Chapter 20
ADAM
Until that morning, I had never seen an elementary school with its parking lot at full capacity, or I forgot what a madhouse it could be.
The traffic pattern was a disaster, a double-helix of minivans and SUVs, each jostling for a spot while the drivers displayed the cutthroat exchanges of drop-off warfare.
I circled three times before giving up and parking half on the curb, a move that, judging by the row of other offenders, was both common and tacitly sanctioned by the school’s administration.
If I was wrong, I’d eat the ticket, we had an appointment to meet someone.
“We’re late,” Joey declared, unbuckling herself before the engine had even rattled to a stop.
“We’re not late. We have—” Andi glanced at the dashboard clock. “—seven minutes.”
I herded the girls across the parking lot, past a churning sea of parents, children, and overworked teachers in neon safety vests.
Joey charged ahead with the momentum of a cruise missile, already scanning the crowd for potential friends or enemies, while Andi clung to my hand as though I might vanish if she loosened her grip.
The school itself was a two-story red brick building, with a gleaming glass entryway that somehow managed to look both institutional and inviting.
The flagpole out front stood as straight as an exclamation point, casting a skinny shadow across the blacktop.
A woman with a clipboard intercepted us immediately in the front vestibule, her laminated badge hanging from a lanyard adorned with smiley faces. “Mr. Knight?”
“Hi.”
“Hi, I’m Ms. Nelson, we spoke on the phone last week.” She greeted the girls by name. “And this is Andi and Joey.”
“I’m Joey, and this is Andi,” Joey corrected her when she called the girls by the wrong name.
“Sorry about that. I’m sure that happens all the time.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Joey stated plainly.
She wasn’t being rude, but it really didn’t. The girls were identical, but their personalities were so different that the way they spoke, walked, carried themselves, and even looked was actually different. No one seemed to have trouble telling them apart once they were introduced.
“Okay, well, let’s give you all a tour of the school, and then we’ll bring you to Mrs. McDonald’s class. How does that sound?”
“Great!” Joey enthused.
Andi just held onto my hand for dear life. The tour was fairly painless, cafeteria, art room, library, music room, playground, nurse’s office, and soon we were at Mrs. McDonald’s classroom.
“Alright girls, this is it, room 110, with the blue bunny on the door. Mrs. McDonald is your teacher. We can leave Dad here and I will go in and introduce you to the class.”
Ms. Nelson opened the door, and Joey headed straight inside without so much as a goodbye, but Andi hadn’t let go of my hand.
I crouched beside her. “I’ll be back to pick you up after school is over, and if you need me before then, just tell the teacher and they can call me. They have my number. But Joey will be with you. Okay?”
They had tried to talk me into splitting them up, apparently some research showed it could be beneficial for multiples’ social skills to be in separate classes.
I thought they’d had enough big changes in their lives, and getting to stay together in the same class would be the best for them.
I insisted on them having the same class.
I was happy to see that one of my first parenting decisions, which had been a gut instinct I’d made on day four after finding out I had them, seemed to be right. At least for now.
Andi nodded, but her eyes darted back and forth, taking stock of every possible escape route.
Meanwhile, Joey had already joined a group of girls, one of whom was carrying a glittery backpack shaped like a unicorn.
She blended in instantly, a fact that filled me with pride, and also made me hope she looked out for her sister.
“You got this,” I encouraged Andi.
Her bottom lip quivered, but she let go of my hand and walked in. Everything inside of me wanted to go inside that classroom, pick her up, leave, and tell her she didn’t need to go to school. But I knew that wasn’t the right thing for her.
Was being a parent just sitting on the sidelines wanting to jump in and save your kids and not being able to? Because if that was the case, it really sucked.
I left the school with a pit in my stomach, and it was still there when I pulled up to the law offices of Watkins, Price, and Lee, which were located in a glass-and-steel monstrosity in the heart of downtown.
The lobby had a faux river running through it, complete with koi that looked half-dead and plastic ferns sprouting from the rocks.
I gave my name at the security desk and was sent up to the thirty-first floor, where I was greeted by a receptionist with bone-white hair and the deadest eyes I had ever seen outside of a morgue.
“Mr. Knight,” she said, handing me a visitor’s badge. “You can have a seat. Mr. Watkins is running a few minutes behind.”
I sat down on a leather sofa so expensive it felt like an insult to humanity.
The entire wall behind the receptionist was a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the city.
The sun reflected off the towers and construction cranes, and for a moment, I imagined myself as a kid again, standing in this exact building and trailing behind my old man, who reeked of cigarettes.
For some reason, that’s what I associated with this building, him smoking.
I’d been dragged along to so many meetings here after my mom took off before he deemed me old enough to be left alone, which was at age eight.
I’d hated coming here when I was a kid, and I couldn’t say I was a huge fan now. Finally, the receptionist’s phone lit up, and she nodded. “You can go in. End of the hall, on the right.”
The wait felt like an eternity but was only about ten minutes.
“I remember, thanks.”
The office was cluttered in an organized way, as if every stack of paper and family photo had been arranged for maximum credibility.
Behind the desk sat Wilson Watkins, Esq.
, the same man who had handled my father’s affairs since the dawn of time, only now a little smaller and a little grayer and a little balder.
His suit looked as if it had never known a wrinkle.
“Adam!” he boomed as he stood. “It’s good to see you, son.” He shook my hand with both of his, the grip firm and warm.
“You too, Mr. Watkins,” I lied, not seeing any reason to be rude and tell him how I truly felt.
I couldn’t remember specifically why I didn’t like the man, maybe it was just because he was, well…my father’s lawyer. Guilty by association. It didn’t mean I needed to be a dick when he was just doing his job now.
“Wilson, please. I’ve known you since you were swimmin’ in your daddy’s balls, I think we can be on a first name basis.”
There it was. Now I remembered why I didn’t like him.
Inappropriate jokes. If they were just off-color, that would be fine, it was the ones he’d made about women that used to really piss me off.
Even as a kid I remembered how uncomfortable he used to make women feel.
How this man hadn’t been “Me Too’d” and gotten his practice taken away was either a mystery, or he had friends with money.
If I were a betting man, I would guess it was the latter, sleazebags with deep pockets and influence.
He gestured for me to sit. “I only wish we were meeting under happier circumstances.”
“Thank you for handling everything with the funeral.” Even though I didn’t have a relationship with my father and considered this guy a disgusting excuse of a man, I still felt guilty for not returning to handle the situation myself and for leaving the logistics to his lawyer. “I appreciate it.”
“Your father was one of a kind.” Wilson teared up, then wiped his finger and thumb beneath his glasses and sniffed away his emotion as he blinked. “Looky there, my eyes are sweatin’.” He shook his head and straightened his posture. “I imagine you want to get straight to the point.”
“Sure.”
“Good news, there are no current wives or surprise heirs.” He opened a blue folder on the desk and smoothed the pages. “Now when it comes to your inheritance and trust, the last time your father revised his will was twenty years ago.” He arched an eyebrow for emphasis.
“Right.”
Watkins steepled his hands. “Let’s start with the house. That’s yours outright. No conditions. The deed is already being transferred to your name. But it has some back property taxes due, and the city will be foreclosing on it if you can’t come up with those.”
“Property taxes?”
“The last few years of his life, your father wasn’t the most frugal with his estate. He was a romantic at heart, and the women he allowed into his life, well, they bled him dry. Which is why the condition of your trust and inheritance is so interesting to me.”
“I have to be married to collect it.”
“He told you about that?” He looked surprised.
I overheard. “I’m aware.”
“Are you also aware that both the trust and inheritance are contingent on you being married for a minimum of ninety days? After that period, the funds become available to you without restriction, and the amount that is in them.” He pulled a sheet from the folder and slid it across the desk. “Your father invested wisely.”
“Only ninety days?” I wasn’t aware of that, no.
I looked down at that paper, and holy shit… no, I hadn’t been aware of the amount. That was a lot of zeros. A. Lot. It was amazing what millions of dollars invested wisely could generate in interest, dividends, and capital gains.
If I had access to this money, I could pay the back property taxes, I could reimburse Maddox, Alex, and Nick, and restore the house. And most importantly, the girls would be financially secure for the rest of their lives. Their education, health insurance, their future, everything.
Watkins pulled another paper from a different folder and slid it across the desk. “You can see it in your father’s own handwriting. He was very insistent.”
I read the print, my eyes catching on the words: “In the event of my son’s marriage, a period of no less than ninety (90) days must elapse before the trust and/or inheritance assets are distributed given he is thirty years of age or older.”
It was insane actually seeing the terms in writing. In my father’s handwriting.
“Well, I’m not married, and I’m not going to get married, but is there any way I can have access to those funds just so I don’t lose the house? I didn’t accrue that debt, he did. Are there any loopholes?”
Watkins stared at me for several seconds, deciding whether or not he wanted to help me. “Let me see what I can do and get back to you.”
I stood and shook his hand. “Thank you for your time.”
As I left the office, Billie’s offer came back to me, the agreement we’d made on the night of my dad’s wedding.
“If you ever need the money, then I will marry you.”
No. No. Absolutely not. Our relationship was fucked up enough without adding that layer of complication to it. If Billie and I ever said, “I do,” it had to be because she wanted me to be her husband, forever. Not to make me a billionaire.