“What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away.
I stayed quiet, letting the tension stretch.
Finally, he spoke, voice low and strained.
“It’s a rental agreement.”
My mom blinked.
“What?”
“For a condo downtown,” he clarified, still staring at the paper. “It’s signed in Nico’s name.”
She looked at me.
“You bought a place?”
“No,” I replied. “At least one. And I made sure it’s nowhere near here.”
“But why would you?”
“I needed space,” I said. “Real space. One that no one else could rent out from under me.”
My mom looked genuinely hurt now.
“You didn’t trust us.”
“I did for too long.”
The doorbell rang right on Q.
My dad stood.
“Who is that?”
I shrugged.
“Ask your guests.”
The Spanish couple.
“They’re probably here to check in.”
He stared at me for a moment, horrified.
“I hope they like the room,” I added, slipping my keys from the table. “I even left a mint on the pillow.”
And with that, I walked out the door, their stunned silence crashing behind me like a wave.
But I wasn’t done.
Not yet.
Because they hadn’t read the last document, the one I kept in my own pocket.
The one that would make everything very real in the days to come.
And when they finally saw it, that’s when the real fallout would begin.
I didn’t go far that night.
Just drove to the condo.
My condo.
Well, for the next 18 months at least.