Under One Roof (The STEMinist Novellas #1)

Chapter 1

Six months ago

"Frankly, 'getting along like a house on fire' is the most misleading idiom in the English language. Faulty wiring? Misuse of heating equipment? Suspected arson? It doesn't evoke two people getting along in the least. You know what a house on fire has me picturing? Bazookas. Flamethrowers. Sirens wailing in the distance. Because nothing is more guaranteed to start a house fire than two enemies blowtorching each other's most prized possessions. Want to trigger an explosion? Being nice to your roommate isn't going to do it. Lighting a match on top of their kerosene-soaked handmade quilt, on the other hand—"

"Miss?" The Uber driver turns in his seat, looking apologetic about interrupting my apocalyptic rant. "Just a heads-up—we're about five minutes from your destination."

I flash an apologetic smile and glance back at my phone. My two best friends' faces take up the entire screen. Then, in the upper corner, there's me: frowny than usual (well justified), pastier than usual (is that even possible?), and even more ginger than usual (must be the filter, right?).

"That's a totally fair take, Mara," Sadie says, looking puzzled. "And I encourage you to submit your, um, very valid complaints to Madame Merriam-Webster or whoever's in charge of these matters. But... I literally only asked you how the funeral went."

"Yes, Mara—how'd—funeral—go—?" The connection on Hannah's end is pitiful, but that's business as usual.

This, I suppose, is what happens when you meet your best friends in grad school. One minute you're on top of the world, clutching your shiny new engineering diploma, giggling your way through a fifth round of Midori sours. The next, you're in tears because you're all going separate ways. FaceTime becomes as necessary as oxygen. There are zero neon-green cocktails in sight. Your slightly deranged monologues don't happen in the privacy of the apartment you share, but in the semi-public backseat of an Uber, while you're on your way to have a very, very weird conversation.

See, that's the thing I hate most about adulting: at some point, one has to start doing it. Sadie is designing fancy eco-sustainable buildings in New York City. Hannah is freezing her ass off at some Arctic research station NASA set up in Norway. And as for me...

I'm here. Moving to D.C. to start my dream job—scientist at the Environmental Protection Agency. On paper, I should be over the moon. But paper burns so fast. As fast as houses on fire.

"Helena's funeral was... interesting." I lean back against the seat. "I guess that's the upside of knowing you're about to die. You get to bully people a bit. Tell them that if they don't play 'Karma Chameleon' while lowering your casket, your ghost will haunt their progeny for generations."

"I'm just glad you guys were able to be with her in the last few days," Sadie says.

I smile wistfully. "She was the worst till the very end. She cheated in our last chess game. As if she wouldn't have beaten me anyway." I miss her. An inordinate amount. Helena Harding, my Ph.D. advisor and mentor for the past eight years, was family in a way my cold, distant blood relatives never cared to be. But she was also elderly, in a lot of pain, and, as she liked to put it, eager to move on to bigger projects.

"It was so lovely of her to leave you her D.C. house," Hannah says. She must have moved to a better fjord, because I can actually make out her words. "Now you'll have a place to be, no matter what."

It's true. It's all true, and I am immensely grateful. Helena's gift was as generous as it was unexpected, easily the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. But the reading of the will was a week ago, and there's something I haven't had a chance to tell my friends. Something closely related to houses on fire. "About that..."

"Uh-oh." Two sets of brows furrow. "What happened?"

"It's... complicated."

"I love complicated," Sadie says. "Is it also dramatic? Let me go get tissues."

"Not sure, yet." I take a fortifying breath. "The house Helena left me, as it turns out, she didn't really... own it."

"What?" Sadie aborts the tissue mission to frown at me.

"Well, she did own it. But only a little. Only... half."

"And who owns the other half?" Trust Hannah to zoom in on the crux of the problem.

"Originally, Helena's brother, who died and left it to his kids. Then the youngest son bought out the others, and now he's the sole owner. Well, with me." I clear my throat. "His name is Liam. Liam Harding. He's a lawyer in his early thirties. And he currently lives in the house. Alone."

Sadie's eyes widen. "Holy shit. Did Helena know?"

"I have no clue. You'd assume, but the Hardings are such a weird family." I shrug. "Old money. Lots of it. Think Vanderbilts. Kennedys. What even goes on in rich people's brains?"

"Probably monocles," Hannah says.

I nod. "Or topiary gardens."

"Cocaine."

"Polo tournaments."

"Cuff links."