7. Ed
7
ED
W e ride the elevator to the lawyer’s office on the third floor. In the confined space, I’m so close to Avery that my fingers brush against her hip. It’s all I can do to stop myself from clasping her, from holding onto her and pulling her soft body toward mine.
Instead, I shuffle half a step away, not trusting myself not to touch her.
I’ve never felt like this around a woman before. But there’s something about Avery Monroe that has my blood thumping in my veins and has me wanting things I don’t deserve to have.
The elevator door opens and I step out quickly, needing to get away from her. Away from this inexplicable urge I have to touch her, to wipe her tears away and draw her to my chest. But I have no right to comfort her. I’m the man who got her brother killed. I have no right to ask for anything from this family.
Yet here I am, the stranger at the will reading. Shona, Jake’s mom, talks to me softly asking me how I’m doing. Her kindness goes straight to my heart. They’ve lost a son, and she’s worried about me.
I take my pad out because I owe her the courtesy.
I’m fine.
I’m doing okay.
She frowns at the words and nods quickly.
“Spoken like a true SEAL.”
She doesn’t believe the lie any more than her daughter does, but she has the good grace not to push me.
The lawyer comes in, and I wait for the family to take a seat up front. I remain standing at the back of the room, ready to leave as soon as my part is done with.
“Thank you all for coming.” He has a soft-spoken voice with the right amount of compassion in it. The lawyer goes through the motions, speaking about what we’re here for and what will happen.
My gaze rests on the back of Avery’s head. Her ponytail is as perky as ever, even as her shoulders slump.
The lawyer speaks about Jake’s last wishes, and Avery folds in on herself. Her shoulders heave up and down in little sobs.
Hell, I can’t watch her in pain like that. I pull a pack of tissues out of my pocket and move around to the side of her chair. I crouch next to her and offer the tissue in my hand.
She looks startled, and her emerald eyes find mine. They’re wide and wet from crying.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and she takes the tissue.
I stand up and go back to my position at the back of the room.
I shouldn’t be here with the family and their grief. As soon as my part is done, I’ll leave and let them have this moment alone.
“Now we come to the part where Jake divides his assets.” The lawyer looks at us before continuing.
“To Avery Monroe, I leave my investment portfolio.” Avery gives a startled gasp.
“I’ve got the details, and I’ll go over them with you once the will is read,” the Lawyer reassures her.
“To Shona and Donald Monroe, if they survive me, I leave my cash assets. If they are deceased, then these are divided between my remaining siblings.”
Shona wipes her hand across her eyes, and I bet she’s thinking she’d rather have her son back than his cash assets.
“To Amos Monroe, I leave my SUV and my military gear.”
I glance at Amos, but he shows no emotion. If he’s getting the military gear, what the hell am I here for?
“And to Edward Turner, I leave the property at number 34 Willis Road.”
I take a moment to process what the lawyer has said. All eyes in the room turn to stare at me, and the Monroe family looks as confused as I do.
Shona is the first to speak. “He’s left you his house, honey.”
His house. I remember Jake telling me about the property he bought a few years back. The house he was going to raise a family in, just as soon as he found a woman who would put up with him long enough to get married.
My chest aches. He’ll never get married now; he’ll never have that family.
I scribble on my notepad and hold it up to the lawyer.
It’s a mistake.
He shakes his head. “No mistake. The deeds to the property were released last week. I have them here ready to sign over to you.”
Why would he leave me his house?
“Son of a b…” Shona gives Amos a sharp look, and he doesn’t finish his sentence. He shakes his head slowly, looking at me. His gaze is intense, and I wonder if he wants the house. He can have it. I don’t want it, and I sure as hell don’t deserve it.
I scribble something on the pad and hold it up to Amos.
You can have the house.
He shakes his head. “Jake wanted you to have it. It’s yours.”
I pace at the back of the room. Why the hell would Jake leave me his house? Why not give it to his parents or his sister?
The lawyer is speaking with Avery about her newly acquired investment portfolio.
I’m supposed to stick around to sign over the deeds to the house, but it doesn’t feel right.
The house should go to his family, not to me.
I head out of the office, needing some air. I take the stairs rather than the elevator, needing the movement in my body. I come out into the fresh air and breathe in deeply.
“Mr. Turner.” I turn to find the lawyer jogging out of the building. He’s panting, and I feel bad for making him run.
“I have the deeds to your house here. I just need you to sign, then I’ll hand over the keys.”
I shake my head. I don’t deserve that house.
I pull out my notepad.
It should go to the family.
He reads my note and nods. “I understand it’s a surprise. But I have to execute the will according to the deceased’s wishes.”
Unless the family contests it.
He gives me a small smile. “The family isn’t going to contest it. Mr. Monroe left the property to you because he wanted you to have it. We don’t know his reasons, but it was his wish.”
I ruminate on his words. It was what Jake wanted. But why?
Was it pity?
There was a time when I worried people would pity me. I grew up in foster care and I never knew my parents, aside from a vague memory of my mom. But when I went into the Navy and became a SEAL, I left all that behind. As a SEAL, you’re judged by your actions and whether your team can rely on you. No one cares where you came from, and there’s no room for pity.
Jake got to know me when we went through BUD/s together. He knew me as a badass motherfucker, not someone to be pitied.
Except when we were deployed, and we had a chance to call home. He’d speak to his family back home, and I’d speak to no one. There was never anyone for me to call. Jake invited me back with him every damn time we had leave. I came twice. But I never belonged with his family, as nice as they are. I was an intruder.
So why has he left me his goddamn house?
“Look.” The lawyer’s expression softens. “If you want to contest it, you can. Or you could take the property and do with it what you will. Sell it to the family for a dollar if that makes you feel better. But my advice is, unless you have a sound reason not to, you should respect the wishes of the deceased.”
He’s right. Jake wanted this. I will never know why. But it was his wish.
I grunt once and hold up my fingers, miming signing.
The lawyer smiles, relieved I’m letting him do his job and not going to cause problems.
“If you come back to my office, we can sign the papers and I’ll hand over the key.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of number 34 Willis Road. It’s a two-story brick house, tall and thin with an attic window.
The grass out front is cut short. Someone’s been taking care of the place, and I bet it’s Jake’s parents. I spin around 180 degrees in time to watch the Monroes pull up into their driveway.
Jake is the only person I know who would buy a house directly opposite his parents. Most grown up kids want a little distance, but not Jake. Family was everything to him. I guess he was thinking of the days when he had a wife and kids and the support a military wife would need from his folks.
That was Jake, always thinking three steps ahead.
The white picket gate swings open, and I walk up the well-kept path. No blade of grass is out of place, and someone has cut the edges around the path with military precision. I’ll bet that’s the admiral’s work, keeping a tidy ship.
I hold the key in my palm, feeling the weight of it before sliding it into the lock.
The door opens without a creak, and I step into my new house. The place smells musty, as if it hasn’t been aired out in a while. There’s a stack of letters on the kitchen counter. But it’s clean.
The furniture is homey, IKEA couches and a wide screen TV on the wall.
Next to the TV is floor to ceiling shelving with ornaments, picture frames, and knickknacks.
One shelf contains books, and I finger the spines as I read the titles. The Guns of August, The Art of War, American Sniper . Jake loved reading about the military almost as much as he loved being in it.
A shiver runs down my spine. This was Jake’s house, the place he made into a home. The place he wanted to fill with a wife and kids.
I pull my hand away from the books, not wanting to disturb anything.
Even my footfalls on the wooden floor feel like an intrusion. I don’t belong here. This isn’t my space. It’s Jake’s.
I take the stairs to the second level. The carpet is soft under foot, and I pad into the primary bedroom.
A gray comforter covers the bed, and the pillow is fluffed, waiting for Jake to come home. By the bed is a nightstand with a worn copy of Bravo Two Zero, a bookmark left between the pages.
I back out of the room and bump into a table in the hallway. This all feels way too weird, too intrusive.
I close the door to his room. No matter if I decide to stay or not. There’s no way I’m sleeping in Jake’s room.
There are two other rooms on this level. One is a home gym. The other is a spare bedroom with the bed made up.
There’s always a bed for you at my place.
How many times had Jake said that to me? I thought it was a friendly gesture. I didn’t realize he was being literal. Did he keep this room made up just for me, or did he have other guests?
It still doesn’t feel right being here. None of it feels right.
J ake wanted you to have it. It’s yours. Amos’s word echo through my mind.
Jake left this for me. Did he know I’d need it? Did he know I’d be sleeping in a racoon-infested shack in the woods?
Was it pity, or was it an observant friend with a bigger heart than most?
He wanted me here, so I’ll stay for now. But it doesn’t feel right to sleep in any of the bedrooms on his good bedding. I take the narrow steps to the attic.
I push open the door, and a layer of dust swirls in the air. Shona’s cleaning activity didn’t make it up this far.
Storage boxes and sports gear fill the place. A pair of skis prop up against one corner, and a climbing rope and harness lie next to them.
I slide some boxes around, clearing space on the floor.
He stacked his camping gear in a corner, and I rummage through it until I find a camping mattress. This is a better place for me.
I unfold the camping mattress and clear a space for it on the floor. I’ll grab my sleeping bag and other belongings from the shack, and this will do me just fine.
It’s a warm place to stay until I can figure all this out. I’ll convince Shona and Donald to take the house, or Avery. I doubt Amos will want it. He’s probably already on his way back to base.
But this will do until I can figure out my next move.
I’ll give the house to the family, heal my jaw, and get the fuck out of here. I’ll do the speech therapy to keep my doctor and Avery happy. And I’ll ignore the way my dick stirs to life whenever Avery is around. I’ll bury those feelings down deep and stay away from Avery Monroe as much as possible.
I pull back the curtains of the window and peer out at my view.
Across the road is the Monroe house. From three stories up, I’m looking down at the garden, at the top of the magnolia tree out front and Shona’s rose bushes that provide splashes of bright color on the green lawn. My gaze moves up the house and to the rooms on the same level as me.
Their house is larger, a family home with three levels. My window looks straight across to one of the bedrooms. The wallpaper is a light mauve color and there are posters of bands and colorful pictures on the wall.
There’s movement in the room, and on instinct I crouch out of their line of vision. A person comes into view wrapped in a bath towel. Her shoulders are bare, and she has bunched her blond hair into a messy knot on top of her head. My breath hitches. I’m staring straight into the bedroom of Avery Monroe.