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“You,” I answered with pride of ownership in my ten-year-old voice.
One side of his lips pushed up in a bare minimum of a smile. It was small and reluctant, hardly noticeable. But I noticed. I noticed everything about him. And that right there was the beginning of the end…the moment I fell in love with Noah Callahan. Little did I know that ten years later that so-called love would flame out, crash and burn in spectacular fashion.
Cue the part of the story where the jilted heroine stages a monster comeback, complete with soundtrack featuring Pink, Fergie, Beyoncé…and a little pre-bad girl Taylor Swift if I’m being completely honest.
It took time and hard work. A lot of both. But I did it. All that history we shared, every memory I had of him which was sitting like a precious jewel front and center in my mind was shoved onto a back shelf and forgotten.
I grew up. I moved on. I realized that whatever my ten-year-old self thought was love was nothing but a figment of an overactive imagination, and possibly a touch of heatstroke.
However true all that is, there’s still too much water under the bridge for me to pretend Noah is a stranger. I know my limits. I know my serve needs work. I know my backhand kicks ass. And I know I’m not capable of pretending Noah wasn’t once the source of all my joy––and later, in the words of The Police, the king of pain.
Do I wish I could’ve gotten some closure, some understanding of what happened that night so many years ago? Of course, I do. We never spoke again so, yeah, I wish I could’ve gotten some answers.
However, I’ve accepted that I probably never will and that’s okay too. Sort of. I mean, that’s life. It doesn’t ask for permission to screw you, and it offers no excuses or apologies afterward.
* * *
“So I’m not the executor of the will?” I ask my grandfather’s lawyer, one Timothy Walters, a crusty-looking man in his late seventies. Bald on top, tuffs of gray hair on the sides, handlebar mustache. The whole nine yards. If you do a Google search of country lawyer, this dude’s picture would appear next to the definition.
The car service, the one that picked me up at the airport, the one I asked Oliver not to arrange, drove me straight here. I didn’t even bother changing out of my jeans and latte-stained polo shirt.
The plan is to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Less risk of running into the asshole who nearly ended me. And the quicker I get this over with, the quicker I can return to my life.
“No. What makes you ask?” Walters’ face puckers in confusion.
“Never mind.” Meanwhile, I make a mental note to murder my sister before leaving town. Something about this news makes me uneasy. As if it’s a harbinger of more unpleasant news to come.
Walters looks down at the open file resting on his desk and leafs through some papers while I absently glance around.
The office is small. One wall covered by a bookcase crammed with what appear to be dusty, fake leather books. The other by musty tartan drapes covering a bay window. The only item purchased in this century seems to be the ergonomic desk chair Walters is sitting in. I feel an asthma attack coming on and I’m not even asthmatic.
“Your grandfather did not want a funeral.”
I nod absently. My father called to make sure I didn’t rush back, seeing that there wouldn’t be one. I was relieved to say the least. There would’ve been less than zero chance of avoiding Noah at a funeral and plenty of witnesses to the entire spectacle. And Lord knows there’s nothing this town loves more than a spectacle.
“He left very specific instructions on how he wanted to be remembered. A bronze statue of his last win on Goliath has been commissioned. It’s to be placed in Memorial Park. The mayor has made arrangements to have an unveiling ceremony later this month.”
My attention returns to him at the mention of the unveiling. It crosses my mind that I won’t be here and ignore the pang of guilt that follows. My life’s in London. My training doesn’t stop because I’m injured. I’ve got stuff to do. Kind of. I mean, I could find stuff to do.
Walters meets my thoughtful frown and pushes his round spectacles up his nose with one finger to the bridge. Then he eyeballs the clock on the wall.
“Mr. Callahan is late. Might as well get on with it.”
Come again.
It’s like my brain short-circuits. I blink. I blink some more. I spend an inordinate amount of time imitating a lump of Play Doh.
“Excuse me?” is the best I can do when it sputters back on. After the blow it just sustained, this could very well qualify as a modern-age miracle. Unfortunately with the brain activity comes the pounding of my heart.
