4. Ashlynn
4
ASHLYNN
Mrs Janice’s words weigh heavily on my mind as I leave the studio. The rational side of me recognizes that she’s right, but the thought of taking a break from ballet feels damning, like losing another piece of myself. Like I’m losing the only solid connection I have left to Mom.
But I have no time to dwell on it; I have to get to the lawyer’s office for the reading of the will.
On autopilot, I make my way over to where the town car is parked. Russ, my driver of almost five years, is leaning against the side door and watching me with a mixture of concern and sorrow. He straightens as I approach, places his hand on the door handle, and then pulls it open for me. He knows I am capable of opening the door myself; he just likes to be chivalrous.
It took him a year to agree to wait in the parking lot instead of waiting for me right in front of the building. Asking him to skip the door thing was asking for too much, so we compromised on that.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m seated in the back of the car, staring out the window as the city blurs by. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, a chaotic blend of legal worries and lingering grief. The Greenfield & Barrett Legal Group’s office building is just up ahead, but I can’t bring myself to face it head-on.
Even though this is just a formality — the reading of the will, that is — Aunt Bonnie told me I don’t have to worry about the legal stuff. Lord knows there’s a ton of that to sift through. After the accident, there was a huge settlement, several trusts, and other provisions put in place for Rose, Wynter, and myself, the three survivors. All paid for by the man who caused the accident. This was separate from the payouts Dad and Gilbert got for the deaths of their wives.
My stuff is all a plethora of legal jargon that Dad and Mr. Greenfield, our lawyer, handle. In his absence — there were a lot of those — Aunt Bonnie was the de facto executor of all of that. Counseling, Therapy, Chauffeurs, you name it, I’ve got it. She always told me not to worry about it and focus on ballet.
The thing is, I turn eighteen in a week. In the eyes of the law, I’ll be an adult. So, whether I like it or not, it all becomes my problem. And I have no clue what any of it means.
“Park in the lot, please,” I instruct Russ. I need a moment to collect myself before stepping into the storm.
We pull into the parking lot, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. I had hoped Russ would park a bit further away from the main entrance so the short walk could do me good, but no such luck. He pulls in and parks the town car in the first empty spot closest to the designated handicap parking.
That was another thing he and I had to compromise on. Legally, he could — for me — as part of the terms of the provisions in place for me. The problem is, it’s bad enough that I get chauffeured around like a prim little princess — something that often gives others the wrong impression about me — but since I’m not the one doing the actual driving, it seemed a bit like overkill to have to occupy a spot that someone else needs more than me.
Maybe this is a sign that I should learn how to drive. Who knows how much longer I’ll have Russ. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. It will be yet another painful milestone I’ll have to cross.
One thing at a time.
I take another deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. My fingers curl around the door handle.
“I’ll let myself out, and you can take the rest of the day off…” I say, but as I look up, the words die a swift death on my lips as my gaze lands on the last person I expected to see today, getting out of his car.
Gilbert McKenzie.
The years have been kind to him, but they’ve also left their mark. His dark brown hair is streaked with a few strands of gray. It suits him, makes him look more refined, more authoritative. Even from this distance, I can see the freckles that dust his nose and cheeks, a charming detail that softens his otherwise stern appearance. His skin is pale, almost alabaster, contrasting sharply with the dark stubble that lines his jaw.
He’s changed so much, but in ways that only add to his allure.
Seeing him stirs something deep inside me, emotions I’ve tried to bury for years. Attraction, yes, but also confusion and guilt. It’s wrong, I know it is.
In addition to this being an attraction I know I shouldn’t be entertaining, he’s also the last person I should be crushing on. I shouldn’t be feeling this way, not about him, not now. He was Rachel’s husband, a woman I respected and trusted. And now, here he is, a stark reminder of a not-so-distant past filled with unspoken feelings and unresolved tensions between our two families — courtesy of Everett Crane.
I lost my mother and my best friend. Gilbert lost his wife.
What does Dad do?
He goes on the fucking warpath. He sucker-punches Gilbert at the funeral. And as if that wasn’t enough, he outright forbade me from mentioning their names in his presence. He didn’t care that Rachel had been my ballet teacher for over a decade. No, it was more important for him to center his own grief and prioritize that above everyone else’s.
He would’ve gotten away with it too, until Aunt Bonnie knocked some sense into him. Once the dust settled, off he went, gallivanting the world doing who knows what, where. Leaving me all alone. Granted, I had ballet to keep me occupied and grounded, Aunt Bonnie, our housekeeper Mrs. Torres, Russ, therapists, counselors, and whatnot, so in Dad’s twisted mind, I was ‘taken care of’.
Yet, I couldn’t help but wonder what became of Gilbert. He pretty much disappeared off the face of the earth for the last five years. Mom and I spent a lot of time at their house back then — I practically lived there — and he was never home. Rachel said he worked overseas a lot and that it wasn’t unusual for him to be gone for months at a time, sometimes for years. It would seem he’s back now, but for how long?
My heart races as I watch him walk towards the building, moving with a confident, almost predatory grace. A conflicting mix of longing and guilt swirls inside me, emotions I have no business feeling.
I remain in the town car until he disappears into the building. My pulse is pounding, and my thoughts are in turmoil. I want to go after him, talk to him, and see if he remembers me. But why should he? Rachel had hundreds of students, and she and Gilbert led separate lives. He traveled a lot.
Like then, Gilbert is a mystery to me. It would be best if he stayed that way.
The door handle slips from my grasp, and a cool breeze hits my face.
“I’ll wait,” Russ’s voice cuts through my haze.
He offers me his hand, and I take it. Most of the time I fight him on it, but not today. Seeing Gilbert has thrown me off kilter.
“You don’t have to stay. Aunt Bonnie will take me home after.”
“If I didn’t know any better,” he hands me my purse, “I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”
“I am,” I deadpan. “What’s wrong with taking off early?”
His hearty chuckle fills the space between us. “Then I’ll be bored, and I don’t do so well with boredom,” he says. “I’m still taking you both home afterward.”
One has to admire his work ethic. The trust pays him, regardless of how much driving he actually does. He takes his job seriously and drives me everywhere, even to out-of-state dance competitions. Sometimes he’d fly with me and handle car rentals and hotel reservations. Aunt Bonnie joins us when she can, but it’s clear that she trusts him to take care of me. I often tell him that just because I have no life doesn’t mean he shouldn’t have one. But all he does is chuckle in that knowing manner of his, like he’s doing now.
I trust him. As far as scary milestones go, I can trust him with this one.
“Umm, Russ…” I say, my feet rooted in place, my fingers nervously clutching the strap of my leather purse. “One of these days, do you think you could… teach me how to drive?”
He’s silent for a beat, then, “I thought you would never ask.”
By the time I arrive at Willard Greenfield’s office, everyone is waiting for me.
Including Gilbert McKenzie.
I pause and do a double-take. He’s sitting across from Mr. Greenfield and looking oddly calm. His hands folded neatly across his chest, his face a blank mask, showing no signs of objection or surprise.
No, the surprised one would be me.
When I saw him outside a few minutes ago, it didn’t occur to me to wonder why he would be visiting the offices of Greenfield & Barrett Legal Group on a Sunday morning. I just assumed he was there to see any of the other lawyers who work in this building, just not this one.
I can count, on one hand, the number of times I have been in this room. Today makes number three. For a name partner, his office is a cramped space, filled with the smell of stale coffee and the musty scent of old paper. The air is thick and stagnant, and the cluttered desk in the corner is a testament to Mr. Greenfield’s disorganized yet somehow functional chaos. For someone whose name implies a love of Mother Earth, his office is anything but — papers are pilled high, files are scattered everywhere, and a lone mug with cold coffee sits precariously on the edge of the desk.
Under normal circumstances, my mind doesn’t do well with chaos. Nor does my body do well with coffee. There’s a reason why I prefer to spend as little time as possible in his presence.
Aunt Bonnie gives me a small smile as she pats the space beside her on the couch. I walk over to join her, each step is heavy, each movement forced. She drapes an arm over my shoulder and pulls me into her side. I take the comfort she offers, my nerves fraying at the edges as I wait for Mr. Greenfield to begin.
Mr. Greenfield clears his throat and begins to read the will. His voice is a dull drone, and I struggle to focus. It’s all legal jargon, most of it is things I expected. Dad left the bulk of his estate to me, with Aunt Bonnie as the designated executor until I turned eighteen. That happens in a week, so that’s kinda moot. Likewise, Aunt Bonnie remains the de facto executor of my other stuff until I turn twenty-two. It’s pretty much the same arrangement that has been in place all this time.
So why is Gilbert here?
I steal a glance in his direction, and he appears to be just as puzzled as I am. Granted, Mr. Greenfield handled the lawsuit against the man who caused the accident, and he represented all of us, dead and alive. But that was then, and this is now. As far as I am concerned, that lawsuit and Dad’s will are mutually exclusive.
“This next part is a bit unusual,” Mr. Greenfield says, drawing my attention back to the present. “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, Gilbert.”
“I’m wondering the same thing, too,” I blurt out.
“Well, it has to do with Hannah Crane’s original last will and testament,” he adds.
My heart skips a bit. “What about it?”
“Your mother never expected your father to outlive her, so she named the McKenzies as your legal guardians in the event of her death.”
Aunt Bonnie gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but I’m not feeling it. Instead, I feel like the ground has been yanked out from under me.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “It can’t be. There has to be some mistake.”
He looks at me with a mix of sympathy and resolve. “Your mother was very clear in her wishes, and since your father never got around to signing the paperwork amending them, your mother’s will on legal guardianship takes precedent as it was prepared ten years ago. As it stands, Miss Walsh will manage the estate, and Mr. McKenzie will act as your legal guardian.”
“For a week,” I whisper, blood rushing to my ears.
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.”
This cannot be happening.
I stand up, my mind a whirlwind of emotions — mostly confusion, anger and grief too — so I aim all of it in the direction of the deliverer of this news.
“I turn eighteen in a week, so what difference does it make who my legal guardian is?—”
“Ashlynn,” Mr. Greenfield interrupts gently. “It’s not that simple, and you know it. I know this is difficult to understand, but your mother trusted both of them with this responsibility. She believed it was in your best interest, and Miss Walsh agreed.”
A surge of anger and betrayal wells up inside me as I turn to face her. “You and I both know that Mom probably intended to name just Rachel, but they died together. And we all know that Dad hated him, so it makes zero sense that he never amended Mom’s will,” my eyes narrow precariously, “unless you had something to do with it. Is that why aren’t you fighting it? Am I that much of a burden that you’re ready to pawn me off to the next available person? Why do I have to be stuck with him ?”
“Lynn…” she reaches for my hand, but I swat her off.
Gilbert remains frozen in his seat. His stormy blue-gray eyes are trained on me, filled with a depth that seems to pierce through everything and everyone. They hold a determination that is both intimidating and mesmerizing. But it’s the grief-stricken look on his face — the one he’s trying so hard to mask — that gets me.
Still, my heart skips a beat, and I hate myself for it.
Without another word, I turn and flee from the room, my heart pounding in my chest. I need to get away from all of them, to clear my head. Tears blur my vision as I burst out of the building, the cold air biting at my skin as I run towards the town car.
Russ is standing by the rear door, holding it open for me. I practically throw myself onto the back seat with my legs hanging out of the car. Gently, he props my body up into a seating position, pulls off my flats, and tucks my feet into a bucket of ice-cold water that definitely wasn’t there when we drove here.
“Janice called,” is all he says.
Did I mention that Russ has medical training, too?
Cuts, aches, bruises, scrapes — he’s seen them all and tends to them when I am too stubborn to do so myself. I nod in appreciation, the knot in my throat makes it difficult to speak. I love ballet too much to fight him on the first aid that comes with it.
I am not sure who or what I am more angry at. Myself, for blurting out the first thing that came to mind. Aunt Bonnie, for not speaking up sooner. Dad, for up and dying on me. Or Gilbert…
How am I supposed to face him now, after what I said? How am I supposed to endure this new reality?
Is this what Aunt Bonnie means when she says I don’t throw tantrums like other normal teenagers?
If that’s the case, this sucks.