Under the heading of Interior Design, there’s a photo of Veronique Wess, style diva, designer extraordinaire, dog lover, and one of the most celebrated interior designers on the Gulf Coast with twenty-five years’ experience in the field.
Bile pushes up my throat and I swallow. My body quivers and tremors rake through me as it hits home: my mom is a judge on the National Tiny House Competition, and I have no idea how this happened—or when. She never told me because we don’t speak…but would she have told me if we were on speaking terms? Since when did they sign her up? I put my fist to my mouth to regulate my breathing, because a full-on panic attack is about to tsunami through me.
There’s one terms-and-conditions sentence that keeps streaking through my head, all blatant and stripped to the bare facts: Family members, relations and employees of anything or anyone related to the National Tiny House Competition may not enter. And that includes judges’ daughters.
A cold sweat is shivering up and down my spine and I close my laptop with a clap that sounds as if I might have cracked the screen. I rush to the bathroom, vomit, and hover with my head over the bowl until I can get up to wash my face and brush my teeth with a trembling hand.
Still my stomach churns—we’re going to be disqualified. On this tiny but explosive technicality.
Does the fact that my mom is ready to disown me count?
Raiden said screw-ups always happen in threes, and a few weeks ago, he was up to two—me and our two-inch issue. Welcome to number three, compliments of Veronique Wess.
When I get back to my laptop, I breathe in and out for a minute before I lift the screen. The stupid thing is still fine, and my mom leers at me from the center. I toggle a few times between our contestant photo and hers. All contestants are only on the website on a first-name basis. For some bizarre reason, I’m still George, since Raiden would originally have advised them that that was the name of his teammate. He wouldn’t like me being up as George now. I have to get that photo off the website, like now already. If anyone sees both our photos, it won’t take them long to figure out that George and Veronique Wess are related.
My head is on the chopping block, and it’s only a matter of time before the axe falls. And I will be taking Raiden with me as collateral damage. Welcome to your execution, compliments of your girlfriend.
The thought is too harrowing to even consider. Raiden has put everything into this project. This isn’t an odd-ball loose-cannon gig for him like it is to me, as Britt so kindly pointed out that first week. This is Raiden’s dream delivered to him on a platter, and I’m about to kick him off the cliff.
I have to do damage control on this—get my mom to step down as judge. I dig my phone out of my purse’s confines and ring her number as I pace the short corridor in the boathouse. I’m still blocked. Shit. All this time and she’s still blocking me. I phone my dad next, but his phone goes to voicemail.
I drop back to the couch, toying with the idea of phoning Mel and asking her advice. I need to fix this. I can’t tell Raiden until I’ve fixed this. I could email the competition secretary. I could phone Jack. But suddenly all I want is to get away, to get to the convention’s warehouse before our tiny house arrives and get this sorted out in person, because everybody who’s anybody on this convention is going to be at the warehouse today as the trailers arrive.
There’s no sign of Raiden yet and he should have been here by now. Still indecisive, I rush outside to see if there’s a car coming, but there’s no sign of him.
My finger trembles as I dial his number. We’re supposed to drive in tandem to Boston, but all I want to do is get there. Now.
When he doesn’t answer, I take it as a sign. This buys me time to get to the convention before him and deal with this situation before it flares up and explodes.
I pack my car in a rush, wary of seeing anybody now as my face will give everything away. I need time to figure out what to do in the peace and quiet of the long drive to Boston. I’ll have to let him know I’m leaving and as I send the message, I feel like a traitor. The last thing I want to do is hurt him and I’ll do whatever it takes to stop that from happening.
I put the warehouse’s address into my GPS and spin the wheels on the gravel as I beat it—getting out of Ashleigh Lake, tail between my legs, just like Raiden wanted on day one.
32
RAIDEN
My phone pings, and I glance at the message that appears for a second on my truck’s dash screen. It’s from Georgiana. I need to fill up with gas, so I stop at the Ashleigh Lake gas station and read the message as I pop open the tank cap.
I’m leaving now to deal with the admin at the convention center. Need to figure out where all the paperwork has to go, so I’ll see you there.
I’m not a fan of my girl driving off without me, but Georgiana is stressed, and I can’t blame her. All the competition’s admin has crashed down on her shoulders. I’ve tried to make up for it by minimizing the physical workload, but she’s been a hard-ass about getting her hands dirty from day one. She threw her heart into this project as if her life depended on it and I’m immensely proud of her. She’s been my guiding star throughout. Watching that tiny house go on the road this morning was one of my proudest moments. I can’t wait to see what it looks like next to the other contestants’ entries, but from Jack’s undisguised enthusiasm, ours stands a good chance to place in the top three.
New life, here I come.
Sure, see you there. I send the message and drop her a pin to my apartment with the reply, then get cracking with filling up the tank. If I take a quick shower and get going, I won’t be more than half an hour behind her.
At the boathouse, I pause for a second in the living room. She’s left her books behind, but for the rest…the place feels empty. It’s the quiet that comes when someone has left and there are little hollows where her things and voice and body and soul used to fill the space. In the bathroom, all her lady luxuries are gone too, and the stark white of the tiles is suddenly off-putting. More color, she said…I’ve noticed it from the start. Georgiana loves the full spectrum.
I rush my shower, eager to get going and catch up with her. I throw a few essentials into a duffel bag. With the boathouse empty for the foreseeable future there’s no need to vacate the place. We won’t be able to stay here longer than late October when it gets too cold, but once this competition is done, I can turn my focus to our imminent housing dilemma.
Ten minutes later, I’m out of the boathouse and stop quickly at the farmhouse to say goodbye to Uncle Bill and Aunt May. They’re not there, but I’m not worried. The whole Logan and Brodie crew is attending the Tiny House Convention over the weekend and some of them might even be there for the auction.
Not that I want to be there. My heart is set so heavily on this goal that the mere idea of losing is hard to stomach. This is going to be a tough competition though. The country is full of tiny house enthusiasts and to think I have this in the bag would be stupid.
Nothing about this is stupid. I’m not stupid. Look what we’ve done and how this is going to propel me forward into the life I want. With Georgiana by my side, everything seems possible.
I hit the interstate and check the clock. The convention takes place in a massive warehouse on the outskirts of Boston. I know this part of Boston like the back of my hand, having been to many exhibitions and fairs there over the past decade.