Chapter 10
Harper
I shot to my feet as Bas came out of the office like his ass was on fire. Without pausing, he reached for my hand and tugged me with him as he left the building. Outside on the street, he headed straight for the truck without a word.
I let him help me into my seat and sat silently as he rounded the hood and got in the driver’s seat.
Once he’d sat down, he didn’t move, so I didn’t either. His eyes were vague as he stared out the windshield. After a few moments, he set a key ring and a stack of papers on the seat between us.
“Noho’s?” he asked. “Shit. It’s still early. Doubt they’re open yet.”
“Are you hungry?” I asked. It wasn’t what I wanted to ask, but I figured he’d tell me what the lawyer said eventually. Or, he never would. That was up to him.
“That guy was talkin’ about Ms. Macintosh, Ms. Macintosh, Ms. Macintosh, then he tried to act like they were best friends or some shit. Bernice couldn’t stand her last name, and he woulda known that if he knew her so well.”
“Okay,” I replied, not really sure what the correct response was. He clearly wasn’t upset about the lawyer’s use of his foster mom’s last name, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to point that out.
“She left me everythin’,” Bas said dully. “Every fuckin’ thing.”
“What does that mean?”
“House. Car. Money. Everythin’. Fuckin’ dishes, furniture, tools, shampoo. Her entire life. Everythin’.”
“Holy shit, Bas,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure what his foster mom’s finances had been, but if she left him an entire fucking house, that was big. Club members made good money, enough to raise a family on—but this was a windfall.
“So now, what?” he barked. “I gotta go to the house? Go through it all? I thought she was leavin’ me some pictures of me as a kid or somethin’.”
His chest was rising and falling like a bellows, but I wasn’t sure he was actually pulling in any air. The tendons in his neck were tight and visible, and his hands were gripping the steering wheel like he was afraid it was going to fly away—or he was.
“Hey,” I called softly, putting his stack of things on the dash so I could scoot across the seat. “It’s all manageable.”
Putting one hand on his chest, I wrapped the other around the back of his neck. “We don’t have to deal with it today. It’ll still be there next week, right? Look at me.”
When his face turned toward mine, I had to hold back a gasp. His eyes were red-rimmed and dark. He wasn’t crying, but it might’ve helped if he was. The pain in his eyes was heartbreaking. I felt my own eyes start to sting.
“We don’t have to deal with any of this today,” I repeated softly as he tugged me onto his lap. Cupping his face in my hands, I pressed my forehead to his.
“She’s dead,” he rasped, his voice catching. “She’s actually fuckin’ dead.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, running my thumbs over the hollows beneath his cheeks.
“I thought—” He scoffed quietly. “I guess I didn’t really believe it. Figured I’d get up here and it would be some kind of misunderstandin’. She left me everythin’.”
“You were her son,” I reminded him. “Of course she did.”
“She had other foster sons,” he replied. “Quite a few over the years, but two that lived there the last couple of years I did.”
“Yeah?”
“Arlo and Mateo,” he said. “Arlo was my age. Mateo’s one year younger.”
“You didn’t tell me you had brothers.”
“They—I didn’t talk to them after we left.”
“We?” I asked, leaning back a little to meet his eyes. “All of you left at the same time?”
Bas nodded once, but he didn’t explain.
“She didn’t leave them anything?”
“Some money, I think,” he replied. He glanced to the side. “We should get off the street.” Putting his hands on my hips, he urged me back to my seat. When I was seated again and buckled up, he let out a hollow laugh. “Not sure where to go.”
“Do you want to head home?”
“No, I told you I’d take you to the restaurant.”
“We can go a different time,” I assured him. “Let’s just get something later.”
“We’re here now,” he said stubbornly.
I watched the emotions move over his face as he stared at the dash.
“You want to show me your house?” I asked after a moment. “We’re here now.”
He turned his head to look at me, his gaze soft, then nodded.
We were silent as he drove through town, not hesitating for a minute as he navigated one-way streets and traffic. Eventually, we pulled up in front of a little yellow house with a detached garage. He’d remembered exactly how to get there.
“This is it?” I asked as he parked on the street.
“Yeah. It looks smaller from the outside.”
He didn’t move once he’d shut off the engine, so I took my time looking at the house.
There was a cement pathway that led all the way to the sidewalk.
On each side was a strip of dirt that I imagined had flowers in the spring and summer.
The tiny porch was barely big enough for two people to stand on.
There was a white storm door hiding the front door, and on the large glass window beside it was some kind of window cling in the shape of a sun.
Everything was painted a cheery yellow with white trim.
It was simple but clearly well taken care of.
“Do you want to go in?” I asked after we’d been parked for almost ten minutes.
“I probably should,” he replied, reaching for the keys still sitting on the dash. “Come with me?”
“Of course.”
I followed him to the house silently, trying to imagine him running up the walkway as a child, backpack bouncing and shoes untied. This was his family home, the place where he’d felt safe and welcome—until, for whatever reason, he no longer had.
I followed him as he slowly stepped inside the house. Beneath the big window that faced the street was a small sofa. Next to it was a floral recliner. A TV sat opposite on a short hutch. The air was stale, and there were dust motes floating in the light, but everything was tidy and clean.
“The couch is new,” Bas said as he moved further into the house.
There were photos on the wall, but I didn’t have a chance to pause and look at them as I followed the man in front of me.
“Same kitchen table. Same planter in the window. Same fuckin’ microwave,” he listed off, his tone growing harder with each word. “Same mail holder.” He pointed to the wall. “Same clock. All of it is the same.”
“That pisses you off?” I asked tentatively.
“She left me all this fuckin’ money, and she was still usin’ the same goddamn microwave as when I was a kid?” he asked, his voice rising.
“Maybe she liked that microwave,” I replied.
I’d never seen Bas like this before. He was easygoing. Hard to rattle. Even when he was angry, it had always been a quiet anger.
Turning, he strode down the short hallway, shoving doors wide as he passed them.
“New shower curtain,” he said sharply. “At least that’s somethin’.”
He passed the door on the left but opened the next one. Inside was an old-fashioned queen bedframe with no mattress and a short, wide dresser with dark purple bedding folded on top.
In the next room, he shoved the door even harder, making it bang against the wall, but he was silent as he paused in the doorway.
Inside the room was a set of bunk beds and another twin bed across from them.
The comforters were all the same but different colors: one gray, one blue, one green.
The dresser between them beneath the window held a lamp and three empty mason jars with something written on the sides of them.
There was a football set against the pillow on the bottom bunk.
I couldn’t see much of the top bunk from where I was standing, but the twin bed had a faded gray teddy bear tucked into the corner near the headboard.
“What the fuck,” Bas whispered.
He lifted his arm like he was going to hit the side of his fist against the door, but my hand on his back stopped him mid-movement.
“Was this your room?” I asked quietly.
“Yeah,” he choked out, pointing to the twin bed.
“You wanna go in?”
“Fuck, no,” he said quickly.
“All right.” I rubbed his back, slipping my hand under his cut.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, spinning toward me.
Ushering me backward, he crowded me into the hallway and then back toward the kitchen. When we got there, he moved to the back door and checked the lock while I wandered toward the counter.
On top, beneath a little dish, was a note.
My heart started to pound as I read it.
Sebastian,
It wasn’t your fault. I love you.
~Mom
“Bas,” I called cautiously. “You might want to—”
He came up behind me. “Leave it,” he ordered flatly.
“It’s for you,” I argued, turning toward him.
“Come on, let’s go,” he ordered, leaving me behind as he walked toward the front door.
I nearly pocketed the note for him but decided against it. He’d have to come back to the house at some point—he could deal with whatever it meant then.
The walk back to the truck was silent.
“You wanna check if Noho’s is open yet?” he asked once we were inside and he’d started the engine.
“No,” I replied. The thought of eating anything after the emotional upheaval of the last hour made me vaguely nauseous. “Let’s just head home.”
With a nod, he pulled out onto the street.
The houses in the neighborhood were all small, clearly built in the last century, and well kept.
Old-growth oak trees peppered the front yards, their leaves spreading out onto the sidewalks.
Windchimes blew on small front porches, and children’s toys sat abandoned next to garages.
It was idyllic. Add in a few vintage cars, and it could’ve been a neighborhood from any period in the last fifty years.