The Inheritance (Volume Two) (8 page)

“Thank you,” she says.

I lay back on the couch. “It’s no problem.”

The pair of us fall into silence, my eyes fixed on the smooth white ceiling, Ashleigh focusing on my father’s urn.

Her bottom lip’s pulled between her teeth. She’s been worrying it since the moment we met. I’m surprised she hasn’t broken the skin, a slim purple bruise to decorate the center of her mouth.

Ashleigh’s the daughter my father would’ve wanted. Captivatingly pretty and feminine in all the right ways – docile, sweet, and fixated on his death. Since his funeral she’s spoken more than once about visiting his tombstone, something I have no plan to do. She wants to lay flowers and a mixtape she ordered on the Internet. All of his favorite songs for him to listen to in heaven.

She says “heaven” the way small children do when they first learn about it. With wonder and glee and hope. Hope that someday they’ll too reach the magical place where everything is white and good.

I don’t really believe in heaven (my mother nor my father were particularly religious) but Ashleigh is fooling herself if she truly believes that’s where my father is.

He never respected any of his wives and had no respect for me. I know fucking college-aged girls isn’t exactly a sin but there’s something creepy and ungodly about it. My father surrounded himself with people who would gladly take a seat at the devil’s table, sucking down the blood of their enemies, swapping stories of how much money is in their bank accounts and what dastardly deeds they committed to get it there. My father is no angel, no saint and he isn’t the sort of man to die from a cold.

“You found him?” I say, shattering the silence.

Ashleigh furrows her eyebrows. “What?”

“At the restaurant you said you found my father’s body on his bedroom floor.”

She nods. “That’s right.”

“What happened?”

Ashleigh ducks her head and shrugs. “I think he stopped breathing in the middle of the night. Or maybe he had a heart attack. I don’t know for sure. The doctor’s wouldn’t tell me anything since I wasn’t family.”

“But he died here? In this house?”

“Yes,” she hisses. “How many times do I have to say it?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting up.

She clutches my father’s urn to her chest, pale arms wrapped around it, cradling it as if it were a child. “Have you cried?” she says, staring up at me. “Do you feel anything at all about your father’s death?”

I think of the stretch of time I spent in the lawyer’s bathroom, clutching my legs close, pressing my forehead against my knees, my body wracked with sobs, my face dripping with tears.

“No,” I say. “I haven’t. But try not to hold it against me.”

Ashleigh lowers her eyes. “I’m just trying to understand why you hate him so much.”

“It’s complicated,” I say. “And easier if you don’t think about it.”

Before I call Northwestern Memorial Hospital, I call Gina and leave a message: “Hi, It’s Caitlin, I just have a few questions about my dad and thought you could help. Give me a call when you can, thanks.”

It’s been a few years but I still know Gina. I know she’s sitting at her office job, staring at my name on her phone. One missed call. One new voicemail. Chewing her nails, debating whether or not to call back. She isn’t doing anything important. Answering calls at whatever call center she works at now, reading dully from a script, counting down the hours until she can clock out and go home. Maybe I’ll give her a call on the train, she’ll think, maybe I’ll force her to grab dinner with me.

The nurse at Northwestern – “Marilyn,” she says between a yawn. – tells me I need to call the Chicago Police Department. The police department tells me I have to come down and provide my birth certificate, social security number, state ID or driver’s license before they tell me anything. I pencil in an appointment for tomorrow, too exhausted to do anything else.

Ashleigh and I have dinner in Chinatown, five dollar meals with two choices of meat or vegetables and a bowl of rice. Ashleigh speaks to the waitress in flawless Chinese, expertly handling her chopsticks, popping orange chicken into her mouth between large gulps of white rice. I opt for a fork, content not to embarrass myself.

“My mom’s from China,” she says. “I’m adopted.”

She tells me about her father, the doctor who lost his job two months ago due to a religious outburst of anger.

“One of the residents, some mouthy kid with red hair, was like this huge atheist who could not shut the fuck up about how intelligent people couldn’t be Christians. When he found out my dad was religious – and he’s like, really religious, I’m talking church every Sunday, leads a bible study group religious – this kid freaked.

“All day, all week, he rambles on and on about how much of an idiot my dad must be for believing in this man in the sky, and how he can’t possibly be a good doctor because his belief in ‘magic’ will always trump logic.”

One afternoon her father had heard enough and, red-faced and foaming at the mouth, he dammed the boy and all who thought like him to hell.

“And my mom doesn’t work,” she says, between sips of tea. “So they’re living off my dad’s savings and my little brother doesn’t want to go to college or work, and my dad’s ranting about the apocalypse every time I call home and I just. You can see why I couldn’t go back there.”

Every few moments her cell phone goes off. New message. New message. She glances at it before shoving it in her purse; she’s too polite to answer it at dinner.

“Who keeps texting you?”

“Chris,” she says, a faint blush crawling across her cheeks. “He wants to hang out but I’m not…”

“You’re not ready to date.”

She nods. “It’s really unnerving how everyone assumes I should be over it by now. But I don’t think I ever will be.”

“I understand.”

She shifts in her seat. “I thought so. Who is he?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The guy you can’t get over. The one who won’t let you give into Neal.”

I shake my head. “There’s no guy.” A flash of Justin’s face lights up in my mind. “I’m just not that into Neal.” It’s a lie I swallow along with my vegetables.

“I don’t believe you,” Ashleigh says.

“There’s nothing I can really do about that.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. She pulls her phone from her purse and swipes at the screen. “There’s a party tonight,” she says. “That’s what Chris is trying to get me to go to.”

“Didn’t he do enough partying last night?”

“Apparently not. It’s at this club downtown. Really exclusive but he says they’ve got their own table with bottle service.”

“They?”

Ashleigh grins. “Him and Neal.”

My lips press together tightly. This morning I began the process of tucking Neal away, resigning myself to the fact that we would never cross paths again. He’s probably moved on. Plucking through a buffet of girls to bring with him to the club. All of them tall and pretty and willing and uncomplicated. Unlike me.

“That sounds like fun. You should go.”

Ashleigh leans across the table. “
We
should go.”

I shake my head. “I have too much to do around the condo.”

She rolls her eyes. “You aren’t selling it for three months.”

“But I’m leaving on Friday.”

“Which is why you need to make the most out of your stay. I promise to help with the condo and we’ll get everything done by the time you leave. But tonight? I need some fun and
you
need some fun, spelled N-e-a-l.”

I take another drink.

What’s the harm in going? Neal sees me and decides he would rather not speak? Fine. I can find someone else in the sea of people, someone who doesn’t remind me of my father and whose lies I care less about.

“Fine,” I say, popping a piece of chicken in my mouth. “But once again, I have nothing to wear.”

“We’re with them,” Ashleigh says pointing over the bouncer’s shoulder.

The broad chested man wears a single diamond earring sparkling beneath the low purple light of the club. He guards the VIP section like a statue, his body blocking off the second floor balcony.

The dance floors are packed. Three rooms of alternate music styles - techno, hip-hop, and retro pop - filled to the brim with sweating, dancing twenty and thirty-something's, flinging their neon colored drinks in the air, dousing one another in alcohol, cackling when they're confronted. The atmosphere is thick with the smell of booze and sweat and perfume, an odor that's both sweet and sickening.

The bouncer swipes down on his electronic tablet. “What's your name again?”

“Ashleigh Monroe,” she says, flashing a sweet smile. For a moment the bouncer is distracted.

Ashleigh's stunning in her short dress, hair down in loose barrel curls she whipped up in less than an hour. On our trek through the club she shrugged off the grabby hands of men, eyes fixed on the second floor.

Chris and Neal lounge on the farthest side of the balcony, backs pressed against the black leather couch as other well-dressed men surround them. They're all young and mildly handsome - Neal light - with the same ambitious glint in their eyes. They lean in close when Neal speaks, hanging on his word, ingesting them.

Neal's dressed casually tonight. Grey tweed slacks with a white top and black tie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms flex as he reaches across the table for his beer, fingers stretching around the glass as he throws Chris a grin.

There are plenty of women on the balcony, all of them beautiful and slim. Tanned skin glowing beneath the light show as they swing their hips to the music, throwing their long hair over their shoulders, lips pursed and parted, a twentieth century mating call.

Neal and Chris and the rest of the men look, eyes zeroing in one or two of the women over the rims of their glasses, but no one stands to touch. This time of the night is dedicated to business. One of the men checks his watch.
When are we getting to the pleasure?

The bouncer steps out of the way and swings the short glass door open. “Ashleigh and guest,” he nods to me and I bite my cheek to stop myself from rolling
my eyes.
Guest
. “Have a great night.”

The sea of women parts when Ashleigh and I step into the VIP section, shadowed eyes and glossed lips narrowing in our direction.
Who the fuck are the new girls?
Ashleigh ignores them in favor of waving her arm overhead, catching the attention of Chris and Neal. Neal smiles at her, the corners of his mouth tugging lightly, before his eyes flicker over her shoulder and fall onto mine.

His smile spreads into a grin. My breath tightens in my chest.

“You made it,” Chris shouts, throwing his arm around Ashleigh’s bare shoulders. He pulls her into a hug, lips sliding over the shell of her ear, eyes flickering towards me. “Caitlin,” he says. “You’re still in town.”

“Yeah, I’m here for a few more days.”

Chris nods. “How about a drink?” He’s speaking exclusively to Ashleigh. “VIP means we have our own personal bartender.”

Ashleigh pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. A small attempt at acting coy. “As long as you’re buying.”

The women watch as Chris pulls her away to the right, a small silver bar set up in front of a lone bartender.

I’m left standing in the center of the balcony, awkwardly clutching my purse, pointedly ignored by the women around me as Neal watches from the couch.

What am I meant to do? I can force myself into a group of women, opening my mouth wide as I pretend to laugh at a catty joke. I can lean against the bar, my elbows sticking to the countertop as I sip a colorful drink, mindful of the way my back arches and my ass sticks out. I can march over to Neal, bypass the bent legs and coffee table full of booze, and drop on his lap, one arm thrown around his neck as the other plays with his tie.
Hello handsome
. But I’m none of those girls.

I push through a small cluster of chatty women and lean against the glass railing, eyes cast to the dance floor. Hundreds of bodies blindly moving to the beat, grinning as wide as the brim of their glasses.

I’ve never been the sort of girl who enjoyed going to clubs. BU is surrounded by ancient bars with six types of Sam Adams on tap, burgundy booths tucked along the wall, local music low enough you can hear yourself think. Clubs require too much effort. I don’t mind dressing up but once you’re inside alcohol is required to handle the crowd, the smell, the music, the groping.

(I wouldn’t mind being groped by Neal.)

Behind me, Ashleigh laughs loud enough to burst through the music, drawing both my and Neal’s attention. Chris has his nose buried in her neck, his lips blowing cool air against her skin, a tickling sensation that has her pinching his arm and throwing back her head.

Neal and I share a glance.
Crazy right?

There’s a certain pull in the pit of my stomach.
That should be us
. Neal’s hand trailing down the small of my back, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, my laughter floating from my throat and into the air like a bubble, popping in time to the light show. But we’ve already said our goodbyes and there’s no use drawing it out for one more night. I’m here for Ashleigh, her wing-woman, though by the looks of it, she doesn’t need much help from me.

“You’re avoiding me.” Neal’s voice snakes up from behind, his head bent in close.

I contain the smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “I could say the same for you.”

“No. You can’t,” he says, standing next to me. “Because I’m the one who came to you.”

I can smell him, his signature scent piercing the thick cloud of sweat. Spice and musk that pulls me back to the night before, Neal’s hands in my hair, his teeth sinking into my neck.

“I thought we were never going to see each other again,” Neal says, eyebrow raised as if to say, I knew that was a lie.

“Ashleigh invited me.”

“I didn’t know she had that sort of authority.”