“Owen,” I say in disbelief. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

His words are serrated. “Did they specifically tell you why I’m so goddamned angry with them and why I bothered to come out here today?”

“No, but we talked about—”

“Juliet, this morning I got a call from my brother Liam, whom I never speak to except for the occasional emergency with my parents. He routinely talks to the neighbors, and he gets just as frustrated with my parents as I do. He has the joy of hearing the neighborhood gossip because he’s lives closer by than me, whereas I got the fuck out all together.”

I don’t tell Owen that his parents have already informed me about his relationship with his siblings, how none of them like to see one another because of the hell in that house.

Owen continues, his tone getting more ragged with every sentence. “Today Liam informed me that he found out this house is about to be condemned by the city. Oh, and the best part? My parents have just a couple more days to clean this whole damned thing out or they’ll be kicked out, evicted, and essentially homeless.”

I cross my arms over my chest, holding myself.

He fists a hand as he raises it, almost as if he wants to beat down whatever it is that keeps his parents from understanding how serious the situation is. Then he lowers his fist.

“Do you know the definition of insanity? It’s doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Believe me, I’ve tried and tried to help them over the years, and things never change. You heard them—they don’t think a damned thing is wrong.”

“They have a disorder…”

“I know that, and after their house was cleaned the first time, they weren’t willing to seek help. They felt betrayed that ‘all their stuff was taken.’ I’ve tried to get them into regular therapy, but I can’t force it on them.” It looks as if he’s about to slam his fist into the tree, but he pulls back and shakes his head. “I don’t see them much, but I check on them out of a sense of obligation, and I’m sick of bashing my head against the wall. I can’t do it anymore.”

What he’s obviously not saying is that he’s also sick of being tortured by his past memories of having to live here, plus the trauma from growing up in this environment. And I understand. I really do.

“Owen,” I say softly, “We can’t just leave them here to rot.”

I think of my own parents. What I’d give right now to have even the slimmest chance to save them from their ultimate fate.

But Owen is furious. “No. Fuck that. Did you smell it in there? That’s the stench of my childhood—garbage, pests, rodents, dead animal carcasses, and all manner of nastiness piled under the junk and garbage my parents would collect over the years. When I was finally old enough to exert some influence, they finally agreed to have things cleaned up, but they only went back to their old habits, and now look at the place. It’s just as disgusting and cluttered as ever.”

And here he stands before me—the rigidly fanatical man who went in the opposite direction, keeping his life neat and tidy in every way. The one who chose to have no emotional clutter either—no serious romantic entanglements or even close friends.

Just a perfect, sanitary barricade that blocks him from his terrible memories here.

“Please just listen to me. We have to at least try.” I reach for him.

But he steps away. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been in that house and shook his parents’ hands so that makes me contaminated now, or if it’s because I’m not as sick and tired of this situation as he is. Either way, his rebuff stings.

“Why in the world would I expect you to get it?” he asks in a chilled rage.

I tense up. “But I do.”

“Really?”

He’s wearing that acrid smile again. Something has snapped in him because I’m defending his parents, as if I’m keeping the cycle going—which I’m not trying to do.

“You came into my life and disturbed everything I’ve built,” he grates. “You’ve sent everything into chaos. I hired you specifically so that none of this would happen, but you’ve failed completely at the task you were paid to do.”

I shake my head. He’s going way too far in his anger. He’s blaming me for all his frustrations because he has no other option.

And he isn’t done—seeing his home again, seeing his parents, has possessed him.

“Instead of doing your job,” he says, “you’re in my business, trying to engulf me in your crazy life and that of my parents’. All I wanted was for you to observe today so you’d understand why I have rules and regulations, not for you to try to pull me into an impossible situation again.”

I’m utterly speechless in the face of this wounded animal. I’m crushed by everything he’s saying to push me away, because that’s what he does—push and push and wall himself up until nothing and no one can get to him.

A moment saws by, biting through the air. He curses under his breath, then says, “I’m done dealing with all of this.”

He starts walking away, but I’m not about to let him escape that easily.

I know that this is only his awful past gripping him. I’ll help him find a way out of it. I’ve done it before.

“Where are you going?” I ask with a hitch in my voice.

“Back to New York.” He’s talking over his shoulder. “You can come back with me and forget everything you saw here, because if you don’t, it’ll only drive you off the deep end, too. You can do the job I hired you to do for the rest of the month with me, or…”

“Or what?”

My voice is thick, because I can’t believe he’s giving me this ultimatum. It’s true that I haven’t experienced the horrors he has in this house and I have no idea what it’s like to try and help his parents over and over again, but I can’t just leave them alone.

It feels like a betrayal. They’re not bad people, just sick. And this house and the clutter can be managed, can be sorted out with a lot of patience. I’m not the type of person who turns their back on those in need.

This house, and the real people suffering in it, reminds me of my own home. My own family. I refuse to let it fall apart without so much as an hour of effort to help.

As he stops at the car, he sees that I haven’t moved an inch, and something clouds in his eyes. It’s almost as if he hates himself because this is the only way he’ll keep his sanity. But then the anger returns.

“If you stay here for even another second,” he says coldly, “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

I can’t believe this is happening, that he could be so callous.

I can’t find the words.

Finally he just shakes his head.

We stare at each other, and there’s a moment that I think he’ll relent, just as he always does with me.

He grits his jaw and slams his way into the car. I let him do it.

Then I let him burn rubber down the road, leaving me to fend for myself, suddenly realizing that I have no idea what to do with his parents.

Or all the agonizing debris that’s falling down around me, too.

As I stand in that yard a few more minutes thinking that maybe he’ll cool off and turn back around to pick me up, I gradually feel the emotional wounds opening up in me.

He’s gotten angry with me before, but this time it feels different. I just saw his nightmare come to life in that house, and I walked in there with a fresh Sunshine Day point of view and basically told him that everything he’s feeling, all of his bad dreams, are easy to clean up.

I crossed a line, and I’m not sure there’s any coming back from it.

But maybe he will return for me…

After I wait a little longer, I finally realize that things between us might really be over. But I can’t walk away from these people who are in such need. I know all too well what it feels like to be left to sink or swim on my own. I have to try to repair this damage, even slightly.

Even though my heart feels as if it’s just been wrenched apart and left in broken pieces all over the place, I go back into that house, nearly choking on the smell again.

I haven’t cried yet, but I nearly start when I see his parents sitting there with smiles on their faces, happy to see that I’ve come back when most people they meet probably never do.

I don’t sit down. I stay standing as I tell myself that I’ll cry over Owen later.

Mr. Gregory heavily leans on his cane, suddenly looking downtrodden, as if he hoped to see Owen with me, but now knows that his son has left for good.

Mrs. Gregory looks almost as crushed as I feel, as if she also thought that, maybe this time, Owen would get over all the trauma they’ve caused and he would decide to stay.

I swallow back my throttling grief. I’ve got to be their rock—my own rock.

“He wants to help,” I tell them. “But from what I’m seeing, you won’t accept what he has to offer, and that’s killing him. He can’t watch you live like this.”

For a second, I think they’re going to sink right back into the denial I saw when I arrived. Everything’s fine here. We’re comfortable in this mess.

But they’re watching me closely, no doubt realizing that Owen and I parted on bad terms. He ditched me. Maybe they even heard our argument outside and it was the one thing that rattled their brains enough to make them admit that they’ve got problems. Maybe that’s even compounded by the fact that they’re about to lose their beloved home.

Suddenly, Mrs. Gregory sobs, and her husband draws her against him. At her sorrow, I give in to my tears also. I wish I could go over to hug them, but I can’t with the smell and the dirt and the garbage.

I just can’t.

“He’s really gone?” Mrs. Gregory manages to ask through her tears.

I bite down on my lip and nod, sadness wracking me.

My god, he’s really gone.

I blow out a breath, then say, “He can’t do anything for you if you can’t help yourselves.”

They merely stare at me. Even Mr. Gregory has tears in his eyes.

I continue. “He told me that you’re about to be evicted. Is that what you really want? You’re about to lose this house!”

Both of them shake their heads, and that’s when I really, truly see what’s been buried beneath their facades this entire time—shame. An embarrassment that they’ve been hiding maybe for years.

They do know something’s wrong, but it’s difficult for them to admit it.

They remind me of their son—the one I let go outside, the man who probably thinks that I don’t care as much about his problems as much as the issues his parents have.

I motion around the house. “If you want Owen to ever come back, then you have to do something about it. You have to show him that you know there’s an issue.”

“And that’ll bring him back?” Mrs. Gregory says.

I don’t know what to say. I can’t make any promises.

Mrs. Gregory angles her head, her expression soft. “He left you, too, didn’t he?”

Don’t cry, Juliet. Do not cry.

I nod.

“Out on the porch,” she says, “I saw how he looked at you. He’s never looked at anyone like that. And for him to leave you behind with us...”

Mr. Gregory picks up where his wife leaves off. “He really couldn’t bring himself to stay this time.”

No one says anything else, so I shakily take my phone out of my pocket and bring up a search window, typing in the words junk removal, then showing them the screen. Mr. and Mrs. Gregory look back at me, defeated.

All we can do, I think as pain constricts in my chest, is clean up the messes we’ve all made.

And, in spite of myself, all I can do is keep hoping that Owen will drive right back to this house, saying he was wrong and that he can’t go on without me.

But he never does.