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Gabe hums like he’s trying to be confident for my sake but doesn’t quite believe it. “Sorry I couldn’t come.”
“It’s fine, you need to work.” His twenty-four-hour shifts at the fire station can’t be easy, and the last thing I want to do is add more pressure to his life. Gabe is agoodguy. If he wasn’t scheduled to work, he wouldn’t have given me the option not to take him.
But honestly, no one I live with would impress the Kilpatrick family. Wannabe elitist snobs. Seven doesn’t know how to make it through a conversation without saying something crass, Rush would probably show up halfway through the ceremony since he’s never on time for anything, Xander would talk himself into an allergy halfway through the night, and Madden would have to put on clothes for the event, which is something he hates in general.
Hence, why he never wears anything at home.
The rest of us barely notice anymore.
And Gabe, sweet, sweet Gabe, wouldn’t be able to hold back from standing up for me and saying something that would probably close the door to my family for good.
No, I need someone steady. Professional. Someone who has experience doing this kind of thing regularly.
DatesforRateswill be my savior.
I’m going to get through this.
And my asshole parents are going to regret ever turning their backs on me.
Tonight, I’ve planned everything to a tee. I’m ready. I’m rehearsed. It’ll be like a performance.
Tonight, maybe just for tonight, I’ll win.
I mean, fuck. The universe owes me one—at least.
Chapter 3
Émile
The reading of the will happens before the afternoon memorial, sequestered away in a small room apart from where everyone will be arriving in the next hour. It’s depressing, sitting here and being reminded that Pa is gone. The one person in my family who had time for everyone. It’s like I can hear his heavy French accent grumbling about how formal this whole thing is.
Dad is on his phone and Mom is staring vacant-eyed at the wall. My uncles and aunts and cousins are all here, and for the first time ever, Gran seems reserved. I know they loved each other even if I’m not sure why.
As always, I feel like I’m on the outside looking in, and it’s a bizarre effect to all be mourning the same person for so many different reasons. Even though the majority of the people in the room are hoping to be given the biggest slice of the pie, I know none of us actually wanted him gone.
Elle sighs. “I don’t know why I need to be here. Heaven knows I’m not getting anything.” Her voice is loud in the reserved quiet.
“He may surprise you.”
“Hundreds of years of evidence suggests otherwise.”
She’s right. The money in our family has always been handed down through the male heirs. Sure, Elle has a trust fund as healthy as mine, but when it comes to inheritance, it’s “not needed.” Her husband is supposed to provide for her.
Even if Pa had wanted to change things up, there’s a lot of red tape around what can and can’t be done with the money.
Generational wealth at its finest.
“Thank you all for coming today to the reading of the last will and testimony of Jean Cromwell. He was a smart man, much loved by his family, with considerable assets to be distributed. First, I would like to distribute the letters written by Jean Cromwell. I have one here for his wife, his daughter, his grandsons Clifford Cromwell, Émile Cromwell—”
My head jerks up as he continues reading and when the assistant brings my letter to me, I take it stiffly. It’s in a sealed envelope, unmarked except for my name, and yellowed slightly from age.
That deep ache returns to my chest as I stare at it, dying to open the letter, but not able to make myself. This will be the last of Pa’s words. Ever. And without knowing what it says, I don’t want to read it here with so many people around. I might need privacy to cry or grieve.
A soft tearing noise drags my attention to Neil, one of my other cousins. His gaze flicks over the paper and he frowns, then shakes himself out of it and stuffs the paper into his pocket.
I zone out as the executor talks, not particularly interested in hearing about how the wealthy people in this room are going to become even wealthier. My thoughts are so consumed by what the letter might say, and it’s embarrassing to admit that all I’m hoping for are kind words.
I’m trying so very hard to forget how much I hate this life, just for today, but it’s eating at me, that these people can think they’re good people and walk away, congratulating each other on their swollen bank accounts.
