Page 83 of Bad Seed
“Are you here to look at the house?” he asks excitedly.
No, I’m here to look at the person inside. Maybe do some touching. Give it a real good inspection from head to toe.
He runs over and extends his hand. “This place has five bedrooms, five baths and is five thousand-seven-hundred and forty-nine square feet.”
“Okay?” I mumble, completely lost. Why is he telling me this? Is it a scam?
A very confusing one.
“And just look at this view. Can’t get a view like that in the city,” he declares, gesturing out to the trees and the Sierras in the distance.
“I’m sorry…” I start to ask him to leave when I catch what he’s got stuffed under his arm. It’s a sign for a realty company. A For Sale sign with this house’s address plastered across it. “Wh… Are you selling this place?”
“Trying to.” He grins as if he told a joke. “Are you not here for the open house?”
Open house?
That’s… How long was I out?
I nervously check the date, making certain I wasn’t in a coma for six months and no one told me. But no, it’s October twenty-first.
“Where’s the owner?” I ask, framing Aubry’s last text from two days ago with my thumbs. A house can’t go from owned to open house in two fucking days.
“Greece, I believe.”
“What?” How the fuck is he in Greece?
“We’ve been trying to sell this place for over a year now. I mean, it’s beautiful. The market’s just in flux, you know. Damn inflation.” He shakes his fist to the air, and—in my panic—I give out a gurgling laugh.
What the hell is he talking about?
Aubry lived here.
Lives here.
He’s not in Greece. He’s here. Inside right now, feeding Astin and plunking on the piano.
We fucked all over this house.
On that couch right there. In the kitchen. On his bed. So many times. I didn’t make that up. He’s real. He sent me messages.
“Would you like to take a tour?” the realtor asks.
Yes!Let me in there so I can prove that this is all a big mistake. Aubry’s going to answer the door in just his gray sweatpants and be very confused. He’ll shoo the stranger aside then pull me into his arms. Order him to leave before he kisses me in the threshold.
I start to nod when one of the windows flings open.
Placing my hand above my eyes, I stare up. A large shadow looms in the glare. “Hi!” I start to wave when a giant sheet comes tumbling out.
“This place needs a dusting,” a stranger calls out to the realtor. He starts to beat one of the rugs I remember in the upstairs hallway. Dust rises into the wind and I begin to choke.
I don’t understand.
He asked me to move in with him. To live with him. We were going to go on vacation.
Two days later he’s in Greece? Selling his house? Moving. Leaving.
All because of me.
