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“How did you know about the Bugatti?” The Bugatti Royale Coupe was dad’s 1927 antique car, and a sensitive topic. Currently in charred remains in the detached garage. Why the hell would he want to buy that?
Striding away from the fireplace, he opened the black, Ludlow trunk where my father kept his secret liquor stash. I could only stare at him in astonishment as he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. “I know many things.” He replaced the lid with a smug smile, tipping his glass at me.
“Clearly.” I scowled at him and his arrogance. “But how?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me, it does.”
He didn’t answer, and I stared at the shadow of stubble across his throat as he drank the strong whiskey without wincing. The sound of his swallow was subtle yet somehow deafening in the room, only amplifying his large and powerful stature. I felt small and inconsequential compared to him.
“How much? Give me a number.”
“Just a number.” I scoffed. He said it like it would be so easy to part with these things, so special to Callie and me.
“I’m sorry? What did you say?”
“I said, that's mighty presumptuous of you. What makes you think I’m selling the home?”
He looked around the room, taking in the old and outdated damask curtains, the black, worn velvet sofa. The red and gold rug that was tattered at the ends. The grey bucket in the corner, collecting rain water.
The leaky roof had damaged hardwood where water had pooled, unseen. Lights shorted when switched on—likely needing an electrician. More issues probably lurked, undiscovered.
His meaning was clear.
The house was old and in need of updating. Taking care of it would also be a lot of work.
And yet, all these things didn't bother me. This place was home. I didn’t even see those things anymore. Instead, I saw the couch where my dad used to sit and smoke a cigar while staring out the window, musing and watching the rain. He would sling his arm around my mom while she read a book by the light of the dusty, blue, Tiffany lamp. Callie and I used to make s’mores from this fireplace.
And the tattered rug, we’d purchased from a street vendor from Marrakesh, Morocco, on a family vacation.
This man might have a new and fancy apartment in town, but I loved my home. I grew up in this place. It held the only memories of my mom, and now my dad.
I pulled my legs up to my chest, settling further back into the sofa, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. The mug clutched in my fingers was a shield between him and me.
I didn’t want to think about this.
He clearly didn't read my cues, or didn't want to. He sat on the wooden coffee table, scooting forward so that he was inches from me, his sharp gaze on my face. “Tell me, what’s your hesitation?”
I couldn't look him in the eyes, and instead took another sip, then shifted my legs again just to have something to do. My reasons were too personal to share with a stranger. Finally, I answered. “Does it matter?” I echoed his words from before.
My mug suddenly disappeared and, with a solid clink, was on the coffee table. Legs slightly spread to exude big-dick-energy, his hands loosely placed between them, he commanded, "Tell me. Why not? What would it take? Something other than money?”
Despite the rain, his shirt was still crisp, his narrow black tie similar to the one he'd worn at the funeral. I suddenly imagined him having twenty of the same black ties lined up in his closet—it wasn't time-efficient to have to pick between colors.
"How many ties do you own?" I was genuinely curious. "And are they all black?"
He gaped at me, the only sign of any kind of imperfection, but it was quickly wiped from his face. "Too many to count. Stop trying to change the subject."
"But are they all black?"
"I have some silver ones."
Frowning, I shook my head, allowing my messy hair to fall into my eyes. "Too bad."
“And why is that?" Was that a twinge of humor to his lips?
"Because I like colorful ties. It shows personality."
