Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save the business,” I tell them. I know that my apologies aren’t necessary. My parents were understanding people, especially when it came to me, and if they were watching me over the past few years, then, they know I sacrificed finishing high school, going to college, and generally everything else a teenage girl normally does to keep Leary Real Estate afloat. Hopefully, the little bit of money I have left will float me until I can find a job. One where the company is willing to hire someone with no high school diploma and only ‘worked for my dead parents’ company’ on their resume.
I kiss my fingertips and press them to the top of the headstone. “I love you both. So much. I miss you. Every day. I wish you were here. I could really use one of your hugs, Mom. And Dad, I could go for a cheesy dad joke right about now, and I promise I wouldn’t make fun of you for it.” I sniffle. “Okay, you and I both know that’s a lie.” I set down the bouquet of purple tulips on the base of the headstone. “Until next time.”
The air in the cemetery is muggy and warm. Too warm for the black pencil skirt with matching blazer I’m wearing, but I’m dressed this way for a reason. Because today, I have one more official stop to make as a representative of Leary Real Estate. My heels sink into the soft earth as I make my way back to my waiting Uber because I’m a responsible day drinker.
Bring the vodka. Leave the car.
The driver starts the car. Our next stop is the now empty Leary Real Estate office so I can drop off the keys and the final payment to the landlord.
I press my forehead to the window, looking out over the cemetery as we pass through the sea of headstones on the way back to the main gate.
“Even in the grave, all is not lost,” I mutter, but even an EAP quote doesn’t give me any comfort today, because Edgar Allan Poe may not feel like all is not lost, even in the grave, but then again, he isn’t leaving the cemetery where his parents are buried.
I pull my flask from my purse and tip it up. I catch the Uber driver’s concerned look in the rearview.
At least, someone cares.
After the visit to the cemetery, lamenting about the past, and dropping off the keys, I’m emotionally spent. I make one last stop at the liquor store before the Uber takes me home.
He drops me off at the gate, and I hit the clicker on my keychain. It swings open, and with vodka in one hand and my muddy heels in the other, I walk up the long drive. I hit another button on my clicker, and the doors of all three garage bays slowly open, but they’re empty, save for my car in the bay on the far right.
I expect Jared to be home, since his office closed hours ago, but his Bentley isn’t here. His trip is tomorrow. I check my watch. It’s only seven. He’s probably just running a little late.
Inside, the house is completely dark. I click on the light and toss my shoes to the floor.
I hear a board creak upstairs. There’s a light on in our bedroom. “Jared? Is that you? Where’s your car?” I call out. Maybe, he had drinks with some of his employees and Ubered home. Maybe, I’m rubbing off on him, after all.
Another creak.
“The company is officially closed, and years of hard work are now officially all for nothing. My calendar is clear until I get another job, so get down here and help me drown my sorrows, or at least, keep me company while I drown them myself.” I wave the bottle of vodka around in the air, expecting Jared’s head to pop out of our bedroom at any moment.
“Jared?” I ask again, when said head doesn’t appear.
Still, no answer.
I take my phone out of my pocket and remove my blazer, tossing it over one of the dining room chairs, and head up the stairs. All of our bedroom lights are on, but there’s no Jared. It smells like a hospital, like cleaning supplies and bleach. Either Jared cleaned for the first time ever, or the more likely explanation, the maid came early this week.
“Stupid creaky, wood floors,” I mutter to myself. For someone who watched entirely way too many horror movies as a child, these noisy floors have caused me at least a few dozen sleepless nights. Well, I choose to blame them for my sleepless nights, they may not have always been the reason.
I turn the lights off in the bedroom and notice that Jared’s closet light is still on. I dial Jared on my phone and immediately get the three-toned sound you get when a line has been disconnected. I must have hit the wrong speed-dial button, or there’s an issue with his cell service. I pad across the room and reach behind his closet door feeling for the light switch. I try calling him again. Same tones. Weird.