Lyric was Keaton’s girlfriend. She had never liked me because I had once refused to lend them my car.
“That sounds inconvenient,” I said.
He laughed once, bitterly.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you are above everyone because you have some job and some house.”
I looked at the pot of pasta boiling on the stove.
“I have some job because I work. I have some house because I paid for it.”
“Do not start that. Mom and Dad helped you become who you are.”
“They cosigned one apartment lease when I was twenty-two. I paid every month.”
“That still counts.”
“As ownership of my lake house fourteen years later?”
He went quiet.
The silence stretched.
Then his voice changed.
It became smaller.
“Arden, I need this weekend.”
Something in my chest went cold.
“For what?”
“I told some people they could use the place.”
“Family?”
