but a day hadn’t gone by that I didn’t stop in the parking garage and ask myself what the fuck I was even doing. There hadn’t been a single day where I didn’t consider, however briefly, just driving away and never coming back.
That was the feeling I had now as I stood on the front porch of the house my grandfather had built. The house my father had inherited. The house that was now mine.
I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to put the key in the lock, open the door, and step into the building full of things I didn’t want and a legacy I couldn’t live up to.
Right now, the only thing I wanted to do was get back in my car and, as I drove away from Laurelsburg forever, get on the phone with a real estate agent who could start the ball rolling to sell this place.
But I couldn’t do that. Dad had left it to me. The house meant a lot to the family, and I’d been reminded at every turn what an honor it was to be entrusted with this sacred piece of Griffith history.
And anyway, where the hell would I go if I left? Standing here, rocking on my feet and staring down a door I didn’t want to open, I didn’t exactly have any other keys to any other doors. Rejecting my inheritance—the house, the money, the portfolio—sounded fabulously noble, but from a practical standpoint, I didn’t have a lot of options. If Dad hadn’t died, I’d have ended up coming to live here sooner or later anyway.
In fact, I was pretty sure he knew that. After all, that was why he’d left the house to me and not one of my substantially more successful siblings.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending not to notice the telltale sting.
It wasn’t like Dad had known he was going to die. His death had come as a shock to everyone. He’d been making plans for all kinds of trips, not to mention a few more books he was going to write over the next ten years. His schedule of lectures and keynote speeches had already been booked well into next year with a few even farther out than that. Dad had fully expected to have decades left in him before he even thought about retiring, never mind dying.
But he’d taken the time to adjust his will, ensuring that I received the house along with one quarter of his remaining estate. Maybe he’d done it just in case he died suddenly, which he had. Or maybe he’d done it because he’d believed that by the time he did shuffle off this mortal coil, I’d still be the failure he never let me forget I was.
He didn’t say it, didn’t actually put it in writing alongside his wishes, but I knew my dad, and I could read between the lines: I’m leaving more for him because God knows he’ll need it more than his siblings.
And I fucking hated that he was right.
One way or another, whether because I’d come crawling home to live with my dad because I couldn’t make it on my own or because I’d inherited the place after he’d shocked everyone by dying suddenly, living under this roof and on his money had been inevitable. I wanted to be grateful that I’d always had a failsafe to keep me from homelessness and destitution, but it was hard not to let shame and bitterness overshadow that gratitude.
I pushed out a ragged breath, then slid the key into the lock. It didn’t want to turn, and I had a flicker of hope that I couldn’t get into the house after all. But then the lock gave. Damn.
The hinges squeaked halfheartedly as I opened the door and stepped inside.
Even more than the exterior, the foyer was both alien and familiar. The hardwood floor still creaked beneath my feet the same way it had when I was a kid. The antique grandfather clock still stood beside the stairs, ticking in that same distinctive way it had for as long as I could remember.
The abstract painting on the wall was new. It must have been painted by somebody important. Dad had never had much use for art, especially abstract art, unless he could brag about either being able to afford it or knowing the artist personally.
And just like that, my attitude about the painting soured. The piece was definitely getting sold if one of my siblings didn’t want