Page 126 of Beyond Oblivion

“So,” she trailed off, the word stretching out like she didn’t know what to follow it with.

I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. The floor and I apparently had a thing going. Romantical like. “So…?”

Camille sighed, and from my peripheral, I noticed her licking her thumb before flipping carefully between two pages. She had approached Dad’s estate the same way she’d handled the restructuring of Skin Deep—organized, methodical, and determined. Every task had a checklist, every document sorted, every detail triple checked. It wasn’t just efficiency; it was her distraction. Camille threw herself into it all as if by staying busy, she could keep her mind from wandering into the grief waiting just beyond the paperwork. “Dad left the house to us,” she said, half confused, half in stunned disbelief.

Left.That word landed heavy, like it didn’t quite fit in the sentence, and Dad wasn’t there to make it make sense. Olive wasn’t there to cheer about her favorite person in the world potentially living next door to her parents. Not that I’d deserve it. I’d failed to keep my most important promise: to protect her.

I forced my eyes up, dragging them away from the floor, trying not to glimpse the framed photo perched on the end table—the one Olive had given Dad last Christmas. It was from the state fair, taken on a night so perfect it felt untouchable. We were standing in front of the Ferris Wheel, its lights painting the dark sky in neon swirls. Dad had his arm slung over Olive’s shoulder, grinning like the proudest Papa on earth. Camille and I stood on each side of them so that Olive was front and center. She was glowing with excitement, her head tilted back in a laugh that felt as big as the night itself.

She’d convinced a complete stranger—a frazzled mom juggling a toddler and a basket of fried Oreos—to pause long enough to take the picture. With her signature smile and charm no one could resist, Olive had made it seem like it was the woman’s idea to begin with. I’d watched her, amazed, wondering what she might do with that gift of hers. She had this rare way of making people feel seen, heard, and willing to go along with whatever she asked. It wasn’t manipulation—it was magic, pure and simple. I used to think she’d change the world with that kind of power, but now I’d never get the chance to see it. That thought hit harder than anything else, sharp and unrelenting, a reminder of everything that would never be.

Camille waited for my response, her expression a careful mix of patience and sadness, yet somehow so composed it was almost unfair. Next to her, my grief felt messy and loud, and I couldn’t help but feel like I should be doing better—for her, if not for myself.

“He left it tous?” I asked. “What are we supposed to do with it? Turn it into a museum? Live here? Sell it? Throw everything in a dumpster and burn it to the ground?” The last part came out sharper than I’d meant, but anger was the only emotion that felt safe, and the house was the only target that I wouldn’t have to beg for forgiveness later. Dad’s house used to be a warm blanket, the last bastion when life was going to shit, but now it was a shrine to everything I’d lost. Everything we’d all lost.

“We have to keep it,” Camille said. “We have to. We… we could live here, combine our stuff with theirs, make it ours while still honoring their memory.”

I laughed, and it sounded wrong, even to me. “Combine? What, like mixing your coffee cups? Throw Mom’s crystals in with our shot glass collection? What about the rest? Do we pack their lives into boxes and drawers? How do we make this house ours when everything in it screamstheirs?”

Her eyes softened, and she leaned forward. “We figure it out, baby. One piece at a time.”

She made it sound simple, like breathing, but the idea of picking through my parents’ things felt like trying to walk through quicksand. Every step would drag me deeper.

“I still expect them to be here,” I admitted, my voice breaking like a cheap guitar string. “Every time I walk in, I think Dad’s going to be sitting in his chair, watching TV. Or Olive will come crashing in with her backpack, yelling about some idea she had. I can’t… I don’t know if I could do it. I don’t know if I can be here without them.”

“You don’t have to decide today. Or tomorrow. We’ll figure it out when you’re ready.”

I looked away, back to the floor. The carpet was still there, still worn and unhelpful. “I don’t want to sell it,” I admitted. “But living here feels impossible. Everything reminds me of them.”

“That’s why we make it ours,” she said again, her voice firm this time. “We don’t erase them, Trent. We make it oursandtheirs. This house is a part of you. Of us.”

Her words hit something deep, something I didn’t want to face. She was right, but that didn’t make it easier.

“I’m an orphan,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. They sounded foreign, like they belonged to someone else. “I don’t even really remember my mom, you know? But I remember feeling loved. I remember her holding me. I remember how safe it felt. And Dad? He was everything. He knew everything. What to say, what to do. I used to think being a man happened when you turned eighteen, but it doesn’t. It happens when your dad dies, and you can’t go to him for advice anymore.”

Camille’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them fall. She just crawled over to me and squeezed my hands, like she could hold me together through sheer force of will. “We can’t see them, but they’re with us everywhere we go. You carry everything he’s taught you right there,” she said, touching my chest with her finger.

“Yeah, well, I’d rather look up and see him in that old ass recliner,” I muttered, bitterness coating my words.

She didn’t respond right away, letting the silence settle around us. “You’re not alone in this. You’ve got me. You’ve got your brothers. We’re all still here.”

The truth was too heavy to carry, so I just kept dragging it behind me, hoping it would lose its grip and disappear.

“It’s too big for us anyway,” I said.

“Well, maybe not.”

I frowned and looked up at her. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked about trying for a baby. I was beginning to think she’d decided it was getting too late in the game, and we’d missed our window. Then, I realized I might be off the mark.

“You mean for like… Thanksgiving?” I asked. She wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t imagine holidays anywhere else.

Camille stood abruptly, smoothing her hands over her jeans. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

Before I could reply, she disappeared into the kitchen. I heard a cabinet open, the faint rustle of something being shuffled around. My curiosity spiked, but I stayed put, my mind racing through a thousand possibilities, none of them making any sense.

When she came back, she held a small white gift bag in her hands, the kind you’d find at a boutique, with crisp tissue paper peeking out of the top. She handed it to me, her lips twitching like she was trying to suppress a smile. “Here.”

I looked from the bag to her and back again. “What’s this?”

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