“Ashley?”

“Spencer, I’m so sorry,” Ashley said. She sounded as though she had been crying, and though I’ve seen it before, vulnerable Ashley still seems strange to me.

“Ash, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I mean, this is your family we’re talking about. Did I mess up? Tell me, did I mess things up with your family? Madison said that…”

“No, you didn’t mess anything up, ok?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Really? Because if I did something that…”

“Ash! You have to listen to me. Everything is fine. The only person I’m worried about is you.”

“Why would you be worried about me?”

“Because you had to talk to my asshole brother, and I know his voice is probably the last thing you expected to hear.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I didn’t mess things up for you.”

“Well, I’m going to tell you again. You didn’t.”

“Are you coming home?”

Home.

The concept of home was a confusing one to me as of late. I seemed to be split into two separate versions of the person I once was. One lived amongst the trophies and the other amongst the wreckage of L.A.’s dirty little secrets. One led me to that wreckage and that wreckage was returning the favor because suddenly maybe “home” meant in there with the battling Carlins. The Dennison House was becoming just that—a house.

But then there was Ashley, who was falling apart all because of my brother. And I was thrust into the position of being the only one who could help her.

“Yeah, I’m going to call Eric and I’ll be there soon.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to just pick you up?”

“How?”

“I have a car, you know. It’s parked in the garage.”

“I didn’t even know we had a garage.”

She laughed a little, and I was grateful to hear it, “Well we do. And I can come get you. We can go grab some coffee or something.”

“Yeah, ok.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

Ashley picked me up a few blocks away from my house. I didn’t want to take the chance that my brother might see her and to be honest, I needed the walk to clear my head.