not unique. He’s one of those super successful parents who expects their kids to be as successful or more so, but only in approved areas.” Tsking, he rolled his eyes. “Before I met Aaron, I dated a guy whose entire family was politicians. He and his cousin were the black sheep because they decided”—he dropped his voice to a stage whisper—“to become doctors.”
“Seriously?” I barked a laugh. “Their parents got mad that they became what my dad wanted me to be?”
“Exactly. And you know what? He became a damn good doctor. We’re still in touch, and he’s teaching at one of the more prestigious medical schools now. Most importantly? He’s happy.”
“Oh. Damn.”
“I know it’s hard to let that shit go. I get it.” Will smiled with a bit more feeling. “But you’re not a failure, and your dad was a dick.”
I jumped. It was so weird to hear someone actually say shit about my dad now that he was dead. Everyone insisted you weren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, but Will didn’t give a fuck, and man, I appreciated that. “Ugh. You’re right.” I rubbed my neck with both hands. “I keep thinking I’m being an ungrateful jackass. Like my dad couldn’t possibly have been as bad as I make him out in my brain, right? But then at every turn, there’s a dusty program from a high school play at the bottom of a box like he just forgot to throw it away.”
Will wrapped his arms around me, and I sighed as I leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to my temple and murmured, “You’re not being an ungrateful jackass.”
“So why do I feel like I am?”
“Because people have told you to.”
I released a breath. It wasn’t that simple, but something about hearing someone else say it was a relief. Drawing back, I looked around the attic at all the things we hadn’t sorted out yet. “It doesn’t help that I’m stuck here. People keep saying I should be grateful that my dad left me a house, and God knows I probably would’ve ended up living here anyway if he hadn’t died, but…” I chafed my arms. “I swear, I don’t feel like I own this house. I feel like it owns me.”
Will studied me for a moment, his expression soft. “It really stresses you out, doesn’t it?”
“So much.” I looked around the attic and blew out a breath. “I wish I could just sell the goddamn place.”
“Why don’t you?”
I met his gaze. “What?”
“Sell it.” Will shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “What’s stopping you?”
“He willed it to me. And he made it clear to everyone that he didn’t want it sold.”
“Did he put that in the will?”
I blinked. “I…” Well, shit. Had he put that in the will? “I don’t know if he did or not. Does that matter?”
“It might. I know someone who can answer for sure.” He took out his phone and sent a call. “Hey, Kip, it’s Will. Is Aaron busy? Perfect, thanks.” He put the call on speaker, and some quiet hold music played.
After ten or fifteen seconds, the music stooped. “Hey.” Aaron’s voice was vaguely tinny on the other end.
“Hey, baby,” Will said. “Lawyer question for you.”
“Sure.” Something creaked in the background. A desk chair, maybe. “Hit me.”
“If someone wills a house to one of his kids, and he says he doesn’t want it sold, is there anything legally stopping the kid from selling it?”
“Hmm, depends on the wording of the will.”
I cleared my throat. “What if the will doesn’t say anything about it?”
“Was the house left to you and you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“And there’s no restrictions? Nothing in the will or anything else?”
“None that I can remember.” I shifted nervously. “I mean, I’d have to read it over to be sure, but I swear it was just that he left it to me and that was that. But Dad has told everyone for years that he doesn’t want it sold.”
“Hmm, okay,” Aaron said, “but if there’s nothing in writing—I mean, I can take a look at the will if you want to be absolutely sure, but if your dad willed you the house free and clear with no stipulations in writing? No, there’s nothing stopping you from selling it.”
I stared at the phone. “Really?”
“Yep. And I mean, there are some stipulations he legally could’ve put in there that would complicate things, but if they’re not in the will—if there’s nothing in writing forbidding you from