Introduction

A quiet neighborhood. A lovely home. A promising new beginning. In a heartbeat everything can change in this propulsive novel of suspense by USA Today bestselling author Kaira Rouda. Julie Jones has left her suffocating marriage. With her teenage daughter, Jess, she’s starting over. Their new house in Oceanside is the first step toward a new life. Even if it does come with the unexpected. The previous owners, a pastor and his wife, have left something?or rather someone?behind… Tom Dean has a bitter hatred for the father who considers him a lost cause, and for the woman who’s moved into their family’s house. The only home he’s ever known. He’s never going to leave. She thinks he’ll be gone in three days, but Tom has the perfect plan. For a newly single mother and her daughter, a fresh start is the beginning of a nightmare. Before the weekend is over, somebody is going to get exactly what they deserve.

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

Somebody is in my home.

I don’t know what to do.

As I watch from the street, I see activity, movement in the kitchen—only for an instant, and the next second the house is as still as before.

I pull out my phone. Do I call her, or 911?

The car parked out front is familiar, but nothing else makes sense. Something is wrong. I know it.

He’s in there.

I must do something. There’s no time to wait for the police.

I swallow and push the car door open, stepping quietly onto the empty street.

I know the truth before I see the lanky shadow move across the kitchen window.

Somebody’s home, and he isn’t supposed to be there.

I crouch down as I run up to the front door of my house. I left it unlocked on purpose, in case she came home and didn’t have her keys.

I know now that was a big mistake.

All this is my fault.

I clamp my hand over my own mouth to muffle my scream as I turn the handle and step inside.

FRIDAY

Two Days Before

Chapter 2

Tom

A bolt of lightning illuminates the sky, and raindrops the size of river rocks pelt my windshield. Today is unusual. It never rains in Southern California. Not in October. October is for fires and destruction, for Santa Ana winds and red-flag warnings. The rain doesn’t make sense. Nothing about my life makes sense.

I’ve just spent a week in the desert with my buddies, shooting guns, drinking beer, partying. I loved it, every minute of it, but now it’s over. I have no choice. I’m back home, but it’s not my home anymore. I’m parked across the street, contemplating my options. Staying dry and practicing controlling my anger all at the same time. I have anger issues. Just ask my folks. I came this way. But it was one of the things my friends and I talked about as we each imagined the target of our anger on the beer can as we shot. Anger causes mistakes. When you’re angry, the guy who owns the land told us, your actions are sharper, you sweat, your heart races. You’re jumpy. Like now. I wipe my hands on my jeans and take a deep breath to calm down. He taught us that, too, out there in the desert. Meditation, or whatever they call it. It’s harder to do now that I’m back. It’s always been hard for me to relax, to breathe.

I look out the window again as the windshield wipers smack the rain away. That’s my house, the only place I’ve ever lived. I know every floorboard squeak, especially on the stairs. But I won’t climb them anymore. My so-called parents and the new owners have made certain of it. Sure, I knew my dad was moving to take another job. And I guess I knew they’d need to buy a house out in Timbuktu.

But why do I have to leave?

No one gave me a chance to have a say. Two weeks ago I received what was basically a verbal eviction notice from my own parents. A “Dear Tom, we’re moving. Sorry. The new owners need the carriage house for themselves” talk from my lovely stepmom. I didn’t even know the house was on the market. They never put a For Sale sign up in the front yard. Sandi told me it was a private transaction—the perfect buyer had simply appeared. God’s will, she said. Is that God’s will or yours, Sandi? Just bam, we’re out of here and you are, too. Too bad, Tom.

Sure, because she felt bad, my lame stepmother said, “You, of course, are welcome to move in with us in our new home in Temecula, just until you can find a place of your own.” Oh, thanks, Sandi. Your new place is just for the four of you—you and Dad and your real boys. Three bedrooms. That’s it. Got it. She didn’t say that part, but she should have. Since then, I’ve been to their new place, with and without them, scoping it out. There is no room for me.

Actions are louder than words. We talked about that in the desert this week, too. Actually, I suppose I learned that when I watched my real mom drive away all those years ago. People say you can’t remember things from when you’re six years old. But that’s a lie. When you look out the window and watch your mom back out of the driveway, when you watch your dad spit at her car window, when you see the fear in her eyes, the hate in his—well, you remember. No matter how young you are.

I push away the memories of seventeen years ago and stare through the pouring rain at the same driveway. I suppose it’s good I went to the desert this week. I made friends, real friends, guys who think the way I do, guys who know how the world works and what’s wrong with it these days. I got out of my rut. But I’m back from the desert now, and sitting in my car in a freak rainstorm staring at a house that’s no longer mine starting on Sunday, two days from now. Sandi said it was a gracious concession by the new owner to give me time to pack up since I was gone all week.

Two days to try to get a new place to live just doesn’t seem very gracious, if you ask me. But they didn’t. They think I’ll just go along with the plan, do what they expect, move out.

That’s what they all think. I pound my hands on the steering wheel, release a bunch of tension, and stare out the car window again.

I don’t want them here. This is my house. Mine.

Sandi said, “The new owners are lovely.” Bullshit. She doesn’t know if they are lovely, she doesn’t know anything about them. In the desert, hanging out by our campsite at night, we talked about how to profile people, how to watch them, figure them out without them even knowing it. I’ll use that new skill to figure out who these owners are, what they are. Whoever they are, they move in today, in this pouring rain. Serves them right.

I can’t believe this all happened behind my back. A private transaction. I was in the dark until one of the boys let it slip that they were going to have horses at the new house. We were hanging out, the little kids and I, two weeks ago before Sunday dinner, and Davis let it slip.

Their new house was a done deal. I wasn’t invited.

I did think it was odd that Sandi’d had some people over to the house. She’s a loner usually, just fiddling around in her garden, cooking in the kitchen. I should have figured out the lady with the big jewelry and G-wagen Mercedes was a real estate agent. I blame myself for that miss. I never did see the “lovely” buyers. I must have been at work at the bar or something.

I had simmered with the information of their new house all the rest of the day. That night, at Sunday dinner, after prayer, I told my dad and stepmom that I knew about the new house. The little boys’ eyes were huge, like I was getting them in big trouble. I hoped I would. I felt my dad’s rage then, directed toward them for once.

My stepmom—Simple Sandi, as I think of her—blinked, her big brown eyes full of water about to overflow. “Of course there’s room for you there, son. Always. We love you.”

“Stop being so dramatic, Tom. It’s time for you to grow up, get a real job, your own apartment. Take care of yourself,” Dad said, his blue eyes alight with self-righteousness, his anger focused on his favorite target. Me.

I needed Sandi to stop crying, tears dropping onto her meal. It was gross. And an act. She wasn’t sad for me. She was just embarrassed she got caught.

My parents are so self-centered. They should have given this house to me, or at least let me rent from them, pay them monthly until I could buy it outright. My birthright, sort of. I grew up here. This town is all I know. I told them I’d work hard, handle the upkeep. Why the rush to leave anyway? Dad says his new job came with a pay bump, and part of the deal is he must live in the community. But I’m not sure I believe him. Who leaves a big coastal megachurch for an inland congregation? No one. Ever.

I’m not proud to say I begged him to let me stay, to let me keep my home.

It didn’t work. Dad said, “You’re twenty-three years old, son, without a college degree or a job.”

“I work at Cody’s,” I said. The bar is a dive, but my shifts there keep me afloat. Barely.

“A bar? You think you can afford this house, or any house for that matter, working part time at a bar? I love you, but you need to get yourself together. The Lord provides for those who take care of themselves, and it’s time, son, that you do just that. You’re vacating the carriage house. We paid off your car. We’ve done all we can for you, son. We’ll be praying for you.”

I’d stormed out of the house after dinner that night and headed straight to Cody’s, despite the fact that I wasn’t scheduled to work. I was fired up, ready to fight someone, anyone. Instead I met some guys, my real family. When they invited me to go hang out with them in the desert, I jumped at the chance. Screw my dad’s moving-out timeline. Screw them all. Sandi’s fake love, the “little boys,” and their new house.

And as for dear old Dad? Doug the Dick, as I call him in my head. He can take his fake love of God, his superior righteousness, and shove it. I know who he really is, what he’s really done. I’ve watched him all my life: smiling at a Black family walking into his church and then rolling his eyes. Or shaking a lesbian couple’s hands and then quickly wiping the germs away on his holy robe. I mean, it is depravity, I get it, but why not just kick them out? Why not be an up-front dick like he is to me?

“Let us pray for the weak, the needy,” my father preaches from the pulpit every Sunday. But the truth is, when he walks past a homeless person sitting in squalor on the street, his eyes fill with hate. “Get a job!” is my dad’s refrain in the face of an open hand, as long as no one else is around. I know, I’ve been around. When a homeless man shuffled into a service and sat in the back pew a few years ago, dear old Dad had the ushers escort him out.

“Get him out of here, please. We’ll pray for his soul, to ease his suffering, that he gets back on his feet,” Dad told the congregation as the man begged to stay. It was raining that Sunday, just like today.

I squeeze the steering wheel tighter. I want to kick something but remember what my friends told me this week: hold on to the anger, unleash it when it’s time. These guys made sense to me, right away. From the moment I met Vic at the bar, he talked my talk. He understood where I was coming from. He knows how hard it is to be a man in this world, how hard it is to compete. They all do.

“Man, let me show you the truth. The way. You don’t need them, you’ll have a new family,” Vic said that night at the bar. I’d run out of the house without my wallet, taking just my keys, and driven to the bar. Vic could tell I was pissed. He bought me three beers before he asked me what was what. I liked that. Quiet companionship. No demands. Just understanding. When he asked about a girlfriend, if that was my problem, I’d laughed.

“What’s a girlfriend? Dude, they all suck. They all want money and who knows what,” I’d said.

“True that.” Vic clinked my glass. He was lanky, dressed all in black. His eyes were bright black, like a crow’s. He’d been to the bar before, but we’d never said more than hello.

“You don’t have a girl, either?” I’d asked. That amazed me. He has everything. A sick Harley even.

“No. Don’t need one. Don’t trust them. So what’s wrong?” he’d asked finally.

“My family sold my home out from under me. I live in the carriage house. I have no place to go.” I’d tried to mask the emotion in my voice, the pain, but I knew it was there.

Vic put his hand on my shoulder. “Sit tight.”

He stood up, paid our tab, and walked to the back of the bar, where his friends were hanging out. The next thing I knew, I had a group of guys who understood me. After this past week in the desert, I have focus. And something I haven’t had in a long time: confidence. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s all of them. Especially good old dad.

But I still need a place to live. My new friends can’t really help me with that.

A white moving van turns the corner and starts down my street. It’s a huge one, and as it lumbers toward me and my house, I realize these people must think they’re staying here for good.

They’re wrong. I’m going to get my house back. They won’t feel comfortable here. I’ll help them understand that, one way or another.

The van stops in front of my home, bright hazard lights flashing in the storm. From where I sit in my lame Toyota, the house is gone, obscured by the huge white truck and the relentless rain.

Maybe that would be easier. Just get rid of the place so no one can own it. In my mind I see myself pouring gasoline down the stairs, striking a match, igniting the place like a pyre.

Maybe I should do it. I mean, what do I have to lose?

I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Nah. I couldn’t do that. It’s my home. I need to save it, not destroy it. It’s the last place I saw my mom, my real mom. Someday, just maybe, she’ll come back looking for me. I need to be here when she does.

I hear my dad’s voice in my head. “Don’t be a baby, son. She is never coming back. She is a sinner, and we are better off without her.”

I know better. I do. That’s why when it comes to 123 Cherry Hill Lane, I’ll get it back, one way or another.

It’s my home. The only one I’ve ever known.

Chapter 3

Julie

Despite the churning in my stomach that tells me I’m a fool, I urge myself to believe this is the new start we need.

My daughter, Jess, drives my Tesla SUV too close behind the moving van, and the rain and road spray make the windshield impossible to see through.

“Jess. Windshield wipers on high. Now.”

“Mom. It’s automatic. This is what the car thinks we need, so we’re fine. It knows best. So do I.”

At age seventeen, Jess is convinced she is right about everything. That she knows all. It’s my fault that her world has been so insular, so bubbled. Her self-confidence is based on lies.

When I was growing up, I had zero confidence. Not in myself, not in my future. My days were spent hiding from the spotlight, quietly avoiding eye contact. My mom told me I was beautiful; the kids at school told me the truth.

“Julie, why don’t you have a playdate?” my mom would ask at the start of every school year. “Invite a friend over?” But I never would, never did. I was embarrassed by my mom and her round shape, by Dad’s absence, by our small home and the cloud of gray that seemed to surround us. My life was different from the other kids’ in the neighborhood.

When I was growing up, my mom’s ugly car spit dark exhaust in our wake. I could smell her coming in the pickup line at school. The wipers were frayed and lacking rubber, just two metal sticks shifting water around. In Florida that was a problem almost daily.

I stare through the unseasonal, unforecasted rainstorm and hope this isn’t some kind of sign about this move.

This is our new start—at least it’s supposed to be. I’m going to learn how to take care of myself and my daughter. I’m going to have the career I never pursued. I’m going to have a life of freedom and respect. I’m going to be in charge of my choices, in control of my life. I’m no longer going to be on Roger’s time, on his schedule. I’m not his prop for social events, and I won’t be monitored for every expenditure like I’m a thief in my own home. I will relax, finally, and find my roots again. And it all begins today.

I squish my forehead between my palms, forcing my eyes off the road. We aren’t driving fast, maybe twenty miles an hour in this mess.

Nothing too terrible could happen at this speed, even if my daughter drives us into a tree.

My eyes fly open again. Jess stops the car. Water races past us in the gutters like a river.

“I’m not loving this,” she says, pointing at the house through the rain-coated side window.

“Honey, it’s perfect. Just wait. And you’re still in the school district, so really, we couldn’t have asked for a better start to our new life.” I pat her shoulder. I purchased 123 Cherry Hill Lane using cash I’d saved up in my ironically-named-at-the-moment rainy-day account and a savings account Roger set up for me. It all happened so fast, like it was meant to be. I’d been at the gym, jogging on the treadmill, when Judy Thomas, the know-it-all real estate agent in Oceanside, jumped onto the machine beside mine.

“Don’t kill the messenger, but I hear there’s trouble in paradise. Can I help?” Judy smiled, her perfect white teeth glistening in the morning light.

I’d told only one friend about my plan to leave Roger and begged her not to say anything. Thanks, Sheila. That’s the other reason I left my life. I didn’t have any real friends. No one does, not here in this pressure cooker of coastal privilege.

I had tried to hide my surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Judy.” I pushed the button to increase my jogging speed as she leaned over and pulled my emergency shutoff cord.

“I have a pocket listing. Motivated sellers. They need to get out of town quietly, and quickly. Roger is a beast. We all know that. My listing has beautiful potential for a fresh start.” Judy handed me a towel.

I wiped my forehead and nodded.

“Let’s go have a look, shall we?” Judy led the way through the club to her huge Mercedes.

She was right. I loved the home. The sellers accepted my cash offer and, two weeks later, I closed on the home we’re parked in front of now.

Beside me, Jess bites her lip. I know she’s thinking of a better outcome, the one where her mom and dad stay together under one roof, no matter how miserable, and she proceeds through senior year without the upheaval.

If there had been a choice, any other way to handle Roger, I would have done it. But he wasn’t going to change. He controls everything in my life, and I cannot take it anymore. Control plus lack of any attention left me heartbroken and depressed. But I’m moving on. The truth is, I stuck around too long for Jess, and that’s why we’re sitting in my electric too-smart car, on a street I’d never visited let alone thought I’d live on, hoping for the best. The rain will stop. These showers never last for long in Southern California.

Turns out a lot of things don’t last long, and nothing is what it seems here. Not really. And I went along with it, all the way. I’m a walking ad for plastic surgery, for example. Literally. Nothing is real. As soon as Jess graduates, I might move somewhere else. Maybe a place like where my mom lives, a simple community where people actually care about their neighbors. I want block parties and Fourth of July picnics where I don’t have to dress up. I hope, maybe, on this end of Oceanside things can be different. But if not, I’ll move on. This house is a resting place. Somewhere to hide and get away from the isolated joke my life has become. If it feels right, I’ll stay. I do love its bones, its early 1900s history. It has a warm presence on the street, and a backyard big enough for a dog. I wanted a dog, but Roger would not allow animals inside the home. Period.

Cherry Hill Lane will be the opposite of Roger’s house. It will feel like a home.

My phone rings.

“Ma’am, we’re gonna try to wait out this rain. It’ll cost extra, but everything will be ruined if we start unloading now.” The moving guy sounds emphatic, and I suppose he’s right. As my grandmother would say, man plans and God laughs.

I haven’t moved since before Jess was born, and back then I didn’t have any belongings worth worrying about. In retrospect, that little house I grew up in, the one I was always so embarrassed by, held a lot more love than our oceanfront mansion ever did. I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to see the truth.

I turn my attention back to the movers.

“We’re parked behind you. It’s fine to wait. It can’t keep raining like this.” I know I sound less than certain, but that’s how everything feels right now. For too long I’ve allowed Roger to call all the shots. For too long I was afraid to stand up for the life I deserve. But I have now. As I hang up, I glance behind me. No one has followed us here, at least not yet.

Jess is on her phone texting someone, likely her father. I’m not naive. As much as I tried to keep this move a secret, this house purchase out of the press, I know the fact that Roger Jones’s wife has left him will be news. Roger is a big deal in Orange County, and he doesn’t like dissension in the ranks, not in the company he fought so hard to build from scratch, and not from his family. I appreciate the iron-fisted approach to business; it has made him wildly successful. When applied to his personal life—his wife—it feels like a slow strangulation. I take a deep breath and calm myself.

I need to enjoy this storm before the real one arrives. He won’t let go of me without a fight and a lot of bluster, we both know that.

“Mom, can I have some people over tonight?” Jess squints her blue eyes and smiles. She is so self-absorbed she actually thinks this will be a good idea.

“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “We won’t be even close to ready for guests.”

“My friends want to see the new place,” she whines, saying “new” with air quotes.

“You haven’t even seen the place.” I sigh. I know she hates it when I sigh. I didn’t want to worry Jess with all the details or rock her world with the news of the separation until it was in motion. Roger left for his latest business trip on Wednesday, and the movers showed up on Thursday. I’d hired a big crew. By the time Jess came home from her friend Bonnie’s house Thursday evening, our things were packed up. Jess had yelled, told me I was a fool to leave our beautiful home, to leave our life. “What is wrong with you?” she’d screamed before stomping off and slamming her bedroom door.

I’d given her a few minutes to calm down, to text Bonnie, to tell everyone I was ruining her life. And then I’d knocked on her door.

“We’re leaving in the morning. Nine a.m. I’ve called you out sick from school. You’re going to love our new home, maybe even more than here. You’ll be back at school on Monday. Perfect, right? Love you. And you can always come home, visit your dad here. Think of this as an adventure.”

She didn’t respond that evening, but I didn’t expect her to, not really. I hoped to show her a new way of life, a more solid and thoughtful way of being in the world. With less stuff and more hugs. I’d grown up with it. I knew I could show it to my daughter. Make her feel it, too. But I was running out of time.

“Give me a couple of days to get us organized, unpacked, OK? I want your friends over here all the time. We’ll have lots of sleepovers.” I jump as the windshield wipers snap to life and violently attack the rain.

“Mom, you need to relax. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack or something. I think I’m a little old for sleepovers, don’t you?”

“It’s a metaphor, honey. I want you and your friends to feel at home here. I know they will.” My heart pounds. We’re so close to being free. I just want to go inside my new house and hide. I’m afraid Roger will appear any minute. I’m afraid of his anger, of what happens when he thinks he has lost control of someone. I reach over and pat Jess’s hand. “I’m OK. We’re going to be fine.”

“Well, I know I will be. I’m going to college soon. So I’ll be out of this mess.” She smiles, full of confidence. She’s reading her phone. “Oh cool. Bonnie is having people over. I’ll go there tonight. Spend the night.”

“I thought we’d have dinner together, celebrate our new home?”

“No, thanks. You can have this creepy old place to yourself.”

We both look out my side window at the white colonial. It’s not creepy—it’s classic, with symmetry and stature, peeling white paint and all. It just needs a little work, and that is something I love. As soon as Jess and I are settled here on Cherry Hill Lane, I’ll start my interior design business with a home office where I can entertain clients while Jess is at school. I’m so excited.

Jess sees rain-soaked creepiness, while I see nothing but natural charm.

It’s easy to fake things these days. But this house, my new home, is genuine and traditional. Unlike me. Cosmetic changes upped my marketability. Too bad almost everything Roger fell in love with—my perfect breasts, my oval face, even the fullness of my hair—was fake. I thought changing myself would make me popular, but once I’d fallen in love with Roger, I became isolated, insulated by money. I found myself in a gilded cage of Roger’s design. I had been a willing participant in the process: the clothes and jewelry, the bubble of wealth and entitlement—the entire charade our life together became. Of course I was. It has taken me years to see the real harm of this artificial facade. My mom saw it happening in real time, even before I met Roger. She begged me to stop after the first few surgeries. But I was addicted. I loved the attention. She had no idea what it was like out here in Southern California. What it took to compete. To win. And then, when I met Roger, I thought I had won the grand prize.

I glance beside me and see Jess’s profile. My daughter doesn’t look anything like me. Sure, she does have the same size feet and, unfortunately, Roger’s same stubby fingers. But otherwise, she looks like me before. The me from Clinton, Florida. The girl who thought she was ugly and lacked the self-confidence to make friends. Nobody knows that me out here. I arrived with a full scholarship to UCLA and never looked back. I tell people I’m a third-generation Californian, and it works. Nobody here knows my real roots, my real story. They know only the new and improved and highly valued Julie. The one who strides confidently into $500-a-plate dinners, who shakes hands with the captains of industry. The Julie with a gaggle of untrue friends.

I’ve never been back to my hometown. I feel like I would look like an exotic creature, something they have never seen down there before. I’m anxious for my lips to deflate, my face to fall, the filler to wear off. I can’t go back home until I look more like myself. Until I look like the little girl they bullied, one who now, finally, has the confidence to follow her dreams.

And to think, I tried to do this to Jess. I’m embarrassed by the number of times in the past that I’ve offered to give Jess a tune-up. I even pressed Roger to let me fix her big forehead when she was a toddler, but he thought I was ridiculous. He was right. I was being ridiculous, and shallow. And I’m ashamed by the memory.

We stood in our palatial kitchen, me holding a one-year-old Jess on my hip.

“Please, she won’t remember the surgery, and it will help her in the future, I promise,” I’d begged. Because even though we were married and had a child together, Roger controlled the money. All of it. Well, Roger controlled everything.

“I forbid it.” Roger’s tone was sharp, and Jess whimpered. “People don’t do cosmetic surgery on babies.”

Roger smiled and kissed me on the head. His voice softened as he touched Jess’s nose. “I don’t know where that forehead came from, but she’ll grow into it, honey. She’ll end up looking just like you.” His finger touched the tip of my perfect nose. He somehow thought that her forehead—my real forehead—would shorten, shrink, become perfect on its own. “She’ll grow into a beautiful young woman just like her mom. You’ll see.”

“No, she won’t,” I had mumbled. I don’t know if Roger suspected all the plastic surgery I’d had, but I don’t think so. He likely didn’t care as long as I was a good reflection, a prize he’d won. I played my role.

But Jess refuses to do likewise, thank goodness. Sure, she’s plain and flat-chested. She has my original nose. Her hair is thin, a washed-out dishwater blonde. Her blue eyes are set a little too far apart, and her forehead—well, if she had a brow lift, let’s just say it would make a world of difference. What she does have is innate confidence, belief in her own power in the world, and the knowledge she belongs. My daughter is so much stronger than I’ll ever be.

“Say, Mom, do you think I should have a little work done before I go off to college? I mean, sorority rush is brutal,” Jess says. As if she is reading my thoughts, she smiles and looks at me. She is bringing this up for the first time.

“Oh, no, actually I think you have been right all along. You are perfect, just the way you are,” I say.

She looks at me with a smile, as if I finally get what she’s been trying to teach me. “Are you sure? No nose job, boob job, brow lift? Nothing else?” She shakes her head and drops her phone in her lap. At least I have her attention. “I guess I’ll be fine during rush. I already know a bunch of Kappas from Oceanside. Don’t worry, I’ll pledge even looking pathetic like this.”

I’m the worst mother. The worst.

“Honey, you’re gorgeous. Natural. I’m so sorry I ever suggested any surgery. I was just, well, I got caught up in it. I’m so sorry.” I fight back tears as I realize what I have done, the seeds of doubt I’ve planted in my own daughter about her looks.

“I know you come from a place of love, Mom. I mean, you just want me to look like you. To fit in at school. But I’m popular. I’m a Jones. I’m rich, and smart, and I host great parties at my huge home. So I’m fine.”

I hate that popularity is tied to money, to your parents’ status. I guess it’s as hollow as looks.

“You’re more than fine.”

“I can’t wait to go to college. I wish I’d picked that school in Maine, actually. Far, far away from this crap.”

I want to ask what crap, but it’s likely me, leaving her dad. I think I’d better pivot.

“Oh look, the rain is letting up.” I turn away to look out the passenger-side window and wipe an errant tear. I understand Jess’s anger and confusion, and that she is directing her feelings at me. I take a deep breath, turn back toward her, and touch her shoulder. “It’s all going to turn out great, honey. Trust me.”

I watch Jess’s face soften a little, her frown dissipating. Who knows? I suppose, when you get right down to it, our differences may be more about age and entitlement rather than a substantial difference in value systems. I mean, because of my choices, this is the only life my daughter has ever known.

“Let’s go check out the creepy house.” Jess opens the car door, and I follow suit.

The gutters flow with water like a river, but the rain has turned to a fine mist. I hop over the runoff, and I’m standing on my front lawn. It’s real. I look down at my bright red rain boots contrasting with the vivid green grass. I feel like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. I click my heels together.

“Oh my god! Stop that!” Jess says.

I’m an embarrassment as usual.

Jess isn’t a fan of The Wizard of Oz. Or me, I suppose. I don’t know if she’s ever watched it. Did one of her nannies play it for her? I wish I could go back in time, focus more on mother-daughter activities that didn’t involve spending a lot of money. I’d say no to the luncheons and yes to the park. If I could, I’d take my little girl’s hand, and we’d run out onto the deck and head to the beach to build a sandcastle. Did we ever build a sandcastle together? We must have.

“Ma’am, we can get started.” The mover climbs out of the cab of the truck, and the two passengers hop onto the street and begin wrestling with the cargo hold gate. My treasures are all in there, everything that matters to me.

“Yes, please do.” I wave to them as I head up the front walkway of my new home. My first actual home of my own. When I graduated from UCLA, I dreamed of a time when I’d walk across the threshold of my first house. But it never happened. Life took me to Orange County, and almost immediately to Roger. I had apartments of my own, but that’s not the same. This is a new beginning. My first home.

Everything is in slow motion as I pull the key out of my purse.

Only one thought runs through my mind: I hope I haven’t made a huge mistake. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

Do you think Julie made a mistake forcing Jess to make such a drastic change during senior year in high school? Was it healthy or selfish?

Do you understand Tom's hatred, and can you feel sympathy, even for him?

Who was your favorite character and why?

What did you think of Roger by the end of the story?

In the end, Somebody's Home is about belonging, a common human feeling. Who felt at home by the end of the story?

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