Chapter 8 #2
“You’re a good guy, Gabe,” I murmur as my eyelids grow heavy and the day’s tension finally starts to unfurl. “How are you still single?”
“Not all of us can have an epic love story.” His voice is a gentle whisper as he clicks the door shut.
My love story never had a chance to be epic. I press my eyes closed, trying to shut out the noise long enough to breathe.
I wake after a fitful sleep to sunlight spilling through the bedroom window. The building backs up to a dried-out ravine and a hill choked with trees.
I sit up and watch a family of three deer—two adults and a fawn—pick their way through the underbrush before disappearing with a few graceful jumps.
Pulling my sweatshirt over my head, I head straight for the bathroom. I freshen up, brush my teeth, and work a brush through the tangled waves of my hair before joining Gabe at the kitchen counter.
“Good morning,” he says. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good. I’m sorry you had to take the couch.”
He pours me a steaming cup of coffee and slides it toward me. “I’ve slept in much worse places.”
He sets a tiny pitcher of creamer in front of me and returns to his spot in front of his computer, eyes raking over whatever’s on the screen.
“Did I get any more threatening texts?” I ask.
“Not unless you count someone named Erin, who threatened to kick your ass if you don’t check in with her this morning.” He chuckles.
I lean against the counter, letting the warmth of the cup seep into my hands. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“I think I should take you over to meet the lawyer,” he says. “I’ll sort out your tire situation while you’re with him.”
“What about Luke?”
“I’ll tell Luke as much as he needs to know,” Gabe replies. “But you should know this puts me in an awkward spot with him.”
I nod, guilt pricking at my ribs.
“Isla,” he says softly, “I think you should reconsider telling him everything. He deserves to know what’s going on. You owe him that much.”
I chew on my bottom lip and nod again before heading into the bedroom to change.
The drive to Alan’s office takes less than ten minutes. The building is an old house turned into a professional space. The waiting room still has its bay windows, the kind that used to belong to cozy breakfast nooks and quiet weekend mornings.
Inside, Alan is on the phone. He gestures for me to sit, and I sink into one of the chairs.
The thought that I’m here to settle my mother’s “estate” tugs at my heart, and tears sting again, but there’s nothing left to give.
I think I might actually be dehydrated from how much I cried yesterday.
My head throbs, ignoring the acetaminophen I washed down with my coffee.
“Isla,” Alan says warmly as he ends the call. “It’s so nice to meet you in person. Please, come in.”
He leads me into his office, a modest room dominated by a large oak desk. I settle into the chair opposite him as a shiver racks my body. I wish I weren’t doing this alone.
“First, I should tell you that your mother recently came to work for me,” he says.
My mouth falls open. “When?”
“About six months ago,” he replies, leaning back. “I needed some part-time administrative help, and Gretchen turned out to be a great hire.”
A lump swells in my throat. “Really?”
He nods. “She asked me not long ago if I could help her get her affairs in order. She said it wasn’t something she’d ever thought about before, but working here made her realize it was important.”
As I try to process this new version of my mother—a woman taking responsibility, making plans—he slides a small box across the polished desk.
“I have a few of your mom’s belongings from the office to give you.”
Inside the box is a coffee mug that reads, “Not today, Satan,” and a small 4x6 photo in a simple frame. It’s me, around six years old, in a bright yellow shirt and white shorts, perched on a swing with a broad, toothy smile.
“She kept that on her desk,” Alan says gently.
I manage to keep my voice steady, even as my insides spin like a tornado. I carefully set the box on my lap and trace its edges with my fingertips. “Thank you.”
“I’ll get right to it,” Alan says. “Your mother didn’t have much, but she wanted to make sure you got everything she did have.”
He adjusts his glasses and opens a thick manila file, the papers inside rustling as he begins to read through Gretchen Marie Tanner’s last will and testament.
The legal terms blur together, mixing with the ache in my chest. It feels like a shot of Novocain to my system—numbing and disorienting all at once.
He eventually slides a crisp white envelope across the desk. “Her savings weren’t large, but they should cover her bills, plus a little extra. The house is now yours to do with as you wish.”
I stare at the envelope, its edges slightly curled from handling, but my hands stay in my lap. I can’t bring myself to break the seal yet.
When he’s finished, Alan stands and quietly steps out, giving me privacy.
The office is silent except for the ticking of a clock on the wall.
It takes me a good twenty minutes to look through the contents of the envelope, breathing slowly to steady my heart. Finally, I stand, clutch the box to my chest, and thank him with a shaky voice before leaving.
Outside, Gabe is parked at the curb. He lifts a hand in greeting, concern etched on his features. “How’d it go?”
I let out a shaky sigh, refusing to give in to the tears burning behind my eyes. “As well as can be expected.”
“I got your tire fixed,” he says. “Your car’s still at the shop.”
“Have you spoken to Luke?” I ask.
Gabe shakes his head. “I’ve put off calling him until you made your decision. What do you want to do, Isla?”
The heat that was simmering at the back of my eyes flares in my chest instead.
“Stay and fight,” I say, the words surprising even me with how solid they sound. “If this is the person who took my life away from me once, they’re not stealing another moment. They’re going to pay for everything.”