Chapter 6: I didn’t mean to call you my girlfriend
The smell of coffee and the sharp, clean scent of lemon-scented polish woke her. Isabel opened her eyes to a stripe of sunlight cutting across the unfamiliar ceiling of the beach house guest room.
For a moment, she was suspended in the quiet, the memory of the previous night settling over her—Joseph’s sudden departure, Steven following him out, the heavy silence when they returned. Joseph’s face had been carefully blank, a practiced calm that didn’t reach his eyes.
She dressed quickly, pulling on a tank top and shorts, and padded barefoot down the creaking staircase. The house was too quiet, the usual morning chaos replaced by a strained, waiting stillness.
Helen was in the living room, her back to the stairs. She was adjusting a vase of freshly cut hydrangeas on the mantelpiece, next to a framed photo of Susannah Fisher laughing on this very porch. The gesture was so domestic, so proprietorial, that it hit Isabel like a slap.
The floorboard under her foot groaned.
Helen turned around quickly. Her smile was professional, polite, and utterly cold. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Isabel said, the word sticking in her dry throat.
The back door swung open then, letting in a burst of humid salt air and the sharp cry of gulls. Joseph and Jeremiah walked in, their hair damp, board shorts clinging to their legs, towels slung over their shoulders. They were glowing from the surf, a picture of summer, but the sight of their aunt froze them in the doorway.
The brief, easy silence of the morning shattered.
Helen clasped her hands in front of her. “So. Open house today.”
Jeremiah dropped his towel on the floor. “You’re stealing our house.”
The accusation hung in the air. Helen didn’t flinch. “I’m not stealing anything. Like it or not, I get to choose what happens, and I choose to put it on the market.” Her gaze swept over the boys, dismissive. “You boys should get back on the road. Beat the traffic.”
Joseph’s jaw tightened. He took a step further into the room, his height suddenly feeling less like a casual thing and more like a barrier. “There’s no chance we’re staying for the open house.”
Aunt Helen let out a short, brittle laugh. “Oh, no, no. I can’t have you all running around chasing everyone away. Call your father. This isn’t an ‘Aunt Helen’ problem.”
“Except it is,” Joseph said, his voice low and razor-sharp. All the calm from the dock, all the bottled-up grief from the night before, seemed to channel into this single point of focus. “Because you are the problem.”
The mask of pleasantry finally slipped. Helen’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for this.” She turned on her heel, heading for the stairs.
Isabel found her voice, soft but urgent. “Joseph, she’s still your family.”
He turned his blazing blue eyes on her, and for a second, she saw the raw, unvarnished hurt there. “Then why’s she doing this to us?”
Jeremiah shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. “I guess it’s hard for her, too.”
“Really?” Joseph spat the word. “Seems like she’s doing this all pretty easily.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He took the stairs two at a time, his footsteps pounding a furious rhythm on the old wood.
Upstairs, Joseph went straight to his room, but Helen was right behind him. He grabbed a clean grey t-shirt from his open duffle on the bed, holding it in one fist.
“This your room?” Helen asked from the doorway, her voice softening.
“Not for long, apparently,” he said, not looking at her.
“It used to be mine, actually,” she said, stepping inside. She ran a hand over the dresser top. “It was different back then. More rustic. But this is nice.”
He pulled the shirt over his head, his voice muffulated by the fabric before it settled. “Keep the house in the family, and it’s yours.”
“How generous of you.” Her tone was dry, not unkind.
He finally turned to face her. The morning light cut across his face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw. “I know my mom’s gone. But here, she’s not. She picked out everything in this house. She planted every flower in the garden. This was her favourite place in the world.”
Helen sighed, a sound of genuine weariness. “I understand that your family has wonderful memories here. And you will always have them.”
“It is not the same, and you know that.” His voice was low, intense, fraying at the edges.
“Joseph.” She said his name like it was a fact she had to state. “This house is on the other side of the country from where I live. It’d cost tens of thousands of dollars to maintain a year. Money that I don’t have.”
A heavy thud echoed from somewhere downstairs, a jarring percussion that vibrated through the floorboards.
Helen’s head snapped toward the sound. “What was that?”
Joseph didn’t move. A faint, hard smile touched his lips. “Sounds like an Aunt Helen problem.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head, a real smile—surprised, almost appreciative—crossing her face. She walked out, leaving him alone in the room that smelled of salt and his own childhood.
Isabel had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the front doorbell rang, a bright, invasive chime. She hesitated, then pulled the door open.
A woman in a bright blue blazer stood on the porch, a wide-brimmed hat shading her face. She held a leather folder and a forced, eager smile. “Hi, I’m looking for Helen.”
Isabel blocked the doorway. “Right. For the open house. Helen decided to cancel. She’s having second thoughts.”The agent’s smile faltered. She peered past Isabel into the dim hall. “Sorry, who are yo
Joseph’s voice came from just behind Isabel’s shoulder, low and firm. “She’s my girlfriend. We just moved in. So the house isn’t for sale.”
Isabel’s breath hitched. She didn’t turn, but she could feel the heat of him close, the solidity of his lie hanging between them and the stranger.
The woman’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Joseph? Joseph Fisher? I’m so sorry to hear about your mom.”
His response was instant, ice wrapping each word. “Not sorry enough to pass up the opportunity to sell her house.”
“I’m just doing my job,” the agent said, her tone shifting to defensive.
“Well, consider this an unexpected day off.”
“Ignore them.” Helen’s voice cut through, sharp as broken glass. She pushed forward, nudging Isabel aside. “There will be an open house today.”
Joseph took a deliberate step back, yielding the space but not the defiance in his eyes.
Helen’s smile was pure strained civility. “There is a minor problem with the AC. It died.”
“That’s not a minor problem, Helen.” The agent’s professional demeanor cracked, revealing exasperation. “It’s supposed to hit 105 today.”
“Yeah, I know. Let’s chat outside for a minute.” Helen’s hand clamped onto the woman’s elbow, steering her back onto the porch with surprising force.
Joseph reached out and closed the front door firmly, cutting off the sound of their hushed, urgent argument. The latch clicked into place, a final sound in the sudden quiet of the hallway.
He turned to Isabel. The bravado was gone, replaced by a raw, awkward vulnerability. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to call you my girlfriend.”
She looked at him, at the faint flush on his neck, the way he couldn’t quite hold her gaze. The words had felt alarmingly natural falling from his lips, a reflex from a timeline that no longer existed. A part of her, a stupid, secret part, had thrilled at it.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, forcing her voice to be light, easy. “It’s okay. It worked.”
They both smiled to themselves and walked towards the kitchen.
“Everything okay?” Jere asked.
“No,” Joseph said, his voice low. “The realtor just got here.”
“Shit.” Jeremiah ran a hand through his damp blonde hair. “Well, what’re we gonna do now?”
“I don’t know what else we can do.”
They walked into the kitchen. Steven was already there, leaning against the counter, fanning himself with a folded magazine. “It’s like a thousand degrees in here.”
“Helen said the AC is broken,” Isabel said, joining them.
“What? No way?” Steven’s voice rose, high-pitched with genuine distress. “We’re gonna melt. We’re gonna be puddles on this gross linoleum.”
Helen walked into the kitchen, her heels clicking with finality. “Today’s open house has been canceled,” she announced, her tone leaving no room for celebration. “So, I need you all out of the house while I get the AC guy here to do some work.”
“Great,” Jeremiah muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. “Now we don’t have to lie about the black mould to the buyers.”
“Let’s go to the beach,” Steven said, ever the pragmatist.
“I’m gonna stay here,” Joseph said immediately. He leaned against the fridge, his posture rigid, a sentinel refusing to abandon his post.
“The mall has an AC,” Steven offered, as if presenting a brilliant diplomatic solution.
Joseph’s blue eyes were flinty. “Cool. I didn’t ditch finals to leave this house for the taking by—”
Helen cut him off, her composure snapping. “I am trying so hard to keep my shit together.” The words hissed out between her teeth. “You’ve already ruined my day. The least you could do is get out of my hair for a few hours.”
The kitchen went silent, the only sound the oppressive hum of the dead air conditioner. Joseph looked at the floor, the muscle in his jaw working.
Isabel watched him, saw the storm brewing behind his eyes— the helpless anger, the weight of it all. She stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder. The muscle was tense under her palm. “What about the boardwalk?” she said, her voice gentle but firm.
It was a lifeline, a memory of easier summers. A place of noise and light that might drown out the quiet, suffocating war in this house.
Jeremiah looked at her hand on Joseph’s shoulder, then at Joseph’s face. He shrugged. “Sure. Beats sweating to death listening to some guy fix a condenser.”
Steven was already heading for the door. “Funnel cake. This is a funnel cake emergency.”
Joseph let out a long, controlled breath. He finally looked at Isabel, and the gratitude in his eyes was so stark it made her chest ache. He gave a single, resigned nod. “Sure.”
They drove in Steven’s car, the windows down, the hot wind whipping their hair into tangles. The silence in the car was different from the one in the house—it was the silence of a temporary reprieve, filled with the roar of asphalt and the blare of the radio Steven had turned up too loud.
The boardwalk announced itself long before they saw it: the distant, tinny melody of a calliope, the shrieks of laughter riding the salt air, the thick, greasy scent of fried dough and popcorn. They parked in a gravel lot littered with seashells and faded ticket stubs, the carnival sprawled before them like a tawdry, beautiful dream against the endless blue of the ocean.
The Ferris wheel turned its slow, indifferent circle. The bumper cars sparked and crackled. Teenagers in life-guard reds loitered by the ring-toss games, their laughter sharp and carefree.
For a moment, they all just stood there at the entrance, the weight of the house, of Helen, of Adam’s finality, momentarily held at bay by the sensory onslaught.