Nobody knocked.
Briana walked right in with a key—a key I didn’t know she had—and called out, “Ms. Moore, you up? We’re here.”
Like it was a surprise party I should thank her for.
I tightened my robe and stepped into the living room. Twelve people. Twelve strangers. Sand on my floors, bags on my furniture, voices everywhere.
“Good morning,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I didn’t realize y’all were arriving this early.”
Joyce looked me up and down with that postal-worker authority and church-lady confidence. “Early bird gets the worm, honey. Now where’s the master bedroom? My sciatica’s acting up and I need that soaking tub Briana told me about.”
She didn’t wait. She rolled her suitcase down my hallway toward my bedroom.
“Actually,” I started, “that’s my—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Briana chirped, appearing at my elbow. “Terry said you already moved upstairs. The guest room has an ocean view too.”
The guest room. In my house.
Darnell sprawled across my cream linen sectional with his shoes still on, grinding beach sand into my cushions. “Yo, what’s the Wi-Fi password?” he asked without looking up.
From down the hall, Kesha called, “We’re going to need more towels. One set per bathroom isn’t going to cut it with twelve people.”
I stood in my foyer—the same foyer I’d stood in forty-eight hours earlier, thinking this would be my sanctuary—and watched my home get rearranged like it was a rental property. Strangers moved my things, opened my cabinets, claimed my rooms.
“Coffee?” I tried, desperate to establish some normalcy. “I just made a pot.”
“Oh, we brought our own,” Kesha said as she walked into my kitchen and started opening cabinets like she paid for them. “And no offense, Ms. Moore, but your kitchen organization is all wrong. Spices shouldn’t be alphabetical. They should be by cuisine.”
She started pulling out my spice jars—jars I had arranged myself on Tuesday with Geneva’s help—and reordering them while I watched, speechless.
By 9:30, Geneva called. “Girl, how’s paradise?”
I didn’t sob. I couldn’t. I just let quiet tears slide down my face.
“They’re here,” I whispered. “All of them. Twelve people. Terry’s not even here.”
Geneva got quiet for three seconds. Then, “Pack your bag. I’m coming.”
“No,” I said, wiping my face. “I’m not running from my own house.”
“Then you want me to come handle this?”
“Not yet. I need proof. I need to see how far this goes.”
“Baby,” Geneva said, voice low, “this is exploitation.”
