Page 4 of When We Were Us
Mr. Bunny—my stuffed bunny my dad won for me at the Huckleberry Festival the year before my mom left—sits on a chair next to the window. He’s missing an eye, and his stuffing is bulging out in spots, making him look extra ragged.
“The salt and pepper shakers are the same, and granddad’s slippers are right next to the coffee table. It’s like I stepped back into my childhood.” I pause in my unpacking and gaze around the room. “Everything still looks so lived in.”
I wasn’t surprised when I got the call from Harold Sherman, my granddad’s estate lawyer, informing me that I was the sole executor of his estate. Obviously, I was the only living relative. So, it stood to reason that I would inherit the house. But it didn’tseem right. With the current state of my life, I didn’t feel qualified to take care of a cactus.
Because there was a trust, and my granddad had no debt, Harold assured me that everything could be taken care of via email and phone calls for the most part. But there was no way I wanted random strangers cleaning out their house, rummaging through their things.
Selling it would probably be the least challenging of the problems I was facing. I made a mental note to call around to donation centers and shelters for the clothing and household items after getting in touch with the realtor Harold suggested.
I hated the circumstances, but I was grateful for the refuge this house was. Coming back here might give me some time to clear my head, to figure out how I was going to deal with my failed relationship, and the fact that everything I’ve been building for three years is suddenly in jeopardy. Being among my grandparents’ things is hard, but I’m hoping it’ll give me some closure.
Standing in the home they built together for seventy-plus years, I can’t help but see the vast difference between how their lives had turned out and mine.
“I can only imagine. I’m sure when it’s time to clean out my grandparents’ house, we’ll have to call Hoarders. I think Grams still has plastic baggies she bought during the Reagan administration.”
Ginger’s maternal grandparents were the epitome of pack rats. Growing up in their house was the reason her mother was such a neat freak and had raised her daughter to live as a minimalist.
“Speaking of wrinkled, old dudes, Derek stopped by here this morning.” She crunches through another chip, apparently still eating.
I choke out a laugh. Even at almost forty-six, Ginger’s description of Derek’s “advanced age” is grossly inaccurate andalmost makes me forget to be mad that he showed up unannounced at her place, looking for me.Almost.
“What did he say?” I ask through a half groan, half laugh, and not sure I really want to know.
We haven't spoken in almost three weeks—not for a lack of trying on his part. He’s been crashing at a friend’s place, which I am guessing is code for shacking up with his much younger mistress. It was probably childish of me to dodge his texts, but I couldn’t help it.
“I didn’t give him a chance to say much. He wanted to know where you were, since you weren't at the condo. I told him it wasn’t any of his business. He left his card and told me to tell you to call him if I heard from you, and that you two hadthings to discuss.” She puts emphasis on the words, and I imagine her holding up finger quotes and rolling her eyes at that last bit.
I actually do roll my eyes at him leaving his card. It’s such a douche move, like I might not remember his cell number after mere weeks.
Looking back over our three-year relationship, I should have seen the signs. Derek and I were extremely driven by work. Even when we were together, that seemed to be all we talked about, and vacations and time away always seemed to be the last things on our minds.
I think our love of veterinary medicine was the strongest bond we had. Although I thought we would make a life together, we were more comfortable than in love. It was easy being with someone whose singular focus matched your own.
I know Derek wants the condo but given the fact that he was the one who cheated, I really don't think he is in any position to be demanding things the way he is. I’m not even sure that I want to live in the condo now. Every time I set foot in there, all I see are the things I’d bought to fill it, the plans I’d made there, and things that were no longer an option for us.
Derek had never been much of an active participant inmaking it a home, but I figured that was just a guy thing. Any time I asked him what he thought of a piece of art or a rug, he’d say to just pick whatever I liked.
But there were other things, too. Things I overlooked and chalked up to personality or age difference. He didn’t really like spending time with Ginger, and was never an overly affectionate man, but some people just weren't, I guess.
The only kind of passion I ever saw between my parents was when they were fighting. So, it never struck me as odd until recently. I can’t say I was happy in the relationship, but it was all secondary to work. For both of us. We spent so much of our time working that it left little time for anything else. Even intimacy became almost nonexistent toward the end. Of course, now I know why.
Derek and I hadn’t been intimate in, what? Four, maybe five months? Shouldn’t I know that? How long it’s been since my ex-fiancé and I have had actual sex? Even the night he proposed, we went right to bed without so much as a kiss, having to be up early the next day. I did bring it up several times over the last few months, but he would kiss me on the cheek and tell me he was tired or had a tough case that week that was mentally draining him. He even said he thought maybe his age was playing a factor in his lack of sex drive.
Ginger had been telling me for years that it wasn’t normal, and on some level, I knew that. But in the three years we’d been serious, sex was typically very bland: lights off, missionary only, and never anything else. From the very beginning of our relationship, Derek made it clear that he did not like giving or receiving oral sex. In hindsight, that should have been a gigantic red flag. But, with the exception of a couple of fumbling times with one other guy in college, sex with Derek was all I knew.
The day after I caught him with Tracy, I got the call about my granddad; he’d passed away in his sleep. When his home healthaide showed up to help him shower and shave for the day, he didn’t answer the door.
The detective that called me said his aide knew where to locate the spare key since my granddad was hard of hearing and didn't always know when someone was at the door. She found him still tucked into bed, having passed sometime in the night.
I knew I would need a couple of weeks to wrap up a few urgent cases before I could even think of leaving for Timber Forge. So, I’d given them the go-ahead to proceed with his final wish of cremation. Even now, thinking about him dying all alone in this big house makes my stomach turn.
As soon as I was able, I took the first flight I could find back to Montana. I didn’t bother telling Derek where I was going. I just arranged for one of our colleagues to take the handful of cases I had for the next month and left.
It honestly wouldn’t take much for him to figure out why I’d left if he’d bothered to ask one time how I was doing. Since every single one of his messages was to either demand something or berate me for not doing exactly what he wanted on his timeline, he could kick rocks.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with him at all.”
“It’s fine. Besides, I had the satisfaction of slamming the door in his mummified face after he handed me that stupid business card.”
