of it, or if I ever did anything with Dad’s climbing gear, it wouldn’t be today. Maybe, like the coward I was, I’d leave that for Daniel to deal with when he came to help out.
I left the kitchen and living room and everything that had come back from Dad’s final trip, and I went upstairs.
The master bedroom was an emotional minefield. This was one of the rooms that felt like Dad, not Dr. John M. Griffith, III. The tattered gray bathrobe he’d had since I was a kid hung on one of the four tall posts of the bed. There were old framed photos of long-dead family members on the walls, and he still had an ancient afghan made by my grandmother folded on the foot of the bed. I ran my fingertips over the yarn, and somehow I was surprised it was still soft after all these years. I didn’t really know why.
There was a paperback on the nightstand, a bookmark tucked in about two-thirds of the way through. Fuck. Why was I suddenly emotional about the idea of Dad never finishing this book? Was this what grief was going to be? Random pangs of “oh God, Dad’s gone” brought on by the most unexpected things, and all the while, my conscience berating me for not doing more to fix our estrangement? Ping-ponging between bitterness, guilt, relief, and devastation?
Yeah, it probably would be. With one phone call, the world had been yanked out from under me. The man who’d taught me to ride a bike and clean a fish was gone. So was my biggest critic. The source of the voice in my head that fueled most of my self-loathing. The guy who’d thought I was such a colossal failure, I needed a house on top of my chunk of his estate. The one who’d patiently guided me through some tough pre-Algebra homework with the same voice he’d later use to explain to me that art was a waste of time and maybe it was too much to expect all of his kids to excel.
Sniffing sharply, I turned away from the abandoned paperback and the old afghan. I did not know how to grieve this man. I just didn’t. And now I had to live in what felt like a carnival funhouse jam-packed with all the reasons why I was never good enough and my dad was too good for a failure like me.
Fuck.
Shaking myself, I got the hell out of the master bedroom and emphatically shut the door behind me.
There were three bedrooms besides Dad’s. Whenever I’d come to visit, I’d always stayed in the one at the end of the hall, but it had a southeast-facing window, and sunrise was brutal. The room got beautiful light throughout the day, though, so it would be a shame to cover it up with blackout curtains.
In fact, maybe this would be a good place to paint. After my siblings had come and gone, and there was no risk of anyone wandering in here and seeing that hobby I still secretly pursued, I could actually have a studio. Put some plastic down to protect the carpet. Set up an easel and some lights. Have a table and shelves with all my supplies. Actually have some decent supplies instead of using the same worn-out brushes, cheap canvases, and bottom-of-the-barrel paints I’d barely been able to afford with my employee discount at the art shop.
For the first time, I got a little rush of excitement. Even with all the ugly furniture and pastel bedding, I could envision it—my own studio. One that was almost as big as the apartment I’d shoehorned myself into with three roommates for the last few years.
I exhaled, and for once, it was a sigh of relief. Maybe coming here wouldn’t be all bad. I still had a lot to unpack—literally and figuratively—but maybe this wouldn’t be as miserable as I’d convinced myself it would be on the way here.
Especially if I wasn’t always here alone.
That thought gave my pulse a little surge. If there was anything that would help me live in this place, it would be bringing other people in to break the silence (and maybe some bedsprings). Or leaving with other people to make noise somewhere else.
I lay back on the guest bed I’d slept in years ago and took out my phone.
Before I’d come here, I’d snooped around Laurelsburg online, trying to get a feel for what the town was like these days. My