I scrub the dried-on egg residue from the imported, super-expensive nonstick pan that if I put the tiniest of scratches on, Jenna will skin me alive. For the third Saturday in a row, I’ve thought about pitching the pan out the kitchen window. I wouldn’t hate it so much if not for Jenna purposefully leaving an inch of scrambled egg in it. The woman gets up at the ass-crack of dawn to make breakfast so the dishes crust over before I come to work.

For this, more than any other offense, I pray each night for karma to bite Jenna in the ass.

On multiple occasions, I’ve wanted to complain to Adam. He’d understand, but I don’t want to cause any more friction between the Kings. Already, on the days they both come home before I leave at four, they fight. Most often Jenna starts them, though Adam has burst through the door in search of an argument a handful of times.

Sometimes, their quarrels make me want to quit. The Kings’ fighting reminds me of my parents, and at least twice a week I bawl myself to sleep worrying about my parents’ marriage. Yes, my father’s rejection still stings, but I don’t want him to abandon my mother. At one point, they were happy and so in love, and so was our family.

But I stick out the job. I won’t give Jenna the satisfaction of watching me give up. Plus, I need to prove Aunt Veronica wrong.

A week into the job, I came home and mentioned my sore back and the blisters on my feet. Aunt Veronica popped her head out of the living room, looked me over, told me I won’t last a month, then returned to shucking corn while she watched CSI: Miami.

In just a few days, I can rub my success in my great aunt’s face.

After twenty minutes, half the egg residue sloshes off the pan. I sigh, too tired to feel any sense of accomplishment. I stayed late at the cooking class the night before to help Tyson clean up a flour fiasco, and then Hoss meowed at my door until four this morning. I’d kill to be at the spa having my troubles pampered away, but, no I have six more hours of hell to endure.

“Oh, Whitney!” Jenna calls from the dining room.

I groan. “Yes, Ma’am?” I yell back, sure to stress the “ma’am.”

“I need to speak to you. Now.” Jenna’s voice has lost its fake cheeriness.

I drop the sponge and pan back into the basin full of hot water, strip off the yellow plastic gloves I wear and check my clothes for water stains. I don’t need Jenna to ridicule me for sloppiness (again). Happy with my appearance, I go to the dining room.

Jenna stands before a hardwood cabinet full of linen and fine china that have fairies and goblins painted on them. I wonder about the china, much like I do about the other magical-creature-themed items in the house. Neither Adam nor Jenna seem the sort to like fairytales. Adam loves lacrosse and building miniature boats (one of my least favorite things to dust), and Jenna either spends all her time on conspiracy theory websites (Adam isn’t allowed to know that) or making wish lists on Amazon.

But if neither one has any interest in magical creatures, why do they dominate so much of their surroundings?

I’ve considered asking Adam, but I don’t want to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. Also, what does it matter how they’ve decorated their house? The Kings pay me to clean, not critique their tastes.

Jenna puts her hands on her hips. “What did I tell you to call me?”

“Sorry, Ms. Jenna. I had a long night, and I forgot.”

Jenna smirks. “That’s not really my concern. You come here ready to do all I ask you or don’t show up at all.”

For the first time in my life, I have to stop myself from throat-punching someone. If I do it, maybe Jenna will never talk again. The idea almost makes me smile.

Instead, I say, “Yes, Ms. Jenna.”

Jenna nods and then turns to open the cabinet’s bottom doors where the tablecloths sit. She waves for me. “Come here.”

Not as quickly as I know Jenna wants, I go to stand beside her. “What?”

Jenna gestures to the tablecloths on the top shelf. “What’s wrong with these?”

I glance at the shelf. The tablecloths seem sound. I ironed and folded them the ‘right’ way. I even managed to get the wine stain Jenna let set in the one used on the Fourth of July.

“I’m not sure...”

Jenna sneers. “I’m sure I showed you how to put these back, right?”

“Y—”

“Then explain that.” Jenna points at the tablecloths again.

I study them once more. What the hell is the woman talking about? Everything looks perfect. What does Jenna me—?

The colors. I put the wrong tablecloths on the wrong shelves. I was so busy the day I cleaned them—thanks to Jenna and her never-ending list of demands. I wasn’t given time to pee, let alone think about the color-coded shelving.

“It was a mistake,” I say, unable to keep my frustration at bay.

Jenna cocks her head. “How stupid are you?”

I open my mouth to retaliate but never utter a sound. At that moment, Adam bursts into the room; his hair and swimming trunks drip with water. He slams the cabinet doors shut and the china inside rattles.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands; his furious gaze on Jenna. “Why would you talk to Whitney like that?”

Jenna’s face reddens. “Well, she can’t have much of a brain if she can’t even put tablecloths back right.”

Adam wears a disgusted expression. “Seems you’re the one without a brain.”

“You really think that, huh?”

“More and more lately.”

“Must be true, since I stay with you.” Tears gather in Jenna’s eyes. “I’m going to my sister’s.”

“Good. Maybe Whitney can finally get some peace.”

Jenna flees the room.

Adam watches her leave before collapsing in one of the dining table chairs. He rests his forehead on an open palm. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look at me. “You shouldn’t be berated like that.”

“I-I’m okay.” I feel anything but, yet don’t want to make the situation worse.

He glances at me. “Why do you keep coming back?”

I shrug. “I have my reasons. Though mostly for the money.”

Adam manages a small smile, and it softens his features. “After today, you deserve a raise.”

I take the chair across from him. “Sounds like a plan. What are you willing to pay?”

Adam sits back and regards me. His gaze lingers so long, I squirm in my seat. Just as I think I’ve made the wrong remark, Adam asks, “Is it wrong that most days I regret ever meeting Jenna?”

“Uh...”

I really don’t want to give my boss relationship advice. For one, I don’t want to jeopardize my job by putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. Second, I don’t think myself qualified to comment on marriage. My only committed relationship was in high school, and all through college, I was too focused on my studies to even consider more than a one-night stand. Third, the one example I can pull from is currently in worse shambles than the Kings’ relationship.

Adam shakes his head. “No, don’t answer that.”

More uncomfortable than I’ve been in years, I leave my chair. “I’m going to get back to cleaning.”

Adam sighs. “Do you mind going home? I’ll pay you for the full day, plus seventy-five bucks for Jenna’s bullshit. I just need to be alone right now.”

I hope my relief doesn’t show as I say, “Sure. T-thank you.”

Mr. Kings closes his eyes. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“You, too, if you can.”

His hollow laugh follows me as I exit the house.

***

Aunt Veronica frowns at the television. On it, the ladies of Hell’s Kitchen flirt with Gordon Ramsey. “Disgusting. Don’t you think?”

I don’t respond, my thoughts still focused on earlier that morning.

Aunt Veronica tosses a broccoli stalk from her salad at me, and it bounces off my left breast and hits the floor. Hoss runs out from under my great aunt’s recliner and pounces on the broccoli. The cat swats the vegetable around the room as if possessed.

“You all right?” Aunt Veronica asks.

I shake myself. “Yeah. I’ve just had...a day.”

“Ah. You know the cure for—”

Aunt Veronica’s complexion pales. She sets her bowl of salad on the stand beside her and hops out of her chair. She darts for her bedroom; almost steps on Hoss. I trail her just in time to see my great aunt vomit into her toilet. It churns my stomach, but I don’t leave.

“Is it the chemo?”

Aunt Veronica nods, then barfs again.

“How can I help?”

My great aunt holds up a finger, pukes a little more, then swallows three deep breaths. Afterward, she flushes the toilet, washes her hands and face, and rinses her mouth out. When she steps out of her bathroom, color has returned to her cheeks.

“How can I help?” I repeat.

Aunt Veronica marches past me. “I’m good. Let’s get back to the show.”

“But—”

Aunt Veronica reclaims her chair, though ignores her salad. She turns up the volume on the television and laughs when Gordon Ramsey screams at the contestants. Hoss abandons the broccoli and jumps into Aunt Veronica’s lap.

I can’t believe how calmly my great aunt handled what just happened, and her cancer, in general. Often, I forget my great aunt’s sickness, for Aunt Veronica never mentions it. Plus, she looks healthy, her appetite has shrunk a little, and she only takes an extra nap a day (she’s the opposite of how Gram-Gram, my maternal grandmother, was when she had stomach cancer).

“How are you handling this?” I ask as I creep back into the living room.

Aunt Veronica glances at me. “The cancer? I’m fine.”

“You know if you ever need to talk, I’m more than willing—”

“I know your father didn’t overcome being an asshole and teach you, but your mother must have ingrained in you some manners.” Aunt Veronica shakes her head. “I’m trying to watch TV. Can you shut it for a while?”

At once, I feel insulted and concerned in equal measures. “I’m going to go to my room.”

“Great idea. Then I can watch TV in peace.”

While I leave my great aunt, I mutter about crotchety old ladies. I know Aunt Veronica hears me, but she doesn’t comment. As I reach my door, my cell phone rings. I take it out of my pants’ front pocket and half-expect the caller to be one of the Kings. It isn’t, and the number I read forces my heart to jackhammer in my chest.

I accept the call. “H-hello?”

“Hey, darling.”

My mother’s voice both gladdens and upsets me. I haven’t heard from my parents since I left North Carolina. I don’t think my father will contact me (though I wish for it more often than I’ll admit), but why hasn’t my mother until now? Shouldn’t my mother want to make sure I arrived in my new home safely, that I’m adjusting to my surroundings?

“It’s been...”

“Too long, darling, I know. Things here have been...complicated, and I haven’t—I’m sorry it’s taken until now to call you.”

I sigh. “No, it’s...okay.”

“So, are you liking it there?”

“Yeah.”

“Done anything exciting?”

“I got a job and take a cooking class on Fridays.”

“Good for you!”

“Thanks.” I’m dying to ask about my father, but I won’t let myself express concern for someone who treated me so heartlessly.

“I miss you, darling.”

“Yeah. Mom, I’ve got to go.”

“Oh.”

The dejection in my mother’s voice almost makes me retract my statement, but I can’t stay on the phone. It hurts too much. “We’ll talk later this week,” I say.

“Sure. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

I hang up.