Micah
We pull up to the garage, and I send the door in the middle bay up. As I pull my Lexus GX in, Daphne’s mouth drops open.
“Wow. I forgot about all these.”
I shrug, glancing at the other three luxury vehicles in the garage and the one empty bay. “My parents have fucked-up spending habits. Mom and Dad must have taken the Lamborghini.”
Daph’s wide-eyed gaze meets mine. “Oh. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“No. Your reaction was spot-on. It irritates the shit out of me. My dad buys more overpriced vehicles than he needs while my mom spends enough on designer clothes and handbags—which she treats like disposables—to feed a small country.” I sigh, grasping the door handle. “And, yeah, I’m aware of what I drive. My dad couldn’t help himself when I turned sixteen. I don’t think he realizes that most kids our age don’t have seventy-thousand-dollar cars gifted to them. It’s been all I can do to convince him I don’t need a new one every year.”
She takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand. “You know, the first time I was here, I could have sworn you were very comfortable with all this. Like it was no big deal.”
“Yeah, well you know me better than that now. Come on. Let’s go find something to eat. I’m starving.”
We both exit the SUV and when Daphne joins me to head into the house, she smirks. “You’re always hungry.”
I push open the door. “I can’t help it. I’m a big guy and need a lot of food—especially during football season. It’s a good thing Melody’s been here.” I can totally tell because the whole house smells lemony fresh, like it does every Thursday and Sunday.
Daphne precedes me into the house, tossing a frown over her shoulder. “Who’s Melody?”
“I’ll show you. Hang on a sec.” We enter the kitchen, and I gesture to one of the stools at the island.
She takes a seat, looking around. “I guess it’s even more obvious how huge your home is when there’s no party going on. This place is different without a million people in here.”
I give her a tight smile. “Yeah. It practically echoes.”
My refrigerator has been stocked with container after container of neatly labeled meals and snacks, and I give a cursory glance through everything, looking for something Daph will like. All this food is designed to keep the Robertson heir alive and kicking and funded by my fucking absentee parents. I gesture to the piles of food left to last me until Sunday. “Melody takes care of everything you see here. She also cleans the house twice a week, most importantly on Sundays—”
“After all the partying. Gotcha.”
“Right. No matter what sort of fuckery goes down, she cleans it up, and it’s as if it never happened.” I select a container of lasagna from the assortment and close the fridge before turning back to Daphne.
Her brows inch up her forehead in slow-motion. “So, wait. You mean to tell me that you basically live here alone? Like your parents are around that little?”
“Yep.” Her shocked reaction only enhances my fucking embarrassment.
Her head rears back, and she stutters, blinking wildly at me. “Wh-what the hell is wrong with them?”
I shrug. “They’re far too busy fucking around with their respective flavors of the month to give a shit.”
“Seriously.” It doesn’t even come out as a question, more a huff of disbelief.
“It’s the truth. They’ve cheated on each other for years. They used to keep things pretty quiet, but I’m starting to wonder if they’ve given up on that. Like, they’re numb to the infidelity—it’s their normal.”
“I mean, they’re adults and can do what they want with whomever they want, I guess, but that’s no excuse for leaving you here alone. Micah …” Her eyes go glossy with tears.
“Don’t. I know how shitty the situation is. But I’m almost eighteen. Hell, soon they won’t even be responsible for making sure I’m taken care of.” I chuckle darkly, trying not to betray how much it hurts to have had no one to count on for as long as I can remember.
Daphne presses her lips together, sniffs, then locks her gaze with mine again. “And Melody … does she realize how it is for you? Why doesn’t she say something?”
“She keeps tabs on me, but she’s not being paid to watch after me. Just to clean and cook.”
“But how does she look the other way?”
“I’m sure my parents tell her whatever. They’re on travel, taking a vacation … but when they’re away, they usually aren’t even together. Melody may or may not realize that they’re never here. I don’t know. She’s nice enough, but we don’t talk that much.”
I shrug and spin around to the oven, setting the temperature to 350 degrees, as per the directions Melody had meticulously written on the foil cover. “You like lasagna?” I’d like to put this conversation behind us.