6. Aspen
Chapter six
Aspen
“ W hat the nuts is going on down here?”
I woke up to an extraordinary amount of clanging, banging, grunts, and curses. It sounded a lot like me in the backyard yesterday. I threw on my possum T-shirt and a pair of jeans and went flying down the stairs, only to find Rick literally ripping apart the house.
Off to the left in the living room is a giant pile of stuff—statues, artwork, end tables, a couch shoved onto its side. The giant pile of stuff is so big that it looks like a mountain.
Rick drags a huge vase across the room and adds it to the pile. His grin is enough to straight-up give me a whole-body brain freeze. It’s so chilling. It’s not a nice grin. It’s all teeth and feral bite. He looks like a mean old dog who has never been gentled by soft pets or affection of any kind.
He does answer me though. “Remodeling.”
“Oh.” I suppose I can accept that. And if he didn’t look ninety percent feral, I could doubly accept it.
I stand on the far side of the room and watch him as he grabs the loveseat that matches the couch and heaves it up so it doesn’t scrape along the floor. I can’t imagine how heavy that thing is. It looks like it has some serious weight, and he lifts it like it’s nothing.
I can see the dark patches on his shirt after he gets it over to the pile and turns it onto its side like the couch so that it takes up less room. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead and roll down his temples. The dark smudges under his eyes don’t look fresh. They look like they might have been there for a while. As in more than a few sleepless nights.
I’m surly when I don’t sleep too.
I get that the backyard is a sore spot, but Rick seems genuinely excited about the pool. It’s like a fire was lit under him yesterday. After I showered, I took one of his cars out to get groceries. He insisted that I return the rental and stay with him since wasting money I don’t have on both of those things when he has plenty of room and an extra vehicle was silly. He was right. Since I’m technically jobless, I took him up on it. His car probably cost a hundred grand. It was all shiny and black, and it had that ultra-luxury feel to it. It also had almost no miles on the odometer, which made me extra nervous about driving it. When I got back, I found Rick feverishly pacing the backyard with what appeared to be two different crews. There was a landscaping truck in front of the house, but the van was unmarked, so I figured they were likely the pool people.
I didn’t realize my interference in the backyard would wake him up in other ways.
Meaning in a destroying the interior of the house sort of way.
Although cleaning out the stuff he doesn’t like isn’t destroying anything.
“Rick?”
He acts like he doesn’t hear me. A huge painting comes off the wall, and he marches it across to the pile. The room is almost bare now.
“Rick!” His head snaps up, and he looks at me like he forgot I was even here. “You aren’t going to throw all that stuff out, are you?”
“No. I phoned a few charities. They’re coming to pick it up in an hour, so I want to make sure it’s ready to go for them.”
“You’re just donating it? That painting on top looks like it’s worth a lot of money.”
“Relax. I know this crap is worth a small fortune. I’m donating it to places that can sell it through auctions or fundraisers and use the money. I did some research last night. Believe me, I want to pitch all of them out, and slamming that chainsaw through the couch and dropping statues down from the top floor is incredibly tempting, but I’m behaving. It would be such a waste, and I can’t stand that. I lived through some lean years and it’s not right, however satisfying it might be.”
“Yes. You said that. Satisfying but childish.”
“The level of wrong would haunt me. It wouldn’t make up for the momentary satisfaction.”
“If you want to wreck something, I think there are places you can go where you can throw plates. Or axes. Or drive fast cars that you’ve rented.”
“Hmph.”
The painting on the far wall comes down next. He sets it in the pile and then rolls up the rug that was in the middle of the room.
“Are you going to order some other furniture?” I ask.
This time, the look he gives me is completely mystified and baffled. Like he hadn’t even considered it.
“The house might sell better if it’s furnished.”
His shrug is followed up with a humorless laugh. “Then I have time.”
“Do you have time to stop and have breakfast?”
“Nope.”
Now, I give him the same snort he gave me a few minutes ago. “I’ll wait until you’re finished then before I make us something.”
“Not hungry,” he grunts.
“Did you eat?”
“Nope.”
Now isn’t the time for a hunger strike. Or being too busy to eat or sleep properly. I’m still not convinced he does. Sleep, I mean.
“Okay, well, I’m going to make us something. You can keep going, and I’ll make sure it’s portable and quick. And I’ll brew coffee.”
“For the love of snake bottoms, do not brew coffee. I’ll do that.”
Is this man a coffee snob? He took his time with it yesterday. But whatever he made was hands down the strongest, darkest, and best coffee I’ve ever had in my life.
Technically, that’s not a hard no on the breakfast, so maybe he’s hungry, and he just forgot. Or he’s used to going without, denying himself, and not attending to his body’s needs. I know what he did for a living. I get how those habits can become so ingrained that they’re hard to break.
It still gives my chest a little pinch that I can’t work out, even in the kitchen.
I bought fresh bread yesterday. I also bought condiments and stuff for the pantry, the fridge, the freezer, and cream for coffee, thank sweet snake butts. Do snakes even have butts? I suppose they must because they need to poop somehow. They don’t just shed it like their skins. Rick gave me his credit card yesterday. I had to ask him for his car keys, and when he found out what I was going to do, he insisted on paying for the stuff, so I wasn’t shy about restocking.
I could make something gourmet, but I promised fast and portable, so I go for peanut butter and banana sandwiches with strawberries on the side. I can eat a whole sandwich, and Rick is a big guy, so I make his sandwich a double-decker with four slices of bread and layers of peanut butter and banana slices in between.
Part of Jace’s letter comes back to me as I layer on the peanut butter goodness.
He’ll act tough. So tough. Sometimes it’s legit, and sometimes it’s not. Don’t believe him when he says he’s okay. Don’t believe him when he pretends to be a jerk. He’s good shit through and through. Salt of the earth, if I’ve ever known salt. And I know salt. It’s the spice of life. Please. I know it might not look like he needs it, but he does. If all else fails, promise me you’ll still look after my best friend because if you’re reading this, then it means I can’t. I love you, Ass-pen, more than you could ever know. I’m so proud of you. I know you’ll keep me alive in your memory, forever and always, and I’m so sorry you have to do that. That you all have to do that.
Shit, I curse mentally.
I don’t want this sandwich to turn into peanut butter, banana, and tears. I don’t know about the salt of the earth where I’m concerned, but we’re probably salty enough without an extra helping of it.
I got out of bed in a hurry this morning. Today, there was no time for anything, and since I don’t normally bother with makeup, it makes it easy to splash water from the tap on my face. I blot it dry with a tea towel.
“Here.” I present Rick with a dry face, a shaky smile, and one mother-of-a-beast sandwich. It’s almost as big as that pile of furniture.
He freezes and eyes the sandwich like it’s a monster he’s going to have to slay. I’ve cut it into four pieces. He takes the first huge piece and opens his mouth.
“No!” I exclaim. He nearly drops it because I’ve startled him so badly.
“Good…just—what?”
“Don’t ram it down your gullet like yesterday. This isn’t nasty old bread, and there’s no hurry. Take a breath, taste it. It’s good. Plus, the peanut butter might stick when you try to force it all down in a single gulp, and if you choke, I don’t know how to perform the Heimlich.”
I prepare myself for an argument, but he takes the smallest bite right from the middle. There’s no crust. It’s just all peanut butter and bananas. He makes a sound. A grunt. I think it’s a good sound.
“Right? It’s pretty much heaven. My mom used to make this for me. Sometimes, she’d grill it in the frying pan and then give me chocolate sauce to dip it in, but that’s not quick or portable, so you get this version.”
Despite my warning, he takes the plate from me, polishes off the sandwich, and practically inhales the strawberries. Then, when he’s done, he doesn’t have any qualms about passing the plate back. He never thanks me and doesn’t admit it’s good or that he did need to eat and he now feels better, thank you. Which is okay with me. I’m not here for thanks. I’m not here for me. I’m here because Jace wanted me to be here.
“So you really don’t like all this stuff that much?” I ask as I bite into my sandwich and chew slowly.
Rick grunts. “Not my taste.”
“The couches were a little bit hard,” I admit.
“They’re shite. It’s all shite. Expensive, needless, useless shite. Do I like any of it? No, I don’t. I hate the inside of this place as much as I hated those gardens out there. I might be an asshole for letting them die, but fuck it. It’s done.”
I don’t think he’ll appreciate it if I straight-up ask him if he’s okay. Because clearly, he’s not. He has some trauma about his grandpa and the house, the gardens, and the things in it. All expensive things.
“What happened to your grandma?”
Rick freezes with a sculpture in his hands. It’s abstract, a series of metal twists interlocked through each other. “She died before I was born.”
“What about your parents?” I’m pushing too hard and being rude. Yet somehow, I think this is the only approach he’ll tolerate.
“They died too,” he answers.
I swallow hard. The peanut butter is really sticking my mouth together. It makes my throat so damn dry. “How?”
“Boating accident. They were partying on a yacht with some other rich people. They left me at home with a nanny, I guess. I was only a few months old. I don’t hold it against them. They loved me, or so I’ve been told, and it was in that way that someone who has never had a real emotion in his life and who loves things more than people, even his own flesh and blood, blurted it out without any understanding of it, so I knew it was the truth. Whoever was in charge of the thing didn’t put proper lights on. Also, they were drunk and didn’t do half the shit they were supposed to do. They got hit. There were eight people there, and they all died.”
“What? Oh my god! I’m so sorry.” My hands shake, and I’m worried I’m going to drop the plates, mine with his stacked under it.
He lifts a shoulder. “As I said, I was only a few months old.”
“But…who raised you then? Your grandpa? He sounds like a feral old fuck!”
His lips twitch. “Feral old fuck. That’s probably the most accurate description I ever heard. No, he didn’t raise me. He was supposed to, but he had nannies for that, then boarding school, and right after that, I did the last thing he ever wanted me to do. I joined the military. I thought, fuck him. Fuck him and his last hope for a dynasty or legacy or whatever. By the time he pulled me out of it, he was long retired. There’s no company to run now. Just this house and all his investments. He made it about as convoluted for me to get rid of as he could so I wouldn’t just donate it all in a fit of rage before I came back to myself. I’m never coming back, for the record.”
“What are you going to do? Sell all of this and give the money away and just go back to being Special Forces?”
“Nah.” There’s no emotion on his face. He’s so good at hiding it. I know he has to feel something. Jace was never like this when he came home. But maybe Rick always was, even before he joined up. It sounded like his childhood was horrible, and all the years after weren’t very good either. He probably never knew any real family or friendships until he found the military. “I’m done with that.”
I feel like I’ve just pressed the softest spot of my chest to the flame on a stove. I can’t imagine a man who doesn’t care about his family. Not Patrick’s parents or a little kid who so badly needed someone to love him. Maybe it was the loss that crippled him. Maybe he just couldn’t deal with it. My family is so close, but we’ve all needed time and space after Jace passed. Regardless, we still care. We still love. We are all just hurting. I feel a tremendous amount of guilt thinking about Jace’s mom. I haven’t called or texted her in a month, and I used to do it far more regularly. She was a part of my life before. Not the way my parents are, but I would often see her when Jace was home, and even when he wasn’t. We’d sometimes have breakfast or lunch together, and she often texted, even if it was just silly photos or a how’s your day going message.
I face Rick with as much courage as I can. I don’t want to give him pity. Even Jace would have hated that. Grown men don’t like being looked at like they’re broken, or they need some taking care of. Rick doesn’t need to be mended. He needs…he needs what Jace asked me to do. He needs some looking after. Maybe that means being a friend right now. He’s telling me this stuff, and I imagine not many people get the insider look at his life.
Even if he is telling me the saddest, most emotional story without so much as showing a single emotion.
“What are you going to do then? If you don’t go back.”
“I don’t rightly know.”
I can’t help it. I look at the pile. “Maybe you shouldn’t donate all of it. Maybe you should keep a little bit as a contingency until you figure it out.”
“Sweetheart, there’s billions. It’s from shares I was left with.”
I can’t help it. This time, I do drop the plates. My sandwich goes flying, and the plates clatter to the hardwood, though neither of them smash. They’re built thick and heavy. If anything, I probably just damaged the floor.
“O–oh.” I do a mad scramble to scoop up the plates.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t give a shit about this kind of thing. I’ve never met a billionaire before. Gah, I’m in a marriage of convenience with one.
Holy ball sacks.
I straighten up slowly, gripping the heavy, indestructible plates. I’m a mess. I want to cry for Rick and then he just dropped that bombshell on me right after the first one. “Can I get you another sandwich?” He’s going to say no. That first one was huge. He obviously wants to get back to purging this house of all the bad memories. Of the things that the man who was supposed to love him chose over opening his heart and doing just that.
“Sure, yeah. It was good.” He walks over and traces the arm of a statue. It looks like one of those fancy-draped goddesses. It could be old. With money like that, it could be thousands of years old. My hands start shaking. I don’t want to drop the plates again. He doesn’t look at me, but something in the room has changed. There’s a weird new energy in here with us and the mountain of stuff that could be worth millions. “Can you fry it this time?”
“In the deep fryer?”
He nods. “Like a grilled cheese.”
“Oh. Yes. My mom used to do that. I was debating about it. I don’t have any chocolate sauce for dipping, though. I also make an equally good grilled sandwich with jam and cream cheese. Kind of like a bush pie but raunchier. And by raunchier, I mean just a shade not as good, but still amazing. I bought cream cheese and jam. I could make one.”
“Both? If you wouldn’t mind?”
I know what a difference the little things can make. I’m not going to go around the house and pull things off the walls or hurtle them out of corners to make them gone. That’s for Rick to do. It might sound weird, but I think he needs this to make peace and heal. I can’t do that, and I can’t offer words either because that’s not what he needs. But sandwiches? Darn it, I can make a mean sandwich.
Sometimes, showing someone you care is as simple as feeding them. “I don’t mind at all.”