Until We Fly (Beautifully Broken 4)

I stare at it. It’s a cube made from ebony wood, with an ivory inlay in the wood. My name is carved into the ivory.

“Your father made this for you out in his woodshop,” my mother says. “He left it with the estate attorney, along with the will.”

I don’t move to take it from her. “I don’t want it,” I tell her firmly.

She looks away in disgust. “Your father must’ve worked hours on that. I don’t know why. But he meant for you to have it, and you’re going to have it.” She sets it on the floor at her feet before looking back up at me. “I don’t know why he chose to forgive you, Branden. But I never will.”

I taste bile and red bleeds into my vision as the hatred swells through my chest and pumps through my veins.

“You don’t know what you think you know,” I manage to say thickly, every word like ice. “Now get out.”

She steps over the box and walks stiffly toward the door. Once there, she turns.

“I’ll send the papers over for you to sign once they’re ready.”

I turn away and look out the windows.

I hear the door close.

I taste the bitterness in my mouth. I feel my heart beat, pushing the hatefulness through my limbs before it returns to my heart, poisoning it.

But I don’t feel anything else. I’m numb.

“Are you okay?” Nora asks softly from the door. “I couldn’t hear what was going on, but you don’t look okay.”

She walks over to me, and picks up the box.

“This is beautiful,” she observes gently. “What’s in it?”

I shrug as if I don’t care. “I don’t know.”

She starts to take the lid off, but I stop her.

“Don’t, please.”

My words are soft but firm. Nora stops in surprise, her fingers poised on the lid.

“Okay.” She sets it on a table by the sofa, across the room from me. It seems to mock me and I look away.

I don’t want to know yet what my father had to say. I don’t know if I ever will.

“Thanks,” I tell her. She looks down at me and her eyes are filled with understanding. I don’t know how, but she seems to get it.

Although she can’t possibly. No one can.

“No problem,” she says gently. “Now, on to more urgent matters. What should I try to make for dinner?”

I chuckle at the look of utter fear on her face. “Have you never had to cook for yourself?”

She shakes her head. “At my parent’s house, we have a housekeeper. When I was away at college, I ate in the dorms, and then when I moved to an apartment in grad school, I had takeout.”

“I’m doomed, then, is what you’re telling me?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. She laughs.

“I’m going to try something easy. Meat loaf. After it’s in the oven, I’m going to take a quick dip in the lake to cool off. Do you need anything beforehand?”

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. Unless you could get me a book?”

She grabs one from the shelves on the far wall, and hands it to me before she disappears into the kitchen. I concentrate on reading, rather than focusing on the pain throbbing in my leg, or the fucking wooden box mocking me from across the room.