paper and digital calendars.
Most of my business was set up through Yelp and my website, customers scheduling or requesting appointments and then those times dropping right into my phone’s calendar, complete with address information and reminders.
But I also preferred to have something tangible on my wall.
A printout of my week posted just inside my door, so I knew what was coming.
And just looking down at Monday of the next week, I knew I’d already taken on too much. Back-to-back appointments, several new job bids scheduled for the evening, and the rest of the week wasn’t much better. I’d barely be able to make it to all the jobs on time, let alone have any sort of padding if things didn’t go to plan.
Or if I planned to eat lunch.
Or if I wanted to work less than fourteen-hour days.
“Too much,” I muttered, writing everything down and starring those that I definitely needed to shift around. Normally, I loved hiding in my job, getting lost running from appointment to appointment—I was saving up for that new apartment after all.
But . . . did I really want the apartment?
Did I really need something larger when I didn’t fill the space I was in now?
A sigh as I set down my pen. I knew the answer was no, just as I knew that I shouldn’t be working the long days for weeks on end. But also, what else did I have to do? I had Tig and Delia, but they had their own life. I had Dave, but he was just as busy. I had—
No one.
No one in my sad, empty apartment. No one who gave a shit if I worked long-ass days.
I’d set the goal of purchasing the apartment because it was in the neighborhood I’d grown up in . . . but that utopia didn’t exist any longer, did it? My parents were gone, my childhood wasn’t coming back, and I was working toward something I wasn’t sure I even wanted.
And my current apartment was fine.
It was safe, had enough space for one person, and I barely spent any time in it as it was. So, what was the rush to move on to bigger and better things? Why didn’t I put the money toward traveling? Why was I holding on to the rest of my trust fund instead of spending it? I had a job and could cover my expenses if something came up. I was twenty-eight years old and had never been out of the country, never even been further than New Jersey.
What was I waiting for?
Why didn’t I just throw caution to the wind and live my life?
I didn’t know.
“No,” I muttered, taking my mug to the coffee pot and making another cup. “I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Because it always did.
My eyes fell to the envelope shoved into the corner of the counter. I’d opened the flap, read through as much of the legalese as I could manage, and had come to the conclusion that the end was near for my grandmother based on the language, but I hadn’t torn open the smaller envelope inside it.
The one with Charlotte scrawled on the outside.
Charlotte, not Charlie, and just seeing the name that no one ever referred to me by, had me instinctively understanding that what was inside wasn’t anything legal.
It was personal.
So I’d left it alone.
Now I had to wonder if this was the proverbial shoe I was waiting for.
“I’ve already had inappropriate sex with an inappropriate man,” I muttered, blowing on the hot coffee before grabbing the envelope and taking both with me back to the table. “So, fuck it all, let’s do this.”
Mug down.
Envelope flap torn open.
Paper extracted from inside.
I never would have been able to predict what was folded in that sheet of crisp, white paper.
A tumble of photographs fell to my table, a chaotic flash of colors and shapes, and immediately my eyes filled with tears. I jerked the paper open, saw what was written inside, and felt my heart pulse.
I thought you might want these as I don’t need them anymore.
I ran my finger over one of the large swirling curves of the single sentence. No signature, but I knew it was from my grandmother. The elegant handwriting fit right in with the woman who’d worn that navy suit with its pumps, who’d put on a pearl necklace to come and meet her grandchild, who’d been so frosty cold and detached that she then had left without a backward glance.
“I don’t need—”