Until We Fly (Beautifully Broken 4)

“No, you’re not interrupting,” I tell her coolly, while Nora scrambles to get up. I don’t acknowledge the fact that Nora was on her knees in front of me, or that I’m in my underwear. I know what it might look like.

But it’s none of my mother’s business.

“Well, I see that you’re deep in grief,” she says curtly, “so I won’t stay long. I just brought your truck down for you. The mayor brought it to my house after the explosion. There’s some fire damage to one side of it, but it still runs.”

My mother stares pointedly at Nora, and Nora looks at me.

“Should I give you a few minutes?” she asks quietly, staring only at me. She acts like my mother doesn’t even exist. I could hug her for that.

I nod. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

She regally walks past my mother without another word or glance.

Again, I could fucking hug her for that.

I stare at my mother, who hasn’t moved even an inch toward me. I don’t bother asking how she knew I was here. I just cut to the chase.

“Well, are you going to come in and tell me why you need me? I assume you need something or you wouldn’t have bothered calling me.”

I hate that I sound so bitter and hateful. I hate that she’s done this to me. I hate that I’ve let her do this to me.

I try and swallow the hate.

It won’t hurt anyone but me.

My mother walks into the room and sits at the chair across from me, holding her small body stiff. There’s no maternal concern here. She doesn’t bother to ask how I am.

It’s only now that I notice she’s carrying something. She places a wooden box on her lap and stares at me.

“It’s your father’s will,” she says simply. “You’re the sole heir.”

Shock slams into me like a Mack truck, and I stare at her in confusion. Her face is a steel mask, unyielding, expressionless.

“There’s no way, “ I manage to say. “Why would he do that?”

She shrugs.

“I’m as surprised as you are. After everything you did, I don’t understand it either.”

Everything you did.

The words linger in the air between us and I swallow hard, trying to contain my hate. I don’t bother to try and defend myself. It doesn’t make any sense anymore. My father is gone, so what difference does it make? There’s no point.

But that doesn’t mean that I deserve her resentment.

“I don’t want anything of his,” I tell her icily. “Not his shop, not his truck, not anything.”

She stares at me, her brown eyes hard. “So you’re telling me that everything he left you… the shop, his truck, his bike, even the house… you don’t want any of it?”

I level my gaze at her. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I pause, thinking of his bike. A glistening, aggressive 1964 Triumph. It was my grandfather’s before it was my father’s, and my grandfather meant for it to come to me.

“I want the bike,” I amend. “I don’t want anything else. You can have it. Or burn it. I don’t care.”

My mother stares at me in satisfaction. Obviously, that’s what she came to hear.

She holds out the box.