by Watson, Lucy
He looks over his shoulder with a lopsided grin and puts the grate back on, the fire starting to glow inside. “Taste better like this, smart ass.”
He’s right, it does.
He plops down next to me, stealing some of my blanket, which has nothing to do with being cold and everything to do with being annoying.
I shake my head with a small laugh that doubles down on my need to pee, but if I get up from the couch, I’ll have officially started my day. No, thanks.
The thought of facing Ben has me pulling my knees to my chest, sinking back further into the couch.
“So, what are we gonna do?” he asks.
I turn my gaze back to the fire.
Last night I promised him we’d figure things out in the morning. I’ve always been good at putting things off until tomorrow, but not so good when tomorrow comes, which it always does.
“I’m going to do whatever Rose wanted.”
He scoots closer bumping my shoulder, his smile teasing. “Does this mean you’re gonna be my sugar mama now?”
I know he’s joking, but his words rub me wrong. What can I say, I’m crabby when I’m hungover. I look down, pulling at the piled cotton of the gray blanket.
“I never wanted her money.”
He takes my chin in his gentle fingers and turns me to face him. I keep my eyes turned down, afraid he’ll see the ugly truth in them eating at my heart: I’m relieved Rose put me in her will.
I have no place to call my own. No job. And my mind is damaged.
They said it would heal in time. They said one day I would wake up whole again. They said the small flashes of who I once was would burn brighter until it was once again a steady blue flame. They lied. Or at least I think they did.
“Em, look at me,” he says softly. I meet his kind green eyes, feeling foolish. “You are the last person in the world—”
I shake my head, my cheeks heating. “You don’t need to—”
“Rose did what she did because she loved you.” His voice and eyes sharpen. He moves closer, his gaze searching mine. “Do you know why she loved you?”
My throat tightens, and I shake my head, needing for him to say something, anything to help me forget the cold burn of Ben’s accusations and the guilty truth that followed.
“Because you’re you,” he states simply, but with such heartfelt conviction it soothes my charred soul.
I hold his eyes, seeing sparks of gold from the fire in their green layers, desperate to believe I’m the person reflected in them.
The sound of coffee kicking and jumping inside the percolator cuts through the moment. He gives my shoulder a squeeze, gets up, and moves the percolator from the heat.
“Are you hungry?”
The thought of food has me groaning, and I swallow back a sudden wave of nausea. The sound prompts him to look over his shoulder from the stove and grin. I know that grin.
Don’t you do it…
“Maybe some runny eggs… you know, when the white part is like—”
“Stop it!”
“Like someone blew their nose in a pan.”
“Asshole,” I growl, taking off to the bathroom as I gag, the sound of his deep laughter following me.
* * *
Yesterday, I walked down this driveway feeling like a badass. Now, walking up it, I just feel like a hungover girl wearing yesterday’s pajamas.
I readjust my sloppy topknot, because it makes me feel better to do something, and take in a deep breath of ozone-rich air, damp gravel crunching beneath my feet.
I’ve always loved the stillness of early mornings, until now.
Now it just feels eerily quiet. My steps slow, and I take in a steadying breath as I pass Ben’s motorcycle. He’s home. I take the front steps two at a time, as though the commanding action will somehow unravel the knots in my stomach. It doesn’t.
Reaching in my purse, I grab my keys and open the front door. I step inside, blanketed by warm air, as a heavy sadness settles in my bones.
The house smells different.
It feels different.
Rose is fading from these walls, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I gently shut the door behind me and hang my purse on the coatrack. Putting my keys on the console table, I feel a heavy weight press down on my chest.
“You get lost?”
I jump at the deep voice, turning to see Ben standing at the entryway. He’s wearing sweats, a ratty T-shirt, and holding a bowl of cereal.
His sharp brows knit together as he brings an over-filled spoonful of Lucky Charms to his mouth. Is it possible to look like a serial killer while eating magically delicious pink hearts and green clovers? Yes. Yes, it is.
“What?” I honestly have no idea what he’s talking about.
He chews as he glares at me, apparently in no rush to answer my question. He swallows, and even that somehow looks sinister.
“You were there when Wellington said we both had to sleep here.” He shrugs. “So I figured you must’ve gotten lost because no one can be that fucking stupid.”
My face heats. I turn and reach into my purse, pulling out my phone, feeling somehow safer with it in my hand.
“I… I didn’t think he meant right away.”
“I stand corrected,” he says flatly, looking back to his cereal.
Swift anger replaces my embarrassment. “Why do you have to be such an asshole?”
He looks up from the bowl, his brows cocked. “You think this is me being an asshole?” He shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “Sweetheart, you have no idea.” He takes another bite of my cereal, his challenging brown eyes promising dark things if I test him.
The fact I can’t help but notice the milk wetting his full bottom lip, the way his strong jaw works each bite makes me hate myself. Though, the arrogant half-smile he gives me as he swallows makes me hate him more.
I want to say something cool and cutting, but, as usual, my mind is a complete blank, no doubt saving all my impressive comebacks for the middle of the night.
He looks past me to the door, seconds before the doorbell chimes. I take an instinctual step toward it, but his firm grip wraps around my arm, stopping me. “I got it.”
His masculine scent and his body invade my personal space.
“You don’t even know who it is.”
Please, let it be a Jehovah’s Witness.
He gives my arm a final squeeze, leaving no room for argument, sets his cereal down on the console table, and swings open the door.
Mr. Wellington is standing on the other side, wearing a cheery smile and a forest-green version of yesterday’s zip-up cardigan.
“Good morning,” he says, before looking past him to me with a genuine smile. “Ms. Anderson.”
“Good morning,” I say with an equally bright, albeit fake, smile.
Ben grunts something and steps to the side, inviting Mr. Wellington in. Our eyes meet as he walks in. His narrow in an unspoken warning, mine roll in a big fuck off.
“So glad to see you’re both awake. I didn’t want to come by too early, but as you know, these are to be random check-ins, so…”
Please, don’t ask me if I stayed here last night.
“Noooo problemo,” I say in an attempt to sound relaxed and non-guilty, but instead I sound like Speedy Gonzalez on crack.
I hear Ben’s heavy exhale directed at me. I casually scratch my temple with my middle finger in response. He probably won’t notice, but it makes me feel better.
Mr. Wellington studies me for a moment, taking in my pajamas and slippers and what I’m sure is major bedhead, before turning to Ben. “I take it you slept here as well?”
Ben’s brown eyes meet mine as he answers, “Yup.”
He leans against the wall, next to the door, folding his arms over his muscled chest, giving me the famous Crawford-death-glare.
I scoff and shake my head to let him know how ridiculous he is.
Mr. Wellington clears his throat. “I tried to ex
plain to Rose that, without staying here myself, it would be nearly impossible to know whether or not you both slept here, but she insisted on that particular stipulation…” He turns to the small console table, sets down his briefcase and opens it. “Which is why I’m installing multiple cameras around the front and back of the house.”
“What?” Ben snaps, standing up from the wall. His arms fall to his side, his eyes narrow in on Mr. Wellington.
I think it’s safe to say Ben isn’t thrilled at the idea. I bite the inside of my cheek, not exactly thrilled at the thought of being watched and recorded, either. I don’t even like leaving voice messages because they're too permanent.
“It’s as much to protect your claim to the estate as it is to make sure you’re being truthful.”
“If I tell you I stayed here, I did.” His firm voice makes me believe that although he’s a world-class asshole, he’s an honest one.
So, I guess, there’s that.
“I’ve received word that your uncle’s filing an objection to the will this afternoon. I’m sure your father won’t be far behind. When they aren’t successful on that front—”
“You know they won’t be successful, how?” Ben asks.
“Because I’m good at what I do,” Wellington states.
Ben scoffs rudely at his words. Wellington bristles and so do I.
I’m pretty sure if he’d known Rose’s grandson was a grade-A jerk, he would’ve urged Rose to leave the handling of her estate to someone else. Someone he hates.
Ben cocks his brows. “If you were good, you never would have changed her will in the first place.” His voice is light, but there’s an unmistakable heat in his eyes.
I notice a shift in Mr. Wellington, slight raise of his chin, a brief clench of his jaw. It’s subtle but enough to glimpse the sharp edges under his soft Mr. Rodgers exterior.
“When a terminal client asks me to amend their will, especially to include someone relatively new in their life, I make damn sure I know why.” He pulls a file and an envelope from his briefcase. “Your family can object until the cows come home, Mr. Crawford, but the will is iron-clad.” He steps back to face us both. “As I said yesterday, there are conditions, that no matter how strange they seem, must be met. It will only take one contractor to say they performed work here or a single person to say you slept elsewhere, and we’ll be in probate court, engaged in a he-said-she-said for months. With surveillance, we’ll have proof.”
“I’ll have to go to court?” A tinge of panic tickles up my neck at the thought of being trapped in a courtroom, all eyes on me as I talk. I take in a deep breath as the what-ifs start bubbling to the surface.
Mr. Wellington’s expression softens a bit. “Once the cameras are visible, I’m hoping Rose’s sons won’t go down that road.” He gives me a quick reassuring smile. “They might try to visit you. Please don’t engage in a lengthy conversation, and call me immediately afterword while the conversation is still fresh.”
“Okay.” I nod.
He hands Ben the folder.
“What’s this?”
“A breakdown of your first task. You have until the end of the week to complete it.”
He turns and hands me the envelope, all business again. “Here’s the debit card for supplies. The PIN is on the post-it.”
“And if we choose not to accept this mission?” I say, calling on Mission Impossible to lighten the mood.
“Pardon?”
Well, so much for that.
“Uh… nothing. Thanks.”
He nods, turns to pick up his briefcase, then faces us with noticeable sternness in his demeanor. So different from when we first opened the door.
“I want to make myself perfectly clear,” he says, looking between me and Ben. “If you don’t perform the renovation on-time and in a satisfactory manner, I’ll have no choice but to turn the estate over to Mark Crawford. If you don’t reside within these walls, sleeping under this roof while doing so, I’ll turn the estate over to Mark Crawford. If I find that you pay anyone, even to change a lightbulb, I’ll turn the estate over to Mark Crawford. Those were Rose’s conditions, and she hired me to see them through. And that’s what I’ll do.” He focuses on Ben, his words strong and purposeful as he continues, “Because I’m good at my job.”
With that, Mr. Wellington lets himself out, not sparing us a glance. Guess it’s safe to say we ruined his cheery morning.
Or more accurately, Ben ruined his morning. Imagine that.
I turn from the door to see him flip open the folder, scanning its contents. “So glad I let you handle it,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my words. I tuck the envelope under my arm, walk to the console table, and pick up the bowl of cereal, turning around to meet his glare. “These are my Lucky Charms. Get your own.”
I know it’s petty, but fuck it. He already helped himself to my room, my magic bed, my body wash. I’ll be damned if he’s going after me Lucky Charms, too.
I stomp my way through the living room toward the kitchen when I feel the envelope snatched from under my arm. I spin on my heels to come face-to-chest with Ben.
“Hey!” I yell, wishing I had both hands to snatch the envelope back. Milk splashes from the bowl at my knee-jerk reaction. “Great,” I bark out.
He grabs the bowl too and angrily sets it, along with the envelope and folder, on the end table, rattling the gold-framed pictures, before turning back to me, his sharp brows knitted together.
“This is how it’s going to go down—”
It’s been twenty minutes, and I’ve already reached my daily limit of Ben.
“Nope,” I cut him off, taking a step toward him, my neck bent back. “This is how it’s going to go down,” I say with such conviction I surprise even myself. “You’re gonna stay out of my way, and I’m gonna stay out of yours. We do what we have to do to see Rose’s last wishes through, however weird they may be.” I flick my hand in the air. “After that, you can take your millions and do whatever the hell you want. I stay in the house rent free for as long as I want—which could be a week or forever, with the house staying in your family— and I never see you again. Got it?”
Wow. That sounded pretty freaking reasonable.
I square my shoulders, feeling a spark of my old fire come to life. It feels good. I’m surprised by the truth in my words, realizing when it’s all said and done, no amount of money can give me the peace I feel within these walls. Hopefully, there will come a day when I won’t need this house, but until then, I’m going to stay put.
He slowly raises his brows. “You want to stay here rent free forever?”
“Yep. And I want my room back,” I demand.
His nostrils flare, his jaw clenches. My stomach flutters.
“I’ll give you every other night,” he counters like it’s some huge concession. Like I didn’t just tell him he could keep his millions.
“Starting tonight,” I demand.
“Fine,” he grits out, clearly annoyed. “I want the rest in writing.”
“You got it, big guy.” I hold out my hand for the envelope, smiling triumphantly, feeling better than I have in months. “I’ll take that back. Thank you.”
He narrows his dark eyes, but holds the envelope out for me to take, his scowl telling me not to push it. I step forward and go to grab it, but it doesn’t budge from his fingers. He leans down, crowding my space. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, feeling my old-self spark being quickly snuffed out by his cold look.
“My dad approaches you, you call me before he can even get the first word out. We clear?” His breath is sugar sweet, his tone, not so much.
“Yes, sir,” I say in an exaggerated mock-military fashion.
He draws in an annoyed breath through his nose, his gaze leveling me. After a tense beat, he nods, and releases the envelope. “Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Your phone,” he repeats, impatiently holding out his hand, motioning his fingers when I don’t move
fast enough.
“Why?”
“How you gonna call me, if you don’t have my number?” The missing genius at the end goes without saying.
“You’re so annoying,” I say under my breath, handing over my phone.
“And you’re a pain in my ass.”
“You think this is me being a pain? Sweetheart, you have no idea.” I throw him the same line and dark grin he bestowed upon me earlier. It feels good.
The corners of his mouth twitch.
I’m pretty sure if I were anyone else he would have smiled.
Not that I want to make him smile.
He turns his attention to my phone. I refuse to notice how long his eyelashes are, or how deftly his strong fingers enter in his contact info.
I never got around to revising my contact list, since ninety-nine percent of those people I haven’t talked to in forever. Some went with Greg in the divorce. Others gave up on me when I never returned their calls. Even Rachel who I’d been best friends with since middle school eventually stopped calling. Stopped tagging me in old Facebook pictures with cute messages. She was a great friend. I was the one who sucked. Too caught up in my own shit to see how much the people who loved me worried and suffered as I spiraled. Now it’s too late.
Well, at least it looks like I have friends.
Not that I care what he thinks.
He hands me back my phone and lifts his chin toward the den. “Get dressed. We leave in twenty,” he says, before grabbing the bowl and folder from the end table.
“To where?”
“Home Depot,” he calls out as he disappears into the kitchen.
And, so it begins.
6
#SorryNotSorry
I don’t ask myself why I’m putting on mascara, a dust of bronzer, and Glossier lip gloss. I don’t question why I’m wearing my good-butt jeans and a white boyfriend T-shirt, that in the right light is sheer enough to show a little skin.
