Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“You grin like a goddamned Cheshire cat every time you talk about her,” Lynnette says.
I hadn’t realized . . .
“How much longer until the house is done?” she asks.
“A month, at most,” I say. “I’ve been working ten-, twelve-hour days since I got there.”
“And this court, probate, estate thing is going to take a few more months, yes?”
I nod.
“So what are you going to do when the house is done and it’s just the two of you, biding time until you can get the house stuff situated?” she asks.
“Haven’t thought that far ahead. If it’s going to be a long, drawn-out process, I’ll probably go back overseas and come back when I have to.”
“I’m going to be frank with you, kid.” Lynnette straightens her shoulders and cracks her neck. “You’re acting like an asshole.”
“I don’t follow.”
Last I checked, my father was the asshole for leaving the house solely to Donovan, and then Donovan was an asshole for conning Anneliese into emptying her life savings into that dump. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not my problem.
“Number one,” she says, counting on her fingers. “You disappear for ten years without so much as a proper goodbye. Number two, you show up after your brother dies because you want the house that his would-be widow occupies, and not only that, you only want it so you can burn it down. Never mind all the work she’s put into fixing it up. What number am I on now . . . three . . . you show up with your tattoos and your muscles and your Mr. Fix-It persona, and you white knight yourself into her life—and likely her bedroom—and you plan on jetting off again if the court process takes too long? You’re just going to leave her like your brother did, high and dry.”
“First of all, it’s not like that with her. We’re not dating. We kissed. Once,” I admit, leaving out the details of what followed after that impressively unforgettable kiss. “Secondly, I’m not a white knight. I’m not here to clean up my brother’s hot mess of a life. Whatever money is in the account . . . it’s all hers. But the house is mine. It’s all I want.”
“Kid.” Lynnette slumps, her eyes searching mine. “Burning it down won’t bring your mother back. And it won’t erase what happened to her. It’s also not going to undo all the things your dad and brother did to make your life a living hell. Even if the house is gone, those memories aren’t going anywhere.”
“Well aware.”
She sniffs, like she’s taken aback at my snark. “Then what’s your endgame here, huh?”
“My endgame is to never have a reason to set foot in this town again,” I say. “My endgame is to know that the one place that stole everything from me no longer exists.”
Lynnette cocks her head. “It stopped existing the first time you got on that plane.”
“Figuratively, maybe.”
Sinking back into the recliner, she throws up her hands. “I can’t tell you what to do.”
She does a damn fine job at doing it anyway . . .
“You’re your own person,” she adds. “I just think it wouldn’t be the worst thing if you had a little heart for once. Hurt people hurt people. Healed people help people.”
“What are you, a therapist now?”
“No. I heard that on Oprah the other week. It’s a good one, though, isn’t it?” She chuckles. “Anyway. You’re getting all shifty over there, and you keep looking at your watch. I feel like you’re about ready to bolt, so before you go, I wanted to tell you that Bryce is coming home later this week. His job in New Hampshire is wrapping up earlier than expected. Thought maybe we could swing by the house when he’s back, take a look at all the work you’ve been doing.”
“Stop over anytime.”
I check the time again and rise from the saggy sofa before dipping my hands into my pockets and making sure I have my things.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say.
“Thanks for fixing all the shit my son was supposed to fix months ago.” She rises from the recliner, shuffles across the living room, and wraps her lanky arms around my shoulders.
“I’ll be sure to rub that in Bryce’s face when I see him.”
“I hope you do, kid.”
Lynnette walks me to the door, her hand rubbing small circles against my shoulder blade the way she used to when I was younger and I’d had a rough day.
“Remember,” she calls out when I make my way down the front steps a few seconds later. “Try not to be an asshole. Your father was an asshole. Your brother was an asshole. Break the damn cycle, for crying out loud.”
Once again, Lynnette has a point.
I’ve spent the past ten years doing everything in my power to not be like them . . . only to become exactly like them.