Page 47 of The Rich One

I can’t think of a single person who would do that. Not a one.

Just from the note alone, it didn’t sound like a threat. There was no real malice in the words either. The guy—an assumption on my part, but shit—sounded like he was happy to do this for me.

But why?

“Morning, River. Come here, give me a hug.” Worried Petal is up and her need to comfort me is overwhelming.

“Oh my God, I’m fine. Actually, I’m pissed now.” I don’t miss Petal’s quirk at the corner of her mouth. I think I amuse her. Just when I’m about to ask her what she’s got planned for today, my brother comes barreling down the stairs.

“Fuck, man. I’m running late. I still need to load up the van with the produce.” He’s pulling on his beanie, the five Grateful Dead bears dancing in a circle. My chest warms at the sight because it was our dad’s, and every winter since their deaths, Everest has worn it without fault.

“I can help!” I jump out of Petal’s arms after giving her a small squeeze and put on my shoes.

“Dude, it’s fucking freezing outside. Don’t worry about it, okay? Stay inside with Petal and maybe help her with her soaps?” The smile he gives his wife is nothing short of adoring.

“You go on, my love. River and I will get all of our chores done. I made you something to eat. It’s in your lunch box.” They kiss, more than once, before reluctantly pulling away from each other.

Their uninhibited show of affection is almost disgusting, but that’s just jealousy talking.

By the time we eat and get all the soap ingredients ready, I’ve told Petal the entire sordid story about last night.

“You should send an email to Justin Timberlake’s team and tell them you’re a victim of a dick in a box incident.” I stop and look at her in shock.

“Now, how in the hell do you know anything about JT? I thought you were only into the sixty’s icons.” Petal’s cheeks turn a cute little shade of pink as she shoots me a side-eye.

“A girl needs her secrets and he’s it. I mean, I love Bob Dylan but he’s not fantasy material anymore.” I laugh, but then my mind goes straight to sex and all the fucked up shit I’m used to seeing. Which has me wondering if Petal has any kinks. And that’s when my brain comes to a screeching halt. I absolutely do not want to know if she and my brother like a little freak under the sheets.

“So, the trick is to make sure you use a stainless-steel pitcher for the lye. Plastic is okay, but I’d rather do away with anything made from crude oil. Definitely no aluminum. The lye mixed with the water will dissolve it and then we’ll die from too much hydrogen in the air. Your brother wouldn’t approve.” She chuckles and hands me all the safety equipment I need to put on as she mixes the ingredients.

I’ve been so far removed from my roots that I’ve completely forgotten how to do all of these things. Make soap, make my own bread from scratch. The artistic fiber in my being that my mother loved to nurture has been pretty much dormant these last few years.

I suppose I have other things on my mind and sitting around singingKumbayaisn’t on my priority list. I know I’m being a bitch—simple living is actually a lot of work—but I’m afraid that if I stop and evaluate my life, I’ll want to go back in time.

I have come to grips with the fact that I love my “things” and downsizing isn’t on my radar. That said, I live in one of the most expensive cities in the world where real estate is gold and fitting large things in small spaces is its own form of art.

“Fuck!” I almost drop the lye mixture, my gloves not thick enough to sustain the natural heat it produces.

“Oh, no. I forgot to remind you it gets hot. Are you okay?” We’re talking with masks on and I can barely understand her soft voice. Her big brown eyes tell me everything I need to know. She’s worried.

These two are going to be amazing parents one day. Just like our parents.

The exact opposite of me.

“It’s okay, it mostly surprised me. It’s funny the things you forget even though you’ve done them a thousand times. Mom used to make soaps for us. We never sold them, but it was shared with those living on our land.”

“You never talk about your parents.” It’s not an accusation, Petal doesn’t judge or look down on people, she’s just making an observation and she’s not wrong. Talking about them hurts. Talking about them reminds me of why they’re dead. Why I have to do everything I can to make sure I make it up to Everest, who had to grow up without parents. I don’t answer her as she hands me another stainless-steel container and we begin mixing the oils.

“Wait, you’re not using coconut oil?” My mother loved the smell and the feel of it.

“Not for this batch. I wanted to try the babassu oil, I read about its antioxidant properties.” She places the lye on the side and sets the timer for forty minutes. “Stop changing the subject, River. You and I both know you don’t really care what’s happening with the soap.” I start to argue with her but she arches a brow and dares me to contradict her.

We don’t lie to each other. Well, that’s the story, anyway. Everything in my life is a lie as far as they are concerned. I refuse to burst the bubble around their happy lives.

“Fine. Let’s do this. You have until that timer goes off to ask your questions.” Petal’s mouth opens but I stop her with my hand, palm facing her, in the universal sign for hold on. “I reserve the right to use as many jokers as I wish.”

“Well that’s not fair.” Her little pout is cute but it won’t deter me.

“Fine. First question. What the hell is this story about you and the rich guy?” I frown because I was not expecting this one. I should have, but since our contract is null and void, I’ve put him at the back of my mind.

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