by Jordyn White
Now that Lizzy’s engaged, however, her fiancé Brett and his adorable little boy Max have moved in with her so I’ll be staying at her old house, which she’s yet to sell for various reasons. She says I can stay there until I graduate and decide on more permanent plans. I haven’t bothered to think that far ahead.
As I cross Swan Pointe proper, heading for the hills where Lizzy’s old house is, I have that song Live Like You Were Dying running through my head.
Let me pause for a moment to say this. I like that song as well as anyone, I suppose, but you also have to be practical. I mean, yeah, you gotta make time to do things that count. Everyone does. And that song’s a nice reminder. At the same time, you can’t live every day like you were dying. I mean, sometimes life is just classes and homework and laundry and driving home.
But, I do feel like I need a day that counts. Tomorrow is Saturday and I’m itching to do something fun. I don’t even care what. Well, I care a little. I want to go somewhere I haven’t gone before. Do something I’ve never done. I want to check something else off my seemingly never-ending bucket list. (I cross one thing off and add two more. Is it just me?)
The next time I stop at a light, I send a quick text to my cousin Connor. I need an adventure tomorrow. You game?
I don’t even need to wait for an answer. It’s practically a done deal. Aside from the fact that my adventurous cousin is the most spontaneous person I know and always down for fun, I sometimes suspect he has a countdown of his own ticking away on my behalf. But I don’t know. I’ve never asked him.
“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Whitney says, leaning over the metal guardrail and looking at the base of the canyon, some 220 feet below us.
She’s Connor’s fiancé, and the rest of us have fallen in love with her as well. Lizzy and I have had many a goofy girls’ night with this chick. When Connor decided our Saturday adventure should be bungee jumping in Nevada, I was happy Whitney decided to come along.
“You volunteered,” Connor reminds her.
“Did I?” She’s still staring at the bottom.
“Don’t look down,” I say, grinning as the jumpmaster tightens my harness. “Remember how much you wanted to do this.”
Connor owns a small Learjet, and on the flight over this morning, Whitney could not stop talking about how excited she was. That all changed the second we stepped foot on the bridge.
“It’s perfectly safe,” Rayce says. Rayce is Connor’s older brother, and agreed to come along only on the condition that we wouldn’t razz him about doing work on the plane.
“They had us sign a waiver,” Whitney says.
“That’s just to cover their asses,” he says calmly.
“In case we die.”
Rayce laughs, something that always has a magical effect on him. Even out here, miles away from the nearest suit, my oldest cousin exudes an executive-type vibe. But those of us in the inner circle get to see that almost childlike gleam in him from time to time. It always makes me smile. Not for the first time, I think my beloved cousin needs to get out of the office more often.
“Come on,” he says, with his trademark confidence. “Do you think I’d let my kid brother and my baby cousin out here if it weren’t safe? I wouldn’t let you in harm’s way either.” He smiles and gives her elbow a gentle nudge.
This seems to calm her some. Whitney hasn’t been in the picture long, but it didn’t take her long to figure out Rayce is very protective of his family. That includes her. Thankfully, he did inherit some of the family thirst for high-adrenaline activities, just like Connor and I did.
Lizzy, on the other hand, not so much. In fact, Connor has a deal with Lizzy not to tell her about dangerous things like this until they’re over. He instructed me not to mention what we were doing this weekend, which was easy enough since I’m already keeping a secret about her from them. She is, at this very moment, clear over in Illinois tracking down a certain Mason Reeves.
Mason Reeves.
Suspected love child of my beloved Uncle Grant.
The idea of him cheating on Aunt Sharon is way more disturbing than my silent countdown, but Lizzy, being who she is, seems determined to bring this potentially long-lost family member into the Rivers’ family fold. I think she’s crazy, but I didn’t try too hard to dissuade her. I know how she gets when she sets her mind on something. Besides, that open heart of hers is one of the things I love about her. No sense trying to change it.
The jumpmaster gives me the go ahead and I step onto the platform. Whitney’s made the mistake of looking over the edge again. “How high up are we, again?”
Rayce and I exchange grins and Connor puts a reassuring arm around her. “You’ll be fine.”
Besides, I think, even if the worst happens, it’s not a bad way to go.
I run and leap off the platform, legs straight behind me, arms outstretched. My heart makes its own leap up into my throat. My body courses with the thrill of the moment as I soar through the air.
Six days.
Mason
When I open the door again, Lizzy says nothing at first and neither do I. After a moment’s pause, I say as a statement, not a question, “You want to know why I received an inheritance.”
“Yes. Please.” She tucks her hands under her armpits, seeking warmth. I guess she didn’t think to wear gloves. I briefly consider letting her in, but my mother would not thank me for letting the daughter of Grant Rivers into her home.
I open my mouth to explain, pausing for a moment as I realize that somehow it has been left to me to tell this woman what it is that connects our two families. I feel the weight of that burden pushing on me, like it’s a tangible force. I spit the words out quickly so I can be done with it. “Your dad killed my father.”
Her hand flies up to her mouth. Her eyes widen and her skin flushes two shades paler. I probably could have said that a little differently, but I’m too off balance by this entire situation to care much.
“They were both driving on Highway 1, on the north side of town, going in different directions.”
The horror on her face lessens slightly as she likely realizes I’m not talking about the cold-blooded murder that I may have made it sound like, but she still looks mortified. I’m glad.
“Your dad came into oncoming traffic. When my dad tried to get out of the way, he got T-boned. He died in the hospital a few hours later where my mother was working as an ER nurse. Meanwhile, your dad walked out of the emergency room that very day.”
Her fingertips have been lingering on her lips, and her eyes have been on me this entire time, wide with shock and pain and... sympathy. I’m momentarily softened, then put up my guard again.
She slowly drops her hand. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
Terrible for me, or you, I hear my mother’s voice in my head. It’s what my mother would say. It’s what I probably would have said several months ago. But I don’t say it. Lizzy’s pity doesn’t change anything, and she still doesn’t know the whole story yet.
“It was reckless driving,” I say flatly. “Thanks to your dad’s lawyer friends and him being a big shot in that town, he got away with it. He wasn’t charged with anything. Not reckless manslaughter, not anything.”
“Wait... that can’t be right.”
“Oh, can’t it?”
“He tried to get out of it?”
“He did get out of it,” I say. “That’s why I don’t want his guilt money.”
That’s what my mother calls it. Guilt money.
“Is that what it was?” she says to herself. “Is that why he left you the house?” she asks, looking at me now. “Was that the home you lived in when it happened?”
I feel myself wanting to relent in the face of her open vulnerability. It’s hard to be mad at her, though I want to be. Determined, I fold my arms and nod my head curtly in answer to her question.
“How old were you?”
“Six.”
“My God. I’m so sorry.”<
br />
The apparent genuineness of her emotion seeps into me against my will, but I say nothing in response. I try not to let my face betray me either, though it’s a struggle. I don’t like that I’m being moved by her. Why I should care that the daughter of my father’s killer is standing there feeling badly about it? She should feel bad. Anyway, showing kindness to her seems like a betrayal to my father’s memory, and to my mother, who is still very much alive.
I’m still shook up by the night I told my mother about the letter I got from the lawyer, George Hollister, informing me of an inheritance.
She almost never talks about the accident—or my dad, for that matter—but her anger at the man who took her husband and my father from us has never been a secret. For as long as I can remember, it’s oozed out of her as a silent testament to the unfairness of our loss. But I’ve never seen her the way she was that night those weeks ago. It was the closest I’ve ever seen anyone to having a breakdown. She was crying and raging in the dining room not thirty feet behind me, infuriated that even dead, Grant Rivers was still trying to buy us off.
At the time, I wondered why he didn’t leave the house and the money to her instead of me, but I didn’t dare ask. She’s gone through enough. I waited a couple of days, then sent George Hollister a letter telling him I wanted nothing to do with Grant Rivers or his money.
Lizzy’s clearly still trying to take it all in. She’s holding her arms across her stomach, her back slightly hunched. She looks like she can’t quite comprehend it. “Was he drinking,” she asks quietly, “or... what happened?”
“What happened was he just didn’t give a shit about anybody else,” I say, echoing the words I’ve heard my mother say for years.
She flinches, but doesn’t argue.
The impression I’ve had of Grant Rivers and the kind of man he was, and the kind of entitled family he must have had, is such a contrast to this genuine woman standing on my front porch looking sorrowful on my behalf, I don’t quite know what to do with all of this.
I still don’t know why I’m talking to her, or why she’s here. I don’t know what either one of us are going to get out of this conversation. And I certainly don’t owe her any more of an explanation. If her father didn’t see fit to tell her what he did, well then fuck it.
Yet, here I am. There she is. Both of us shivering slightly, and not from the crisp fall air. I wish she could give me answers. I’ve given her answers, but she can’t tell me what I’ve spent my whole life wondering. How could her father do something like that? How could anyone?
But how can anyone answer that question? Maybe some things just can’t be explained. Maybe some things are beyond reason. On the surface, I can understand that maybe he didn’t want to be in trouble, and didn’t want to risk losing his business and his family. But underneath all that, I still ask myself, How could he?
“Mason,” she says softly, as if we’re friends and not standing on opposite sides of the divide. “Thank you for talking to me. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
I don’t reply. She slowly turns away, and heads for the steps. I’m strangely disappointed. I don’t know what I expected. Talking to her wasn’t going to fix or change anything. I knew that going in, or should have.
She puts one foot on the step below, then stops, turning back to me. “About your inheritance—”
“That inheritance is nothing but a confession of his guilt.” A knee-jerk response. Turning down the inheritance made more sense before, but saying it now... I feel less certain. “And it doesn’t make what happened right.” That, however, is a truth I feel in my bones.
“No.” She shakes her head in regret. “No, it doesn’t.”
I blink, feeling in the grips of this strange exchange between us. I’m both mad at her, and not. Both wishing she’d never come, and somehow glad she did. Both feeling she’s a complete stranger, and feeling there’s a connection between us. Not romantically, but... something.
“I think you should know...” she says softly, “if you turn it down, it’ll only get reabsorbed into the trust and divided between me and my brothers.” She lifts one shoulder, giving me an earnest, imploring expression. “That doesn’t seem right either.”
My arms slowly unfold as I consider the implications of her words. She actually stands to benefit from me turning down the inheritance, and yet she clearly doesn’t want me to. I wonder how this woman standing across from me can be the daughter of the man who so selfishly and callously ruined my family, never suffering any consequences himself. Making damn sure of it, in fact.
She gives me a sorrowful, understanding smile. “Maybe you could think about it? It’s not too late to change your mind. You could let George know—”
I impatiently shift on my feet, putting one hand on the door jamb and looking away from her. “I’ll think about it,” I say sharply.
“Okay.” She nods and looks down. “All right. Well...”
My gaze returns to her.
She glances back at me. “Thank you, Mason.” She offers a hesitant wave, then turns and descends the steps.
As she goes down the walk, I get a funny feeling that I haven’t seen the last of her. In fact, I can see her showing up again, knocking on the door simply because she’s decided she has something else to say.
“Lizzy.”
She turns, rubbing her hands together to try to warm them. I’m such an ass. I should have invited her in. “You shouldn’t come back here,” I say simply.
For a second, she looks struck. Hurt. Then she hides it under a mask of composure.
“I mean,” I’m not sure why I’m trying to soften things. “This is my mother’s house. I don’t live here.”
“You don’t?”
I shake my head. “I was just here doing some things for her. My place is above Larry’s Auto Shop. I work there.”
“Oh.”
“George Hollister had the wrong address. I assume that’s how you found me.”
She nods.
“So don’t come back here. My mother would not want to see you.”
She shakes her head. “I won’t. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“You didn’t. I mean, you did, but...”
We look at one another. I don’t know how to finish my own sentence. Finally I shrug and say, a little more harshly than maybe I’d like, “Life goes on.”
“Yeah,” she says soberly. “Goodbye, Mason.”
This time, I don’t watch her leave.
Chapter 3
Mason
It turns out it’s a good thing I gave Lizzy that warning, because who should show up at my apartment the next day but the walking antithesis of Minding Your Own Business herself. I can only assume she Googled Larry’s shop, and rightly assumed from there that the staircase along the side of the building led up to my place. The shop is closed on Sundays, so there’s nobody around but me. This time, she’s standing at the correct door—mine—and has gloves on. She’s carrying a manila folder.
In the time since I saw her last, I’ve done almost nothing but think about our conversation, my father, my mother, Grant Rivers, and his stubborn but endearing daughter. I didn’t breathe a word of it to my mother. I didn’t want to upset her again. What’s the point? But also, strangely, I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want to hear her disparage Elizabeth Rivers. Maybe it’s okay that Lizzy came to see me, and maybe it’s not. I haven’t decided yet. But I’ve realized I’m not mad at her the way I am at Grant Rivers. After all, she wasn’t the one driving the car.
“Back for more, huh?” My tone of voice is markedly different today than it was yesterday. She must find it encouraging, because she offers me a tentative smile.
“I would have called,” she says apologetically, “but I didn’t have your number.”
“I see you have something for me.” Did she bring the inheritance papers over herself? Is she going to blink at me like a lost puppy until I sign?
She glances at the folder, hugs it to her stom
ach, and shrugs. “I don’t know if I do or not.”
“Well, on that cryptic note, would you like to talk inside this time? It’ll get you out of the cold.”
She nods. “Yes, thank you.”
I step back and open the door wider. With another tentative smile in my direction, she gives a quick glance around as she steps in. My place is a roomy one-bedroom with the living area, dining area, and kitchen all in one space. The furniture isn’t fancy, but I bought it new when I moved in and it suits me fine.
I could afford a bigger place to live, but I’ve never felt like I needed much in the way of space or things. I’d rather spend my money on car parts and road trips. In fact, I was about to head down into the shop and work on my personal project—restoring a ’65 Impala—when Lizzy showed up.
“I won’t stay long,” she says as we head for the heavy, wooden dining table, which I’ve indicated is where we’ll sit. “I have to leave for the airport soon.”
As she settles into a chair, I clear off a few stacks of paper, since I pretty much use the table as a desk. The couch is a good enough dining table for me. Besides, I like to watch a game or something while I eat. The table sits beneath a wide window that faces the wooded lot behind the garage. It’s a peaceful view and I keep the shades open day and night.
“Do you want something to drink? A beer or soda or some water or something?” I plop one pile of papers onto another.
She’s placed the manila folder on the table in front of her. She’s rubbing her thumb over the corner, again and again. “Water is fine, thank you.”
I get a glass from the cupboard and tilt it in her direction. “Ice?”
She nods. I grab a couple from the bin in the freezer, and fill her glass from the tap. We keep things simple around here, we do. I set it in front of her and grab a beer from the fridge. I pop the top on the counter, pitch it in the trash, and finally settle in across from her.