Page 84 of One Last Thing Before You Go

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” she asks, biting her lip.

I shrug as casually as I can. “I have to deal with his things at some point, don’t I? I can’t just leave these things forever. And who knows? Maybe there are more valuable books in here that will help us out with the renovation.”

“Do you want to go through them all at once? Or go slow?” Her voice is soft, cautious. Measured so as not to pressure or scare me. Unconsciously, she pulls her sweater over her stomach, which looks especially bloated today. Not that I care. She’s beautiful either way. But it does make me wonder if that’s what her health problems are about. Is it some digestive thing?

Like Crohn’s or something? She mentioned needles. Do Crohn’s patients require treatments with needles?

I wish she’d tell me. I wish she’d let me be there for her like she’s here for me now.

“Knox?”

I smile, heart tightening in my chest like it does every time I look at her. “I’m good. We can do whatever.” She doesn’t know that having her close is enough for me to keep it together.

“I only ask because I need to go home soon and don’t want you to go through them alone.

So if you want to do them all at once, we should probably set some time aside for tomorrow. Otherwise, we can do one tonight and then open the rest over the next couple of days.” She puts her hands on her hips, biting on her lower lip as she gazes down at all the boxes. Sexy Project Manager Lottie is back, but she isn’t all business. Behind her serious voice, I can tell she’s concerned.

I take her hand and kiss the back of it. “I’m good,” I murmur against her skin. “We can do one tonight. The rest another time. That okay?”

She nods seriously, eyes wide. “Whatever you need. I can take the day off tomorrow. I’ll just text Jenn quickly letting her know…”

While she does that, I pull the box closest to me and open it, heart racing. Two hours ago, I was wrapping up some last-minute to-do’s, completely unconcerned by what I had planned for us tonight. But now, faced with having to go through my father’s remains, I can’t think of anything I’d want to do less.

Notebooks. Dozens of notebooks.

I’m frozen to the spot, a memory unlocked in my brain: Walter journaling first thing in the morning, last thing before going to bed. In black leather-bound journals that looked exactly like these.

Sensing my sudden distress, Lottie comes to my side, places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “What is it?” But when her eyes land on the box in front of me, I’m pretty sure she knows exactly what I’m looking at.

“Oh. You… You don’t have to read them right now. Or ever.”

But the temptation is too big, to find out what Walter really thought about me all these years. Mixed signals, and all that.

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” She rubs my back in circular motions, and I want to lean into it. But I can’t make myself move. Or talk.

I potentially hold in front of me the answers to so many questions I was left with. And so many more I haven’t dared to even dream of.

“Fuck,” I groan, rubbing my eyes, squeezing them shut. “No. I can’t deal with the journals now.”

“Do you want to stop?”

I shake my head, because even though I can’t handle Walter’s deepest thoughts at this exact moment, part of me needs something now. Something to feed my curiosity.

She rummages around another box, double-checking it, I guess, before revealing its contents to me. Making sure it’s safe. Taking care of me when all I want is to take care of her.

“Let’s try this one; it’s full of photos and knick-knacks. Might be fun to see pictures of a young Walter. We can do the rest tomorrow.”

I brace myself, take a deep breath, and turn towards her. With careful eyes, she pushes the heavy box toward me, and I dig into part of what’s left of my father.

The next day, I pace anxiously around the office, sipping coffee, not really tasting it. Lottie’s an hour late and hasn’t replied to a single one of my texts. We were supposed to meet to go through the rest of Walter’s boxes today. Did she forget? Does she not know how torturous it was to sleep in the same room as those goddamn journals all night? It’s why I’ve been mainlining caffeine—I could barely sleep. That, and the fact that I didn’t have Lottie in my bed last night, something I’ve grown used to way too soon.

I glance at the clock above the sideboard once more, my anxiety building. The nauseating feeling in the pit of my stomach grows as I let my mind wander through catastrophic scenarios— any and all my mind can come up with. Did she get in an accident? Is she okay? The light drizzle from earlier this morning could have caused a speeding car to slip on the road, crash into her.

My stomach rolls again, coffee rising. Before I accidentally drop my mug, I set it on my dad’s desk.

Walter.

Walter’s desk.