I move in front of her, stop her, grab her. “Wait, Nell. Wait. Just wait.”
“Don’t touch me,” she hisses. “That…that was wrong. So wrong. I’m sorry…so sorry.”
“No, Nell. It just happened. I’m sorry, too. It just happened. It’s okay.” It’s not okay. But I have to try to absolve her somehow. It’s my fault.
“It’s not okay! How can I kiss you when he’s dead?” She’s yelling. Her voice is venomous with desperation and self-loathing. “When the man I love is gone? How can I kiss you when…when I—when Kyle—”
“It’s not your fault. I let it happen, too. It’s not your fault. It just happened.” I have to cling to that. It’s all I have.
“Stop saying that! You don’t know! You weren’t there! He’s dead and I—” Her teeth click together, she cuts herself off so suddenly.
And just like that, the conversation has shifted.
“We’re not talking about the kiss anymore, are we?” I ask.
“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t…” She turns, stumbles, shaken, blasted.
I want to go after her, but I can’t.
I’m shaken, too.
I feel the guilt, too.
For Kyle, for kissing his girlfriend when he’s only been in the ground a few hours.
But also for India. For feeling such shattering potency in a single kiss, such intensity in that kiss. For feeling like that single, accidental kiss was somehow…
more—
Than anything I ever shared with India. Whom I loved, so much. Whom I got killed.
That guilt wrecks me.
I take my stuff inside and drink the rest of the bottle of Jameson until I’m wasted, dizzy, fighting a maelstrom of emotions that being drunk only confuses and worsens, but in drunkenness at least I can keep drinking until I forget, until I pass out.
* * *
The next day I wake up past noon, my head throbbing, my mouth so dry it hurts. My stomach is roiling. I swallow some Tylenol with the dregs from the whiskey bottle, grab a couple bottles of water, and carry my guitar and backpack the couple of miles over to the cemetery, where the truck is still parked. I toss my gear on the rear seat.
I walk to Kyle’s grave.
I stand over it, staring down at the fresh soil.
“I’m sorry, brother. For—everything. For not being there for you. For what happened last night on the dock. For never knowing you.” I feel the grief for the first time, for him. It’s a low throb, a thickness in my throat. “I probably won’t ever come back here. But you’re my brother, my family, and…fuck. I don’t know, man. I’m sorry.”
I set a guitar pick on top of the headstone, the only memento I have to leave.
“Bye, Kyle.”
I get in the truck, and not quite twelve hours later, including a stop for gas and lunch at a greasy spoon to sop up the booze, I’m back in New York.
As soon as I walk in the door, I wish I’d either not gone, or not come back.
Frankie is on the couch, flipping through a photo album.
Kleenex in one hand. Eyes red. An older version of Frankie, a younger version of Tilda, is sitting beside her.
Frankie looks up at me and bursts into tears. She leaps up and runs over to me. She hugs me, much to my surprise. “Oh god, Colt. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Chapter 15: The Will
“Frankie?” My voice is a low bass murmur. I don’t dare think it.
“I didn’t have a phone number for you. I didn’t know how to get a hold of you.”
“Where’s Tilda?”
She shakes her head against my chest. “Gone. She—it was so fast. She fell, broke a hip. After that, she just…I don’t know. It happened so fast.”
“Goddamn it.” My eyes sting. I loved that old woman. “I was only gone three days! How can—how can she be gone?”
“I’m so sorry, Colt.”
“I’m so fucking sick of people fucking dying all the goddamn time!” The sentiment rips out of me. Inappropriate, inconsiderate, foul, and true.
Frankie’s mom inhales sharply in surprise. Frankie just looks at me, not judging.
I wipe at my face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just—I’m sorry.”
Tilda’s daughter, Frankie’s mom—I don’t even know her name—clears her throat. “Tilda spoke of you a lot. She really cared about you.”
“She was a great old lady and I have a lot to thank her for. I really liked your mom.” I hem, haw. Scuff my foot on the hardwood of the foyer. “I—she was like family to me.”
Saying I love you, or anything like that, is impossible. I told India I loved her, and I got her killed. Maybe it’s superstition, but I just can’t say it again.
“I don’t mean to sound—inconsiderate, or anything. But…my family, her family will be arriving soon. We have to go through her effects, things like that. And we’ll have to sell this house, as part of liquidating her estate.” Frankie’s mom sounds matter-of-fact, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable, delivering this news to a guy like me in a situation like this. “So—I’m sorry, but—”
“What Mom is trying to say is that she’s kicking you out, because you aren’t actually family.” Only Frankie could say something like that and still have it sound compassionate, somehow.
“Frankie!”
Frankie shrugs. “What? It’s true. No point in beating around the bush about it. Just fucking say what you gotta say, Mom. Jesus.”
“Language, young lady!”
Frankie glares at her mom. “I can say what I want. I’m not a kid.” She glances at me. “Colt knows what I mean.”
I move past her, ruffle her hair. “I sure do, kid. Say what you mean, and mean what you say. Shoot straight or shut the fuck up.”
I gather up my clothes, trying not to be angry, and failing. First I lose my kid brother, then I fuck up and kiss his girlfriend, only to come home and find out one of my only friends has just died. Not only that, but I’m losing my home, too.
Life sucks.
Homeless again.
I pack quickly, setting my bags in the foyer, then turn to address Tilda’s daughter. “This is most of my stuff. I’ve got some weight machines in the basement, but I’ll come by for them later, once I’ve figured out where I’m gonna land. Or you can just sell them with the estate. I don’t give a shit.”
Frankie stands up and shuffles awkwardly to stand in front of me. “Where will you go, Colt?”
I shrug. “Dunno. I’ll be fine, babe. Don’t worry about me.” I give her a one-arm hug. “Ain’t the first time I haven’t had a roof over my head.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Calloway—”
I cut her off. “It’s fine. You gotta do what you gotta do, right? No hard feelings.” I lift my bags again. “When’s the funeral?”
A beat. “Thursday, but—”
“Listen, lady.” I give her a hard, steely stare. “You sell the house, kick me out the same day I find out Tilda is dead, as soon as I get back from my brother’s funeral. It sucks, but I get it. No problem. Gotta settle her estate. But you’re not telling me I can’t go to the funeral. Fuck you. She was my friend. I know I’m just some thug, but I cared about her, and I deserve to be there.” She says nothing, so I just wave at Frankie. “I’ll see ya around, kid. Stay out of trouble, huh?”
“Bye, Colt.”
And just like that, I’m homeless again, friendless again.
Except for Split, of course, but he and Callie are better off with me not all up in their business.
So I walk.
Think.
Dream.
* * *
Tilda’s funeral is…how do you describe a funeral without sounding trite? ‘It was a lovely service.’ You hear shit like that all the time. But that’s meaningless. You lost someone you loved—it doesn’t matter if there’s some nice flower arrangements or some eloquent words. It’s a funeral. It’s shitty. It sucks.
Tilda’s funeral is shitty, and it sucks.
I fight t
he urge to cry the whole time, standing in the back, watching them lower the casket into the ground. I wait my turn, wait till everyone else has tossed in their rose, and then I stand there over the hole, staring down at the casket, once again not knowing what to say.
So I sing “Feeling Good” a capella, just for Tilda. People stop, listen. No one expects a big, rough-looking fuck like me to be able to sing the way I do, but in this case, I really don’t give a shit. I’m singing for Tilda.
Frankie leans into me, wraps a skinny arm around my waist and sings with me.
When the song is over, she looks up at me. “This sucks.”
I blink and sniffle and try in vain to smile at her. “Yeah, kid, it does.”
That’s really all there is to say:
This sucks.
* * *
I’m walking the streets one day after work, back to my old habits—I haven’t told Carl I’m homeless. I just walk around after work, crashing in a no-tell-motel. Maybe sleep on the couch in the garage office, get up and leave early, come back and pretend I didn’t sleep the night there.
I’m walking around Queens, somewhere. Not real sure, don’t really give a fuck. Just walking, missing Tilda and…I hear jazz. A Nina Simone tune is coming from a window. I glance up and see an open window, and I can see an old woman who reminds me of Tilda, sitting at a window seat, drinking tea and staring into memory. I stop and watch for a minute.
God, I miss Tilda.
And then I glance across the street, and see a building for sale. Old, run-down, but sturdy looking. It has roll-up bay doors, and a little apartment above. It’s an old garage, not a bad area, but not great. I could probably get it for a decent price. I jog across the street and peer in the windows. It’s fucking perfect. Three hydraulic lifts, an oil change bay, counters lining the walls, a tiny office, lots of space. Needs a shitload of cleaning, scraping, painting, refinishing. The floors need to be stripped and re-coated, and the windows probably need to be replaced, as well. There’s lots of work to do, but it could be mine. I’ve got enough clientele now that I could hang out my own shingle easily, doing restoration and custom work.
Back at the shop, I call the phone number for the agent and ask about the listing price.
“I’m sorry,” the agent tells me. “That property has already been sold, I just haven’t had a chance to take down the signage. I’m sorry for the confusion.”
“Can I make a counter offer or something?”
“No, I’m sorry, the deal is already done.”
“Well, thanks anway.” I give the agent my phone number. “Call me if anything changes?”
“Sure will.”
I hang up, press the phone against my forehead.
Well fuck.
There goes that dream. I try not to be bitter, but it’s hard. I really wanted that place. It just…felt right.
I make my way back to Carl’s, try to deal with my disappointment by cranking wrenches underneath a rusty old Fairlane. I see a pair of shiny shoes approach across the open bay, too expensive for this neighborhood. I roll out from underneath the car, wipe my hands on my coveralls, and examine the visitor: lawyer type, three-piece suit, Bluetooth earpiece, fancy shoes, gold and leather watch.
“Help you?”
“Are you Colton Calloway?” he asks.
“Yeah. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Gregory Hall. I’m with the firm Hall, Pryor, and Williams. I represent the estate of Mathilda Irene Stafford.”
“Who?”
He frowns at my ignorance. “Your former landlady?”
“Oh, Tilda? Okay…what’s this about?”
He pulls out an envelope. “She’s named you in her will. You can drop by our offices tomorrow morning for the reading of the will, then we can get a few signatures and share the particulars with you.”
“What’s that mean in plain English?”
He lets out a tiny breath. It is obvious he is not happy to be here, talking to a guy like me. “It means she’s left you something from her estate. A memento of some kind, most likely. As I said, the reading of the will take place in our firm’s offices in Manhattan tomorrow morning at nine. Since you’re named in the will, you are entitled to be present for the reading.”
“Okay, thanks.” Not sure what else to say.
“Have a nice day.” He hands me a business card and then leaves.
So next day I’m on a train into Manhattan, staring up at the towers like a tourist, then taking a gold-plated elevator up to the eighteenth floor of an office tower. I’m in my suit. I don’t know what the protocol is, but better to be over-dressed than under-dressed, I figure. I locate the firm’s office, follow the cute little receptionist through a maze of offices to a conference room.
Tilda’s daughter is there, Frankie as well, and six or seven others. Nephews, nieces, a brother maybe, I don’t know. The proceeding is boring as hell. Gregory Hall reads the will in a monotone, everyone else shifting in impatience.
I’m not sure why I am here, and I don’t hear anything that is of concern to me: the meeting entails a lot of explanations, dividing up Tilda’s possessions, the money liquidated from her savings and bonds and the sale of the house, and a lot of other stuff I don’t even know about. I quit paying attention until I hear my name.
The guitar. This all about the guitar. I stifle a sigh, and tune in.
“…And as pertains to Colton Calloway, my very good friend, I bequeath to him my beloved husband Frank’s guitar. I’m sorry, Frankie, I know you wanted it, but Colt needs it more. Furthermore, from the liquid assets of my estate I bequeath to him a sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Less than he deserves, surely, but more than my family will appreciate. Not that I care. They have what they need, and my money is mine to bestow as I wish. I love you all.
“Written in my own hand, in good mental health, and with witnesses present, signed…Mathilda Irene Stafford.”
Jesus.
What?
There’s an uproar. Shouting. I remember other dollar amounts being named. All less that what Tilda left me. The crazy old woman left me a hundred and fifty grand? Why?
Frankie is sitting next to me and she leans in close. “I told her what happened. What you did. How you rescued me.” She giggles. “I didn’t know she’d do this, though. Mom and Uncle Larry are pissed. You got more than them.”
There are glares. Tears.
I don’t know what to do. The lawyer is in front of me, handing me a stapled packet of papers, asking me to sign. I stare up at him, shocked. “Can I—I don’t know, refuse it?”
He shrugs. “You could. It would delay the execution of her will a good bit, because we’d have to renegotiate with everyone else.”
Frankie speaks up. “He’ll sign. Just a second.” She leans close to me, whispers in my ear. “It’s what she wanted. She’d be mad if you didn’t take it. She’s giving it to you so you can buy your garage.” Her voice is small, but earnest. “Take it, Colt. Don’t worry about them.”
“It’s not fair.”
“No. But what is fair in this life?” Wise words from someone so young.
I hear Tilda’s voice: Don’t you second-guess me, young man. I know my own mind.
I grin at the thought of what she’d say if she were here. I take the pen, sign where the little pink sticky tabs indicate. I tune out the instructions from the lawyer. I’ll call him later, figure it out then.
I make my way back to Carl’s garage in a daze. I sit on a stool at the workbench, silently thanking Tilda.
* * *
A few weeks later, my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mr. Calloway? This is Rachel McKenna. I’m a real estate agent, we spoke a few weeks ago regarding the auto garage in Queens?”
“Hi, Rachel. How can I help you?”
“I won’t waste any time, Mr Calloway: are you still interested in purchasing the garage?”
“Absolutely, yeah. But I thought the deal was d
one?”
“It turns out the buyer wasn’t able to secure the financing.” There’s a pause. “Pardon me for saying so, but…you sound rather young. Are you able to finance the purchase, Mr. Calloway?”
“What’s the number?”
She hesitates. Names a number, way, way lower than I’d thought it would be.
I hide my excitement, try to sound like I’m waffling. “I don’t know, Miss McKenna, that place needs a lot of work.”
Another hesitation. “What were you thinking?”
I counter with a number a full two hundred grand less, not expecting her to bite. But she does. Must be desperate to unload the place.
“I can do that,” she says. “Not a penny lower, though.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Miss McKenna.” I’m giddy, wary, hopeful.
Rachel McKenna names an office building, an address in lower Manhattan, and we arrange a meeting for the next week, since it’s currently late afternoon on a Friday.
With Tilda’s money, I’m able to front a sizeable enough down payment that my bank grants me a loan for the remainder. I spend an entire day signing documents, but then, at three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, Rachel McKenna hands me the keys to my very own auto garage.
It’s run-down.
It needs a fuckload of work to make it presentable.
There are probably going to be unforeseen problems.
I now owe a sizeable mortgage payment every month.
But it’s mine.
I stand in the empty bay, breathing in the thick odor of grease, old oil, and dust.
I worked my ass off, and I made my dream come true.
I did it, India.
I did it.
Chapter 16: We Weren’t Done Talking
One year later
I’m sitting on a park bench on the edge of Central Park, busking. I’ve got my case on the ground next to my feet, a few bucks inside as seed money bright green against the maroon velvet.
Falling for Colton (Falling #5) Page 22
