Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
“Look,” Uncle Ryke says, shifting forward, and his back now partially blocks our view of others. “Sulli has a fucking career. Winona’s just a kid. So that leaves me and Daisy out of this whole fucking thing. If Greg wanted an heir, he should have brought it up when he was alive.”
I glance at Charlie, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off the window.
An heir.
My first thought goes to Fizzle. Grandfather Calloway’s brainchild. His long-lasting legacy.
“Your opinion on this still matters,” Uncle Connor tells Ryke. “And you won’t leave.”
“Why is that, Cobalt?” he asks roughly. “Because Daisy has a vested interest in the company?”
“Because your niece or nephew may be the one to take it over, and you care too much about them to put your fingers in your ears.”
Uncle Ryke doesn’t counter or deny. He takes a heated step to the side, and I crouch a little more as my dad’s sharp jawline comes into view. He’s gripping a wooden workshop table on either side of him, and my mom wears his suit jacket. It hangs like a big potato sack over her thin frame.
“By all accounts, he was healthy, Ryke,” Uncle Stokes says. “He didn’t know he was going to have a heart attack.”
“Wait, wait,” my dad cuts in with cinched brows. “Are we just going to ignore the goddamn fact he was old? My brother is right. I don’t care if Greg could run a 5k without huffing on an oxygen tank. Anything could’ve happened at his age—Christ, at any age. He should’ve had these conversations with us while he was still breathing. Like a decade ago.”
“Agreed,” Aunt Rose says frostily.
My dad cringes at being on the same page as her. They act like mortal enemies, but I like to imagine they’re a ride-or-die pairing in disguise.
“Can we all just be calm about this?” Aunt Poppy asks, standing in the middle with her hands leveled. Her eyes seem puffy from crying. Aunt Daisy and my mom also wear morose expressions when I catch glimpses of them. On the other hand, Aunt Rose hasn’t uncrossed her stiff arms.
She looks like a block of ice.
“We are calm,” Aunt Rose snaps. “This is calm, Poppy.”
Aunt Poppy sighs. “Okay, well, there’s more.” She eyes someone warily. The person is out of view, but I can only guess it’s her husband Uncle Stokes.
“I have talked with Greg over the years,” Uncle Stokes says, “about a successor.”
“Wow,” Uncle Garrison mutters before my dad, Uncle Ryke, and Aunt Rose go off.
“What the fuck, Sammy?”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“And you never thought to tell us?”
Aunt Poppy tries to keep the peace. “Everyone—”
“No,” Aunt Rose comes forward but directs her anger at Uncle Stokes. “You had no right to keep this from us.”
“He didn’t want his daughters to know,” Uncle Stokes professes. “I just told Poppy. It wasn’t easy keeping this from my wife, from my daughter. But Greg was absolutely adamant.”
Uncle Ryke growls, “Because he fucking knew we wouldn’t want that life for our kids.”
“He didn’t want the headache,” Aunt Rose stews, pacing back and forth. I hear her heels click-click across the floorboards. “He’s a coward.”
“Rose,” my mom and Aunt Daisy say together.
“It’s the truth.”
“He’s dead,” Aunt Daisy says tearfully. “He might not have been the perfect dad, but he was good and he cared. That should count for something.”
I’ve come to realize more about my grandfather in these short seconds than maybe my entire lifetime. He feared conflict within his family so much that he took a bomb to his grave. He’d rather implode it when he couldn’t feel its destruction.
Then again, maybe the bomb isn’t a bomb.
It was just his dreams and desires.
I think Grandmother Calloway created enough friction with their daughters that he felt like any more from him would be fatal. So he was quiet and kind and nonconfrontational, and his true wishes could only be surfaced after he was gone.
It’s kind of sad he lived his life without truly expressing himself and with fearing what would happen if he did.
“Can you really blame him?” Aunt Poppy tells the group. “You all go from zero to a thousand.”
“Well, Poppy,” Dad snaps. “It kind of comes with the territory when you have old men with cameras breathing down your kids’ necks and your daughter is kidnapped.” I freeze, avoiding Charlie’s quick glance to me. “But sure, let’s go from zero to two. We’ll huddle around the campfire and roast s’mores while we discuss the dismantling of our kids’ lives.”
Aunt Poppy looks empathetic.
Uncle Stokes says, “That’s exactly what she’s talking about. Just take a breath.”
“I’m taking many goddamn breaths, Sammy. Why don’t you go suck on an inhaler?”
“Lo,” Mom says with wide eyes. He calms down instantly for her, then whispers in her ear.
“Let’s stay on track,” Uncle Connor says, and the tense air seems to calm.