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The resort looms ahead, a picturesque scene straight out of a postcard with tall pines and bustling guests all wrapped up in their winter gear. Despite receiving a few curious glances due to my obviously unprepared outfit, most people simply pass by. The resort, while not the largest in Tahoe, exudes a rustic charm with wooden architecture and a cabin-like ambiance.
Even the front doors are giant wood with intricate carvings. It’s not a place I would stay, judging by the details and cleanliness. Not that I’m poor exactly, but I definitely don’t make enough to take fancy vacations to places like this.
Inside, the warmth envelops me immediately, carrying with it the comforting scent of cinnamon. I’m nearly to the front desk when an attendant rushes over. "Miranda! You don’t have to come down here. You can just text me if you need something." She’s wearing a tight business skirt and blouse. Though she's taller than me, most people are. With the way she’s staring at me, you’d think I was twenty feet tall. So it begins, I think to myself. Despite our identical features, Miranda's corporate bob and my rebel biker look (as Miranda likes to call it) usually give us away. But not this time, probably because I’m incognito under my giant sweater.
"Actually, I'm her sister, Matilda," I correct her, trying not to sound as irritated as I feel.
“Oh! She did mention you were coming. Well, Matilda...” She gives me a wink that is both weird and unsettling. “Your room is ready. Can I take you there now? Do you need anything to drink?” While she asks, she’s already leading me to the elevator. I guess her first question is rhetorical.
“Nothing to drink, thanks.” The woman presses the button to summon our ride and smooths the hair in her tight bun. When it arrives, we both get onboard without another word. As it moves up silently, I try to keep my mind from wandering. It is only a matter of time before I’ll see my family, and that’s almost as unsettling as the woman’s wink.
The elevator stops on the top floor and the woman lets me out first. “This entire floor is for your family only. It houses our nicest suites.” I don’t have anything to say to that, so I just nod. It’s completely ridiculous that we all have suites, but I don’t mention that.
“This way please, room 834.” She points to a door before using a key to open it up.
The suite is larger than my entire apartment. That’s not really saying much since it’s a one-bedroom and maybe 800 square feet if I’m being generous. It’s perfect for me and has at least enough space for my drum set. In here, I could fit three drum sets. Big ones too. Real ones with wood and perfectly stretched drum heads. And since my family is fucking loaded, I probably wouldn’t have to worry about complaints when I pound out my passive aggression every night.
In the suite, it’s furnished with dark wood and rich red carpets, centered around a luxurious king bed. The furniture is a nice touch even if it does scream out that someone rich and stuffy decorated it. "Is it to your liking?" the woman asks.
I’m already over the fanciness of the room and thinking about my next annoying chore. “It’s fine. Are there clothing shops nearby?”
The woman tilts her head, a smirk playing on her thin lips. “Oh, I’m sorry, Matilda, I thought you knew. Miranda had the closet and dresser stocked for you.” My head snaps back at the revelation. My sister is doing me a favor? That’s new and gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach. Any gift giving comes with strings attached. She buys me clothes, and I’ll be required to repay the favor at some point. Opening the closet, I find it filled with beautiful dresses and even a bright pink snowsuit with matching boots. She has turned my closet into a boutique of clothes I’d never pick in a thousand thrift store runs.
"This is great. Thank you," I manage to say, genuinely appreciative despite the shock.
With a smile, the woman heads towards the door. “Again, all your sister’s ideas. I am supposed to remind you of the event downstairs at eight. Cocktails will be served at seven in the ballroom.”
Oh, goody. A cocktail hour for my dead father. More likely a bunch of his business associates ready to ass-kiss the dead with free drinks. I decide not to mention that it's ridiculous. “I’ll be there.”
Without any flourish, the woman slips out the door, asking me to get in touch with her if I need anything. I have her business card with name and number stuffed in my wallet. The same one Miranda gave me when she came to my apartment, but I have no intention of using it. Being here is a strictly get in, get out, survival scenario.
I walk the room before flopping on the bed. It’s fluffy and smells amazing. For some unknown reason, that pisses me off even more. What am I doing here? A single tear from Miranda, and I've been drawn back into the family fold after eight years of distance. It's pathetic.
But deep down, I know Miranda's right. No matter how he treated me or what our problems were, my father is dead. If I missed the memorial, at some point in my life, I know the regret would torment me.
And it's time to talk to whoever took over things for my dad. The constant harassment, the trashed apartment every few months—I'm tired of running.
My life in San Diego is a mix of good and challenging times, but leaving Sam is not an option. She’s settling down, embracing family life, so our adventures are taking on a new form. No more spontaneous surf trips or nights spent out until dawn. For the first time in my life, I want to be part of a family but one I choose, and Sam is it.
My thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door. Pushing myself up, I open it to find Miranda stepping through. "Nice to see you made it. And in sandals," she says, giving my inappropriate footwear a cursory glance. “Are your toes black?”
Wow, five seconds in, and I already want to smack her. Resisting the urge, I wiggle my half-dead feet. “It’s called frostbite chic. God, Andy, I thought you were fashion forward.”
She laughs, and I eye her suspiciously. Seriously, what's the angle here? She’s being…nice. “Maybe it’s in, but honey, you can’t let the toes fall off. How will you surf if they’re amputated?” Huh. She usually talks about surfing like it’s the newest black plague.
"I was just about to change. Thanks to our family's warm welcome back, I'm short on clothing options at home. Thanks for stocking me up, by the way.”
Miranda nods. "The clothes in the closet should fit. They're in our size, though you might find the chest area a bit roomy." It is an old jab between us. She’s always been oddly proud of the size of her boobs. But it is true. My constant surfing means I’m a bit leaner all over.
Rolling my eyes at the familiar tease, I cut to the chase. "So, why am I here, Andy?"
“I told you, they insisted—”
“Who insisted, Andy? Who’s making decisions now?”
She hesitates for a moment, her expression turning serious. "Tia took over when dad died. She's running things now."
That doesn’t surprise me. My Tia—Jessica to those that aren’t related to her—always wielded significant influence, even before. With her at the helm, I can only imagine the sway my aunt has with the horde of goons. Our family’s activities, legal and otherwise, are probably running perfectly under her strict guidance. Everyone in the family plays a part in this intricate web of businesses and agendas. Everyone but me. My departure has been a stain on my father's reputation, a situation he'd reluctantly accepted after years of my resistance.
