Her jaw hardened. Oh, it would drive her crazy to have me buy laminate flooring, some fake plants and a couple of throw pillows to sex the place up, but that was exactly my plan. There was nothing wrong with Ikea chic. I should know. I’d been living with it since college. My apartment was currently drawing $175 a night on Airbnb, thanks in large part to my new throw pillows.

I’d make this house adorable, too, thank you. And, as my mother pointed out, I did have a rich boyfriend. If he wanted to help me out, that would be quite lovely, especially as I was ninety-five percent sure he was going to propose, now that Dad’s crisis had stabilized and he was on the mend.

“Instead of having me chauffeur you around, why don’t you borrow the Volvo while you’re home? That little shitbox you’re renting is a death trap. You get hit in that, you’re dead.”

Death trap, money pit, shitbox. So judgy. “Can I have your Porsche instead?”

“No.”

“I had to try. Sure, I’ll take the Volvo. Thank you so much, Jules.” It was awfully nice of her.

She nodded. Pushed her hair back and sighed again, looking at my house.

“Everything okay, Jules?” I asked. “Aside from Dad?”

“Sure. Listen. About Dad. I think you better . . . prepare yourself. He might be like this for the rest of his life. Which could be really short.”

“Jesus. Why don’t you dig his grave while you’re talking?”

“Just facing facts.”

“The facts are, the brain is very elastic. People have come back from far worse. Clara, that nurse at Gaylord? She said they’ve had people in comas who—”

“I know,” she snapped. “I was there, remember?”

“Well, don’t you want him to get better?”

“Of course I do!”

“Then stop being so pessimistic! A caregiver’s attitude can really affect—”

“Get in the car, okay? I have to help Brianna with a history project.”

— —

Two days later, it was official. I was a property owner.

My house—such nice words, my house!—did need a bit more work than perhaps I acknowledged, now that I was here. Alexander, who was in Sausalito at the moment, the poor bastard, had very sweetly covered the cost of moving my furniture from Juliet’s to here, and the movers had just left after cursing and sweating and wrestling my bed up the narrow stairs, for which they received a generous tip. Otherwise, I had a couch, a table for two, a chair and some pots and pans and kitchen stuff. A couple of lamps. My books and pictures were still at Juliet’s, but I wanted to sleep here tonight and get the feel of the place.