Becoming His (51 page)

T
wo weeks and three days after our fight there’s a weak knock at my door. I’ve been turning my phone off at night to fight the incessant need to check if the little green light’s flashing, indicating that I have a text message or missed call, because it only makes it hurt worse to see that it never does. The clock on my nightstand reads two-thirty-three. There’s only one person that would come over at this time. Max.

My heart drums as I try to prepare myself for what I should say to him. Should I be mad? Do I have that right?

My breath stops at the sight of Kendall. Her eyes are swollen with tears, and her face is red and distorted with pain before she falls into me. Her whole body is weak with sadness and tears. I hold her tightly and feel my heart accelerate as I brush her hair back with my fingers in an attempt to soothe her before she makes a couple of gasping sounds like I’m hurting her.

“Dad … Dad died,” she chokes out in a whisper.

Her words pierce my chest like an ice pick, making my body go numb. Horrifying sounds erupt from me. I can’t breathe, I can’t focus, the words just keep racing through my head, over and over again.
Dead. He’s dead. Dad’s dead
. I clutch Kendall and sob big ugly tears that have my nose running, my shoulders wracking, and more horrifying sounds echoing through the living room.

“Babe, babe! Oh babe!”

A small part of my brain registers the sounds of Jameson calling as he runs up the stairs of my apartment as Kendall and I remain clutching one another. I haven’t even realized that the door is still agape until he appears. Sadness has the ability to make you weaker than sickness, exercise, or exhaustion, because your heart and soul simply stop.

I feel a strong pair of arms encircle me as a familiar wave of cologne encompasses me. It’s Landon. He lifts me into his arms but remains on the floor with me as he presses me against him, as though he’s afraid I’m going to fall apart. It’s too late though. I don’t have any pieces of myself left. What I didn’t give away was taken from me.

“I need to go.” My voice is hoarse with tears as I push away from Landon and stand on shaky legs.

I just saw my dad two days ago. This isn’t possible. He’s young and healthy. I grab my purse and keys from the kitchen counter and walk out the door.

“Ace!” Jameson yells from behind me. “She can’t drive right now.”

“She’s wrong!” I shout viciously. “He’s not dead!” A few angry tears slip out and I wipe my face. “I need to go see him.”

I head down the apartment stairs, making it down two of the four flights before I sink to the cold metal. I grip my knees and pull them close to me as I listen to the sound of my heart explode.

M
y father’s been gone for an entire month. I hate that I’m counting the days. They’re going by so quickly.

I sit at the kitchen bar, about to stand up because the memory of sitting here with him for so many mornings causes me to hurt more than providing comfort, when I hear Steven Wright, my parents’ lawyer ask me if I’d like some coffee.

I look up, feeling like I’m waking up for the first time in weeks. Days have just been passing by in a haze. I see him hold the coffee pot out in offering and feel my eyes narrow as I focus on him and try to recall why he’s still here.

“How do you like your coffee, Ace?” His voice sounds jovial, which rakes over my nerves like nails down a chalkboard.

It’s been three and half weeks since the will was read. He’s explained the life insurance policy and the assets, distributed letters to nearly all of us including Max, Jameson, and the two babies. He’s read my father’s wishes on how his funeral procession would be held, down to the music he preferred for us to play. I was shocked to know how much thought he’d put into his own funeral, and what he wanted to have transpire once he was gone. I’ll never be able to hear “Let it Be” again without breaking out in chills and crying.

I don’t respond to Steven as he continues holding the coffee pot out to my nonexistent cup. Instead I turn and head to the den where Jameson and Kendall are looking through an old photo album.

“What in the hell is Steven doing here?”

They both turn to look at me, looking slightly taken aback. I raise my eyebrows at them, and Kendall closes the album slowly and sets it on the coffee table in front of her, then reaches up to brush a stand of hair behind her ear, answering my suspicions.

I turn on my heel and march back into the kitchen, barely noticing Kyle as I pass by him. I stop at the kitchen bar and stare at Steven as he rinses his coffee cup and places it in the dishwasher, whistling, and I realize I’ve been hearing this God awful sound for weeks.

“We don’t need you anymore. You need to leave.”

He turns around and a consoling smile covers his face. “How are you feeling today, Ace?”

I’d rather hear Nate say my name. I cross my arms over my chest to prevent myself from throwing the nearest vase of flowers that still decorate nearly every surface of our house at him and narrow my eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ace …” I refuse to turn my glare from Steven as I hear my mother’s voice and her steps quickly approaching. “Honey, why don’t we talk?” she says softly as she places a hand on my shoulder.

I shrug it off and turn my glare on her. Her blue eyes plead with me. I shake my head and rush out the patio door, wishing it was a door that could be slammed.

I feel heat and anger radiate through me, blinding me from my own actions.

“Harper, we need to talk.” I look up, realizing I’m back in Clementine again. I’ve been spending an exorbitant about of time in here, trying to avoid … everything. I watch as she takes a few steps closer to me, flipping on the lights to display a look of determination written across her face.

“Steven is becoming a very dear friend to me, and he’s helping me through this. You of all people should understand. As soon as Max moves on to someone else you’re going to feel the same need.”

That’s when I know. That’s when I know I need to go.

I
shove another box further into my backseat, using more force than necessary as I hear Steven approaching whistling some happy show tune. His dress shoes slap against the pavement of my parents’ driveway as he ascends toward the house. I don’t need to look up to confirm that it’s him. The whistling is a dead giveaway.

I’ve never put much thought into whether or not I care for the sound of whistling. However, I now know I loathe it. At least these days I do. Which causes me to briefly ponder if it has always grated on my nerves or if it’s just one more thing life is ruining for me.

Glancing over the hood of my car I catch sight of him, and my eyes turn icy, glaring at his short, stocky stature. He doesn’t ever seem to mind my moody attitude, or death glares, and today is no different. He smiles and gives me a slight head nod, causing a slight break in his stupid song that he continues to whistle as he makes his way past me, infuriating me all the more. I’m sure he’s relieved to see me going, and the revelation almost makes me want to defiantly rip the same box I’ve just loaded back out and stick around—
almost
.

My jaw clenches as the sudden impulse to hit Steven courses through every cell of my body. I want him to feel just a small taste of the pain that I’m feeling, like life has shredded every single one of
his
nerve endings, exposing them to every callous element that life can offer, reminding him that the pain can indeed always get worse.

The need overwhelms me and I have to consciously fight to keep myself from going after him. Every muscle in my body strains with the desire for my fist to connect with the cocky smirk he wears like an old suit that doesn’t fit quite right. I want him to go away and leave my family alone. He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t one of us. Yet he struts around like he’s been here every day of the last twenty years of my life.

Surely Kendall and Abby understand this hatred I feel, maybe even Kyle does. They know me better than most. Or at least they used to.

No one seems to understand me these days though. They don’t understand I just need some space. I need to get out of here. I don’t belong here. Not anymore.

To be Continued in

His Series, Book Two

March 1, 2015

Becoming His
, was first completed in August, 2013. It feels like years and yet only seconds since that time. I’ve met so many amazing people on this journey that have contributed to making this one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. I feel like this story is my third child!

To Lisa Greenwood and Sarah Pinkerton, my shining stars that have encouraged and supported me through my grumpy moods, dramatic failing fears, and questioning of everything under the sun. You guys not only helped me maintain a level of sanity, you helped me laugh at myself and reminded me what’s important in life. You are the best friends I could ever ask for. Thank you for reading
Becoming His
countless times, (far too many) providing me with essential feedback that made this not only possible, but far better. I can not thank you guys enough. You have been my calm, my reason, my sisters, and I love you.