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But I need to remember—now’s not really about me. As her ‘will and testament,’ this is Kelsey’s last statement in the world.
Mrs. Rawlings looks as tight as a drum. Tighter than I’ve ever seen her. She’s a tough woman at the best of times, but not flexible. She always seems like she’s stretched as far as she can go, and right now she looks about ready to break. Mr. Rawlings, however, is a different story. A businessman, a CEO. He probably has a lot of practice hiding his emotions, and he looks calm, despite having lost his child.
Not that they ever seemed close. Kelsey sometimes said that he was so good at hiding his emotions that she wondered if there was even anything there to hide. Still, she often played the part of obedient daughter, apple of his eye, even if he didn’t react too much.
I remember her climbing on his lap, after she was a bit too old to be doing such a thing. “Daddy, please, please,” she mewled, affecting a pout. “You said I could have anything I want!” Her face was a mimicry of childhood, perpetual surprise curling her eyebrows, mouth pursed.
He would always fall for it too, despite his lack of outward affection—handing her some crisp hundred-dollar bills from his roll. “Don’t spend that all in one place, Kelsey. Make it last this time.”
They both knew that that was ridiculous. She would spend it in one place. Getting us into some bar with our fake IDs. Buying a bottle, her childhood disguise forgotten, the childish pout turned sexy moue which she would fix on a man by the bar, her hands roaming over his body, making him want her.
I would always stand in the background, sipping my drink. Now I had to wonder if it was all for show. Was she ever friends with me? Or was I just security for her on these nights? Was she the real psychopath, the real expert at hiding her emotions?
The lawyer is droning on. I force myself to pay attention to him. I lean forward on my chair and rub the tops of my legs. I’ve been spending too much time in the bar myself. It’s been a few days since I got back from the Paris trip. I did manage to get my apartment—the one that I promised myself on the plane back home—but I haven’t stayed there yet. Nor have I gotten my dog. Instead I’m camping in my parents’ basement, emerging only to eat a few bites, and then when it gets dark I head out to the city, shrugging into my old role of standing silently sipping my drink returning, only now I am alone.
“I’ll be reading a prepared statement from Kelsey now, written at age twenty-one.” The lawyer licks his fingertip and turns the page. I always thought that was a disgusting habit. “‘Mom and Dad, you might be surprised by the contents of this document, but in all honesty, I never felt loved by you, and due to this, I will not be leaving you anything in my will.’”
Mrs. Rawlings puts her hands up to her face and holds back a sob. Then she turns to her husband, a pleading look in her eye. “How can she say that?” she stage whispers. But Mr. Rawlings stays stony-faced and impassive.
The lawyer continues. I watch for any sign of emotion on his brow, just visible above the paper. For myself, I feel kind of cold. Not really surprised exactly, not shocked that she sent a “fuck you” to her parents at a vulnerable time, but she was never one to avoid interpersonal drama.
Surely, she never thought she would die, though.
Then why did she make a will?
“Ryan, to you I leave my car.” Her brother Ryan sits up. Since her car was totaled in the accident, and she died, they wouldn’t have replaced it. Essentially Ryan still had nothing—not the old chartreuse Karmann Ghia that he might have received and might have been happy to get. I watch him shift in his chair out of the corner of my eye.
“And to Jordan Burke, the one person who ever loved me, to you I leave the contents of my bank account such as it is, and my investments. My family failed me, but you were always there for me in times of trouble, and times of joy.” He hands me a letter. “Here’s a letter. Private communication from Kelsey to you.”
I look around, not sure how to react. Her parents glare at me—a sight that I am already all too familiar with.
The sun is almost blinding as I walk out of the law office. How could she have left me almost a quarter of a million dollars? How had Kelsey gotten ahold of that kind of money? I clutch the letter from her in my hand, the paper crinkling a little at the corners, and shove my hand in my purse. I need to read what she wrote to me as soon as possible, but I want to wait until I am far enough away from her parents and family. The look on their faces looms in my mind. Accusatory, suspicious, incredulous.
Someone hits my shoulder on the sidewalk with their own, bustling past me.
“What the—” I say, but he’s already gone. Manhattan for you. I tighten my grip on the piece of paper. It means as much or more to me than the money. It’s the last message I will ever have from the woman who was, for better or worse, my best friend.
When I turn the corner, I see a small coffee shop. It’s no fancy place with good-looking baristas. But because of that, it’s a perfect hideaway, where I won’t be bothered. I walk in, the door jingling. A woman walks out, drying a mug with a dishrag.
“What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have a coffee and uh...” I glance at a glass-covered container. “A piece of pie.” I might need some fortifications to get through this.
“Coming right up,” she says, motioning to the small row of tables up against the wall. “Sit wherever you like.”
“Thanks.” I’m still clutching the paper in my hand, my fingers beginning to ache a little. I can barely contain myself. It’s not excitement exactly, and it’s not anxiety. What could she possibly want to tell me?
I pull the chair out and sit down, looking around. There are only two other patrons in the place, and they seem caught up in their own business.
I pull out the envelope, smoothing it against the chipped Formica table. My heart is beating fast. Oh Kelsey, how did we get to this point? Why aren’t we both here together right now, just having a diner breakfast? Why are you only a letter to me, and a strange inheritance?
The waitress sets down the coffee and pie with a smile. “There you are. Free refills.”
“Thanks.” I might need them. Involuntarily I shiver. My mother used to say I would get cold whenever I was emotional, and now it’s become a bit of a sign to me that I am not exactly handling things well once I start shivering.
My mind goes back to King, and his hands on me, slithering up and down my body, stealing sensations out of me, making me feel. I needed it, because otherwise I was grieving too hard. Too much.
The envelope just sits there. It’s mocking me with its false innocuousness. Why does it scare me so? It’s just paper. I take another sip of my coffee. For all I know, it could be a sweet message that just tells me she loves me and wants the best for me. So why does it remind me of King and his desire? What could Kelsey have done to make this money?
