Bradley (Foxy’s Rent-A-Date #7)

1. Bradley

Bradley

T he rain hasn’t stopped all morning. Thick clouds hang low like mourning veils across the sky, casting everything in a gray haze.

The muddy ground pulls at my shoes as I stand alone at the edge of the open grave, hands clenched at my sides, shoulders slumped under the weight of my soaked black suit and the heavier burden of finality.

There are no words left to say. No one left to say them to.

My grandmother— Nana —is gone. The only real parent I’ve ever had. Since I was ten, she’s been my home, my warmth, my world. My mother and father when I didn’t have them. Now, she’s a lifeless shell in a casket being slowly lowered into the earth.

The others who came to celebrate her life—neighbors, old church friends, a few people from the senior center where she used to knit—have already left. Life, for them, continues to move on. But for me, time stands still.

I can still remember the day she came and collected me from James’s house. His parents took me in until she could arrive after my parents died. Fatal head-on car accident. All because they were coming to pick me up.

Nana was all I had left. She was an only child, and her parents had passed away long before.

My mother was her only child, and my father was raised in foster care.

There was no one else. One horrific accident left me broken and abandoned.

Their death was my fault. If I hadn’t begged to go to the sleepover, ?they wouldn’t have been on the road. They’d still be alive.

The air around me blankets me with a cold, wet silence.

Raindrops trace cool paths down my face, some indistinguishable from my tears.

But I don’t flinch. I don’t try to wipe them away.

I don’t care that I could catch pneumonia from standing out here in the chilling rain.

Nothing matters at this moment but my grief. My loss.

The soft rustle of fabric beside me breaks the quiet, pulling me from my stroll down memory lane. A throat clears as someone steps up beside me, lifting a black umbrella over my head, protecting me from the rain.

“Wyatt, when you’re ready,” the voice is measured, kind. Warmer than the rain. “I need you to come by the office so we can discuss your grandmother’s estate.”

Frank Needleman. My grandmother's lawyer. A man who has always spoken with a calm, reliable tone. But today, there’s something else mixed in with it. Grief, maybe. Dread, perhaps. Lawyers never have anything good to tell you. Not unless they’ve just got you cleared from a murder charge.

I lift my head, turning to look at Frank, meeting eyes that quickly glance away, as if they can’t hold the weight of what’s coming.

“It’s Bradley.” I've always gone by my middle name. My father's. “I can go now,” I say hoarsely. “If you have time.” I shake my head. No, not his office. I'm drained. “Can we do this at my grandmother's home?”

Frank nods solemnly. “I’ll meet you there. I just need to run by the office real quick.”

He reaches out, taking my hand in his, shaking it. “Your grandmother will be missed. She was an amazing woman with the biggest heart. I'm so sorry for your loss.” Then he’s gone, the umbrella barely shielding him as he walks off toward his car, leaving me in the rain again.

Alone.

It's then I drop to the ground, my knees digging into the wet earth beneath them as I break down, letting out everything I've been holding in.

Even after saying my final farewells at her gravesite, I still beat Frank to my grandmother's house. Pulling into the gravel driveway, I sit in my car staring at the porch for a long moment, that endless feeling of dread tightening in my chest.

My eyes drift to the wooden swing that's been hanging there for as long as I can remember.

I still remember our last conversation sitting in it early one morning, coffee in each of our hands.

She was trying to convince me to go back to school, to finish what I started.

She didn't want me to feel like I was coming home to care for her and was keeping me from achieving my dreams.

Now, as I gaze upon the house, it feels like it belongs to someone else. A shell of a home left behind with no heart. No soul. A container for memories of a happier time.

I haven’t stepped foot inside since she passed away a week ago, when her body was rolled out inside a black bag. I can’t bear it. Can’t face it.

Still, I know I have to go in there and face the emptiness. Killing the engine, I force myself out of the car and into the rain, gripping the keys in my hand, jaw tight, body shivering, and make my way onto the porch.

My fingers fumble with the key as I slide it into the lock, opening the door. Inside, it's quiet. Too quiet.

I hate it.

Closing the door behind me, I drop my keys into the old wicker basket by the door. My eyes catch on the glass jar still filled with butterscotch candies—her favorite. The ones she would always sneak into my hand when I was upset, or just because.

Old people candy. It's what I always called it. I can still hear her laugh, jovial and full of life when I would call them that.

A smile ghosts across my face before vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

The smell of jasmine perfume still lingers faintly in the air.

Everywhere I look, I'm reminded of her. The pain growing inside me with each memory. Another fracture weaving its way through my heart.

I've barely taken off my soaked jacket, hanging it on the hook, loosening the tie choking my throat, when there's a knock at the door.

Sighing heavily, I grip the handle, turn the knob, and lock eyes with my visitor.

Frank stands on the porch, his face heavy with fatigue.

When our eyes meet, it's clear—he hates what he's about to say. And I'm sure I'm going to as well. I don’t know why I do; maybe it’s this nagging feeling deep in my gut. One that feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of me as if I was in an alien movie.

“Mr. Needleman,” I greet him solemnly.

“Frank,” he corrects me softly. “Please.”

“Come in.” I step aside, gesturing with my arm for him to enter. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” he clears his throat. “Shall we begin?” Straight to the point. Maybe he hates being in this house as much as I do without my grandmother.

“Let’s get this over with.” I shut the door then head to the living room, Frank's footsteps sounding on the wood floor behind me.

We make our way into the living room. I pass the couch, my eyes landing on the cushion still slightly sunken where Nana used to sit. Her afghan folded neatly on the armrest, untouched.

I can't sit there. Instead, I lower down into the chair, Frank taking the one on the other side of me.

Frank pulls a manila folder from his briefcase and opens it with deliberate slowness.

“Your grandmother had a will. She loved you very much, Wy… Bradley, and she left the house to you.”

I nod. Of course she did. There was no one else. My mother—her only child—died years ago. Her husband, my grandfather, had passed away long before that. I was all that was left.

“But I have bad news,” Frank says gently, like a doctor trying to tell you a life ending diagnosis. “She owes a significant amount in back taxes. And she took out two additional mortgages on the house.”

My heart stops. What the hell is he talking about? She would never have done something like that. Not without telling me.

“What?” The word flies out, sharp and breathless.

“She’s been steadily falling into debt. After your parents’ accident…,” he pauses. “She paid for everything out of her savings. There was no life insurance. From there, it... spiraled. The mortgages were taken out to pay for your schooling.”

I stare at Frank, numb. Confused. Heartbroken from what she did for me. She never told me and if she hadn't died, I doubt that she would have.

“But... her life insurance should’ve covered the taxes.”

Frank winces. “She couldn’t keep up with the premium. She let it lapse. Six years ago. There is no life insurance.”

The room begins to swim with the overload of information. I run a hand through my wet hair, leaning forward, placing my elbows on my knees.

“She did cover her funeral. And the plot. Everything else, though...”

“How long?” I ask in desperation, barely above a whisper. “How long before I lose the house?”

“Thirty days to cover the taxes,” Frank says. “The bank has agreed to an extension—sixty days before foreclosure proceedings begin.”

“How much?” I ask, needing to know how bad the situation really is.

He clears his throat. “The back taxes are twenty-three thousand…”

At the amount I blank out, not hearing the rest of what he says. He hands me a paper, and I can see the numbers on it he just quoted. I nod slowly, trying to absorb it. This can't be happening.

“I wish I had better news,” Frank says again, quieter.

“Thank you.” My voice cracks, raw with emotion.

We sit in silence for a moment. Me processing everything I've been told and Frank allowing me the time to do it without pushing for more.

“Let me show you to the door.” I stand, leading Frank out of the room toward the front door.

He shakes my hand one last time before stepping out the door, pausing mid-step to look back at me. “If you need me for anything, don't hesitate to call.”

“I won't. Thank you again.”

Frank smiles, one not of joy but out of sorrow, and steps off the porch, rushing to his car.

I stand there watching him leave before shutting the door. Locking it. Feeling the cold wood beneath my hands.

Then I punch it.

The pain shoots through my hand like electricity through a wire.

I scream in rage, backing away, clutching my fist. The pain is sharp and real.

The impact leaves a dull throb beneath my skin; growing heavier by the second, radiating up my wrist in jagged waves, reminding me of what I just did.

I deserve it for doing something so stupid.

Glancing down at my hand, I already see my knuckles starting to swell, the skin covering them already split open. Blood trickles down my fingers, mixing with the redness where my hand contacted the wood.

Every finger feels stiff as I try to flex them. My skin is already showing faint hints of bruising—a sickly mix of purple and red blooming beneath the surface. I head into the kitchen and grab a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, pressing it against my reddened knuckles.

Leaning against the counter, the cold seeping into not only my hand but my bones, I let the silence wrap around me.

“Why Nana? I could’ve found a way to pay for school. I could've waited to go,” I ask, letting my head fall back, knowing she can't answer.

I can't lose this house. It's the only thing I have left of her. Of my mom.

What the fuck am I going to do?