“Jesus, are you fucking crazy, Heaven?” I hear Matt’s voice call out.
I turn to see him on the floor, apparently ducking just in time. “What are you doing here?” I pant as I clutch my chest.
“I live here,” he grunts with all the attitude of an angry sixteen-year-old.
“You know that’s not what I mean.” I set the bat down, then offer him my hand to help him off the floor.
“I didn’t feel like staying at Adam’s house, so I came home.” He looks at me then looks at our parents’ open door. “Why were you in there?”
“I go in there every night for a few minutes,” I admit with a bit of hesitation.
“You’re not moving in there.” He stands to his full six-foot two-inch height. His arms cross his wide chest. My ‘little brother’ outgrew me two years ago by several inches, and his sports participation has broadened his shoulders. He looks more and more like a man every day instead of the kid I’m so used to considering him. “You’re not fucking whatever asshole in Mom and Dad’s bed.”
My jaw drops. Heat creeps up my chest and neck with embarrassment and anger. “First off, I would never do that. Second, donotever speak to me like that again.”
“Or what?” He dares me with defiant, challenging eyes.
I want to be shocked. Part of me is. But for the last three weeks, my brother has been a holy terror. He’s pissed and angry about our parents. His normallylaid-back demeanor vanished the day they died.
“I don’t have the energy to deal with your attitude, Matt. Just go to bed.” I turn without giving him a chance to respond. It will only be more venom spewed. It will make me angry, and we will argue.
I don’t know how in the hell I’m supposed to handle him right now. What’s the correct way? How do I help him cope and grieve when I can’t even figure out how to do it myself?
I walk into my room, the same room, and the same bed from my childhood, and fall into the bed, praying sleep will find me quickly. It doesn’t. That might have been some sort of temporary reprieve from the shit life has handed me lately.
I know I sound bitter. The truth is,I am bitter. I’ve been bitter since the day I left NYC, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. The only good part of my life for the last few years is Tyler.
But my decision to have Tyler is what has inevitably changed my path and my life. I made a choice that I do not regret, but I wish things had gone differently with his father.
Ryder has no idea he exists. Not my fault. His mother handed me a check signed by him to ‘get it taken care of.’ Part of me didn’t believe it was real. Part of me still doesn’t believe it, but I couldn’t argue it was his signature at the bottom of the check for fifty thousand dollars. She shoved the check into my hands and told me to go.
I was shocked and devastated. Of all people, I never thoughthewould do that, and even though I shouldn’t, I feel guilty that, regardless of what his mother said he wanted, he doesn’t know I didn’t go through with it. He has no idea he has a son.
I wish I could say I didn’t cash the check. I did. I used it toget on my feet. I knew I couldn’t live with my parents again. I loved them dearly, but I’d been on my own for so long, I knew I couldn’t return to living under their rule. “My house, my rules,” my dad would always say.
Soon as I got into town, I found a tiny apartment and a job. I paid the deposit on my lease, got a few necessities, and set every penny aside that I could for when I would be forced on maternity leave. My parents helped too.
They shocked me with their support, but I shouldn’t have been. I did expect, at the very least, a weeklong lecture about responsibility. It never came, and now, I know why. My parents knew I was going to learn about responsibility very quickly. I didn’t need to hear it from them.
I look over at the clock on my nightstand. It’s midnight. Imustbe ready to leave at six. My appointment is at ten, but I’m allowing lots of time for New York traffic. If we get there early enough, I planto stopat my favorite coffee shop for chocolate croissants and espresso.
Finally, I drift off into a fitful sleep for a few hours. My alarm has me groaning. I grudgingly drag myself to the shower. In a zombie-like state, I clean myself, wash my hair, and then just stand under the spray for a few more minutes. In my closet, I struggle to find something appropriate to wear.
What do you wear to an attorney’s office to discuss your parents’ affairs? Probably something much nicer than I own. My wardrobe is okay, but Donna Karen, it is not.
With a sigh, I pull out a black pencil skirt that I’ve only worn twice. I start to reach for a button-down shirt, then decide against it. Why am I trying to look like something I’m not? This isn’t a job interview. Even if it were, wouldn’t they want to see the real me?
Instead of the button-down, I grab a black oversizedPink Floydvintage tee. I wrap a wide silver belt around my waist and pull fishnets up my legs. I grab a black pair of semi-chunky, four-inch, heeled ankle boots with buckles around the ankles and ribbons working up the side to accent the neon pink underlay.
I return to the bathroom to finish my look. Winged eyeliner around myemerald, greeneyes, my full lips painted red, and my red hair hangs down in loose curls down my back. Lawyer ready? Probably not, but this is me. All eclectic, eccentric with tattoos and piercings, and naturally red-haired me.
I make my way down the stairs quietly. Matt is still sleeping. He won’t wake for another half hour. I shoot off a quick text to Delilah, telling her I’m heading her way. I grab the keys to my ten-year-old Nissan, the one myparents bought when I graduated high school, and my purse, then I’m out the door.
Delilah only lives a few blocks from me, so it takes less than five minutes to get to her.
“Are you ready for this?” Delilah asks as we back out of her driveway.
I take a deep breath. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. It’s just one more thing in my life gone. Today will let the last month become more real than I ever wanted it to be.
