday evening, no matter what happened, I would eat a slice at my own table.
While I was putting groceries away, my phone rang.
Mom.
I let it go to voicemail.
She called again.
Then again.
Then my father.
Then Keaton.
Then Mom again.
By noon, I had six voicemails.
The first was sweet.
“Arden, honey, call me. We are not upset. We just need to talk about groceries.”
The second was tight.
“Arden, ignoring your mother is childish.”
The third was sharper.
“Your father is furious, and I am trying to protect you from that.”
The fourth was the one I saved in three separate places.
“Arden, listen to me carefully. This weekend is happening whether you like it or not. Your father has the spare key. We will be there Friday with the family. If that house is not ready, you are going to humiliate us in front of everyone, and I promise you will regret it. We gave you life. We gave you discipline. We taught you how to work. That house exists because of us. Do not test me.”
I played it twice.
Then I sent it to Soraya.
Her reply came back fast.
“Perfect. Still silent.”
Silence did something strange to my family.
It made them louder.
By Thursday afternoon, according to Elowen’s screenshots, my mother had convinced herself I was planning to ruin the house before they arrived. My father believed I was bluffing. My brother believed I was selling the property behind their backs.
That last one interested me.
Keaton called at 6:43 p.m.
I ignored it.
He called again.
I ignored it.
On the third call, I answered.
“What?”
No greeting came back. Just his breathing, uneven and angry.
“What are you doing, Arden?”
“I am making dinner.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Keaton. I do not.”
“Mom is losing her mind. Dad is pacing around the house. Lyric already told her friends she was going to a lake house this weekend, and now she looks stupid.”
Lyric was Keaton’s girlfriend. She had never liked me because I had once refused to lend them my car.
“That sounds inconvenient,” I said.
He laughed once, bitterly.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you are above everyone because you have some job and some house.”
I looked at the pot of pasta boiling on the stove.
“I have some job because I work. I have some house because I paid for it.”
“Do not start that. Mom and Dad helped you become who you are.”
“They cosigned one apartment lease when I was twenty-two. I paid every month.”
“That still counts.”
“As ownership of my lake house fourteen years later?”
