Page 2 of Stitched Up in You
A sound somewhere between a sigh and a dissatisfied groan escapes my mouth when I glance at the time on my phone. I only have a few hours before it’s time to pick him up and do a crap load of other stuff, but I realize it's super late in Romania right now and she’s awake. Last I spoke to her, she was having issues sleeping, but mentioned wanting to get on a better sleep schedule.
Me: Go to bed, Vamperella.
Aubrey: FINE. Give Edgar Allan Paw snuggles for me. xx
I click to dim the phone. My best friend living in Romania hasn’t been the easiest. Ever since we were little girls, we’ve been inseparable, but I guess I can’t blame her since she’s living in a castle and dating Dracula. The bitch.
Am I a little bit salty she managed to find a vampire while not even trying? Yes, yes, I am. But I also love the shit out of her so I’m going to be supportive. Once the estate is settled and this house sells, I’m heading to Romania for a much-needed vacation.
It’ll be really cool to see Doyle again too, Dracula’s werewolf bestie, and see if the poor guy is still hung up on the chef he couldn’t stop talking about.
My nose wrinkles as my gaze travels across the room, taking in all the papery debris.
Honestly, anywhere but here would be a vacation at this point.
It’s going to take forever to get through all of this. The unpaid bills alone are a mountain of envelopes, and I’m slowly coming to accept that Grandma stopped paying some of her bills way before Harold thought to start skimming funds off the top. Some are even dated from five years ago, which makes me feel even worse for not checking in sooner.
I open my laptop to put some tunes in my ears and notice my editor has a new command I don’t remember adding before I called Harold, and my brows scrunch into a scowl.
What is that doing there?
The beginnings of a headache pulses at the back of my head, and I let out a curse.
Hours later,I’ve barely put a dent in the envelopes. The whole pile might as well be Erebor, and the debt collectors Smaug. Each white sheet creates a damning mountain of debt that’s probably going to take everything Harold managed to swindle to settle it off.
I toss my phone onto the large cream-colored sofa and rub my hands over my face in frustration. It’s been a hard day hearing how badly my grandparent’s fortune has been squandered, not to mention how out of the last thirty-odd people I have called, most have barely offered condolences and would rather put me on hold. I consider myself better than most at handling the death of a loved one, but hearing an automated system rattle off a fax number to forward the death certificate is a new level of cringe I didn’t know existed.
Banks are unfeeling assholes.
I glare at the mountain. I just want to grab some sherbert and watchGolden Girlsreruns until I feel better, like Grandma would have wanted. The woman would scoff at any daytime television but wouldn’t miss an episode of Betty White.
We may have butted heads a lot when I was a kid, so much that I hated her, but as an adult I’ve come to realize why she was hard as nails and so stern all the time.
A blueblood is what Granddad called her, and she was a hoity-toity bitch because of it too. But being the daughter of an Earl meant my grandma, Maryanne Theodosia Crenshaw, was born a Lady, and she thought that meant she was owed something—by everyone.
She also assumed having a granddaughter meant a little girl to parade in her social circles and show off at polo matches, which didn’t work out too well for either of us. At least it didn’t after she found out about my horse bets with the polo club boys.
The one thing I inherited from her for certain is the stubborn streak. Granddad used to say that when we would argue, it was like dancing on razor blades around the house.
My shoulders slump. I’m going to miss her so much.
I get to my feet and stretch, twisting my arms above my head with a groan of relief, only for my shoulders to slump hard the next second along with the realization I’m going to have to find my pants again soon.
What a crap day. The first I’ve been alone for over a month, and I can’t wait to go back home. What was supposed to be a simple stay with Grandma for a couple of weeks until she got back on her feet or at least got a set up for nurses to come visit, quickly went sideways. Six weeks later she just goes in her sleep, peacefully, and I’m left here dealing with the aftermath alone, as usual.
My phone vibrates against the couch cushion, and I find a text message from the veterinary clinic, letting me know Edgar Allan Paw, my cat, is finally ready to be picked up from their office.
My socked feet slide across the smooth wood floors, and I barely stop myself from eating the doorjamb with my face on my way back to my grandfather’s study as my hands grab the door for purchase.
I snatch up my pants from where I’d left them in a small pile behind the desk, and move to shuck them on, jumping a bit to pull the waistline over my soft tummy before shoving my phone into my back pocket.
I steadily make my way toward the front parlor, grabbing my clutch wallet and everything I’ll need to check Edgar out ofthe clinic as I go, before shoving my socked feet into my tennis shoes, cringing at having to put on shoes at all.
I make sure to grab the short handle to Edgar’s cat carrier on my way out the front door and check that I have a soft blanket inside for him before I lock up and make my way down the brief steps to the busy street below.
Edgar, my big gray ragdoll cat, has been escaping from my apartment, and now the brownstone, for the last six months. The last time it took hours to find him as the little shit likes to escape from the doors like a twitchy bandit every chance he gets. The vet I left him with this morning assured me that scheduling him to get neutered would be the best thing for Edgar and make sure he doesn’t become a very handsome daddy soon. I just hope he’s alright and they’re giving him the good drugs.
The sun is still high in the sky thankfully, but I curse myself inwardly all the same for forgetting to bring an umbrella. It rains as many days as it doesn’t in Atlanta, and being stuck in a downpour without an umbrella and a very pissed off cat does not sound like a good time to me.
