Page 68 of Barbed Wire Fences
I can’t stay even if I think that I want to.
I clear my throat. “Rhett, my whole life is back in Richmond. This was just... a pit stop. A chance to help my mom, not to stay permanently.”
He nods slowly, but the set of his jaw tells me he isn’t accepting that answer—not yet and maybe there’s a part of me that doesn’t want him to either. Maybe I want to pretend that this could somehow work.
“We’ll see about that,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a slight, teasing smile. “I can be pretty persuasive when it’s something I want. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Meeting with the lawyer and my mom to read my father’s will. The appointment was supposed to happen last Tuesday, but it got pushed back because of a scheduling conflict. After that...” I pause, my lips curving into a small smile. “I don’t have any plans. Why?”
“Let me take you out for dinner,” he says, his voice warm and hopeful. “A proper date. And maybe another chance to convince you to stay.”
I roll closer to him, still tangled in his sheets, the scent of him clinging to my skin as I press a soft kiss to his lips.
“I’d like that,” I whisper.
And for the first time in a long while, I let myself pretend what it would feel like to stay.
Chapter 21 – Jael
“Mr. Gibson is in room 103 down the hallway,” the administrative assistant at the law office’s front desk informs me and my mother as she, gestures down the narrow space.
"Thank you."
My mom and I follow her directions, navigating through the stuffy, dimly lit corridor that reeks of the smell of sweat and mold. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that this is the best lawyer my father could afford, frankly, I’m surprised he set up a will at all what with all the money I saw going out the door growing up.
The overworked air conditioner unit is making little impact on the oppressive heat that’s seeping through the outdated windows of the building, and I swear I see a layer of moisture dripping from the cold, stone walls.
“Mr. Gibson?” I knock on the third door to the right.
“Come on in!” his voice booms from behind the doorway as I push it open. He’s a shorter man, standing behind his simple desk and wearing dark black glasses. Looks like one of the guys I saw my dad hanging out with on Thursday nights at the localbar and something about the stench of alcohol that’s burning my nostrils tells me it was probably him.
“Hello. You must be Jael and Meredith Braddock here for Lawrence Braddock’s will reading.”
I nod as we step into the cramped office, the air thick is with the smell of stale coffee and whatever ancient dust the air conditioner is failing to filter out. A single window is blocked by a rattling unit that looks like it’s on its last leg. Two white folding chairs sit in front of a scratched-up desk, their stained surfaces a testament to God-knows-what.
With a sigh, I sink into one of the chairs, which groans under my weight like it might collapse at any moment. I just want to get this over with.
My mom lowers herself into the seat beside me, her knee bouncing nervously as she clicks a cheap ballpoint pen in rapid succession. I don’t know why she even brought it, or the notepad she’s clutching like a lifeline. It’s not like my father left behind anything worth writing down and the noise she’s making is grating on my nerves.
Clearing my throat, I decide to cut to the chase. “My father wasn’t exactly wealthy. Will this take long? I have somewhere I need to be.”
My mom shoots me a sharp glare, her lips thinning as she turns back to Mr. Gibson, the lawyer who looks as worn-down as the furniture around him.
“I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness,” she says, her voice clipped. “I can’t imagine what could possibly be so important that it’s worth rushing through her deceased father’s last wishes and words.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from firing back because I know there’s no use. Engaging in a battle of words with my mother always leaves me feeling frustrated and bad about myself because despite it never phasing her, I hate the person I become when I argue with her.
It’s always been the same. Excuses for my father. Deflections of the real pain and abuse that I suffered from both of them. Even now, she can’t let me feel what I feel without finding some way to paint him as the victim—or worse, the hero in our story.
Her words echo in my mind, years of them seeping into my memory like poison.‘He was a good dad. At least he stayed. At least he didn’t leave us like Rhett’s father did.’
That had always been her refrain. Like staying was some great act of love, as if his drinking, the marks he left on my body, gambling and never showing up to anything important in my life didn’t happen.
He hadn’t left, sure, but he hadn’t really been there, either. And neither had she. And her excuses for him have always been worse than silence. If she’d just said nothing, it might’ve hurt me less.
I grip the arms of the chair to steady myself, my knuckles whitening as the weight of the moment presses down. I’m not sure what’s the worst part about being here, the suffocating air in this office or the memories of the way I’d been mistreated as a child dragging to the surface like they didn’t happen.
“Yes, this will be quick. We went through the necessary processes and procedures for probate, which included finding the executor of his will. Lawrence had named his brother as executor, but unfortunately, he’s also passed away. I was the backup executor, and after reviewing all his assets and debts, notmuch remains.” He hands a small check to both my mother and me.
