Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“I don’t know what to say, Cal. He had a second car, I guess. Had the keys in the bowl and the title in the folder.”
“Oh,” I said, a strange, uncomfortable sensation snaking up my spine. But I had no idea what it meant, so I tried to ignore it as I gave him a nod, then followed him as he led me around the corner to a car that was parked on the street.
“What’s up?” he asked when I didn’t immediately follow him to the passenger door he opened for me.
“This is Clay’s car?” I asked, eyeing the beater with the scratched driver’s door and the paint job that was fading across the hood.
There was no way.
Clay wasn’t exactly materialistic per se, but he cared about the condition of the things he did own. He was the kind of man who washed and waxed his cars constantly. Who would never be seen out with dirty shoes. Who carefully polished his jewelry before he put it on.
Everything about this car was wrong.
The feeling only intensified as I forced myself to slip inside, finding the floorboard caked in crumbs and dried mud clumps. There was a distinct cigarette smell inside as well, making my nose crinkle.
Clay didn’t smoke.
We had a grandfather who died from emphysema.
He would never pick up a cigarette.
A joint? Maybe. On occasion. But nothing else.
Not wanting to be stuck in the car with Brooks in complete silence, I reached over to turn the volume up, finding classical music seeping out from the speakers.
Classical?
Clay?
This was getting stranger by the moment.
Brooks slid into the driver’s seat and turned over the engine.
And we rode in painfully uncomfortable silence back across town.
“You good?” Brooks asked as I climbed out of the car and stared up at Clay’s building, not sure I could go inside. Maybe if I’d have nutted up and done so before, I wouldn’t be trapped in this awkward situation with Brooks.
“Yeah,” I lied, refusing to look at him as I did so, just falling into step with him.
He was struggling with his bags, and I was just bitter enough with him that I didn’t offer to help. Not even after he dropped everything twice before we made it to the door.
My belly was in knots as I waited for Brooks to unlock the door.
“You coming in?” he asked, his voice a bit lower, like he understood my struggle.
But how could he?
He didn’t give a fuck about Clay anymore.
But my brother had been the only family I had left in the world.
Going into his apartment, and seeing him all over, was going to wreck me.
And the last person I wanted to be around when that happened was Brooks.
“Yep,” I said, popping the p harder than necessary as I forced my legs to move inside.
Where I was met with a familiar scent.
The lingering smell of Clay’s cologne… and lemon cleaner.
After his funeral, I’d driven myself to the store to stock up on new cleaning products because all of mine had been lemon as well. Now, I was someone with a cabinet full of pine cleaners that made my nose wrinkle each time I used them.
The inside wasn’t how I remembered it the weekend before his death. Some of the furniture was already moved out. Boxes and stuffed bags were strewn all over.
“This is his folder,” Brooks said, grabbing it off the mess of a desk, and bringing it over to me.
I took it, sinking down onto the couch to place it on my legs, so I could flip it open and look through it.
He hadn’t been lying.
There were pages and pages of documents about his final wishes, his will, and, yes, even the ownership papers for the beater of a car we’d ridden here.
Then, sure enough, there were two pages addressed referencing Brooks. One that told whoever found the documents to contact him to clean out the apartment. And, at the end, a note asking him to look after me.
He was also right about everything being dated.
Everything was less than a year old.
But… why?
It wasn’t like Clay had been old. Or had to worry about a bunch of relatives fighting over his things when he was gone.
It was almost as if Clay had sensed his time was coming to an end.
If it weren’t for the fact that I heard my own clock ticking louder each passing day, I would think that was crazy. Maybe I wasn’t the only one starting to feel like there was a curse on our family, and that our time was coming up.
“I think he wanted to save you from having to do this part,” Brooks said after I was done reading, just sitting there staring at my brother’s handwriting.
I glanced up, and Brooks waved around at the boxes and bags.
“Yeah,” I agreed, feeling that vacuous hole start in my chest, sucking me into the darkness.