AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I blinked. “I remember it. Sort of,” I managed. Hazy memories flitted in and out of my racing brain. A long drive from school so he didn’t have to go to a funeral alone. A big house with a lot of windows. “I saw it from the outside once, right after his grandma died.”
The lawyer ran his finger along the page in front of him. “Well ... now it’s yours.”
“What were they going to do with it? They lived in Colorado.”
Chris had never mentioned anything about it to me. Not that we talked weekly or anything, especially during the season.
He’d called me after the news of my injury broke. And like an asshole, all he said was, “Do we get to use one of those parking passes for the close spots now that your knee is fucked up?”
My response had been quick. Told him he was a dick and we’d talk in a couple of weeks, when I started PT.
Busy.
Too busy.
Something that seemed like a cheap excuse now that he was gone.
The lawyer sat back in his chair. “We had one conversation about it, and that’s the extent of what I know. They had plans to completely restore it—with the help of a local expert they hired to manage the project. I don’t believe they intended to live there, at least not full time. It was something of an investment, could be used in any number of ways to generate income. A rental property, an inn, a couple of other options. To the best of my recollection, it was something of a dream of Amie’s, to turn it into a business as a way to honor his grandparents. Her primary goal was to restore it so they could get the historic landmark certification from the state of Michigan.”
Why couldn’t I remember where the house was? I tried to pull in another deep breath, but the oxygen was too thick, too heavy to clear through my stuttering lungs. I’d been there once—put my arm around his shoulder while he pretended like he wasn’t crying when he stared up at their house and tried to make peace with the fact that he couldn’t buy it.
I’d met Chris at the University of Michigan, the same place where he’d met Amie, but I couldn’t recall most of what he’d told me about the house. Once Chris started his professional football career in Colorado and I moved to Dallas, neither of us went back for any significant amount of time—unless it was for a regular-season game in Detroit.
But apparently, my friend had bought the house that he hadn’t been able to afford as a first-year college athlete.
“Where is it again?”
The lawyer consulted his binder. “Grand Traverse County. The northwest part of the state. Right by the water, it looks like.” His eyebrows furrowed as he read. “Pretty impressive property. A few acres. It was locked up in a messy divorce for years with the people who bought it from Chris’s grandparents.”
A steady, crushing pressure built behind my sternum. Was I having a heart attack? I rubbed at my chest bone. “I’m sorry,” I managed. “I don’t ... I don’t understand.”
“Can I call you Burke?” he asked.
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him to fuck off, but I swallowed the impulse. None of this was his fault. Just like it wasn’t my fault either. Somehow, I managed a short nod.
“I know this is a lot to take in, Burke.” An incredulous snort was the best I had for a polite response. He ignored it. “But you’re not alone in this. You won’t have to take on anything by yourself.” He tilted his head. “I think Chris and Amie had a lot of faith in this project manager.”
“Can’t I just ... sell it?”
The look on his face was contemplative, and a little sad. “They didn’t leave clear directives about future plans for the house. All I know is that it meant a lot to them to see it restored. She was excited about the plans.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Does the project manager know about this yet?”
“We tried to get in touch with them,” he said. “C. Cunningham is listed as the restoration expert, but we haven’t been able to get further than mailing a letter and leaving a few unanswered messages with a generic recording on a voice-mail box.” With my eyes closed again, I heard the shuffling of papers and his thoughtful hum. “But they’ve set aside money from their trust to start the necessary renovations, and Cunningham should have no problem facilitating the process of getting the house certified as a historical landmark, which is a significant tax advantage.” He paused. “If that’s what you want.”
Inside my head, a bright, angry mess of feelings fought for top spot.
Frustration and annoyance. Bone-deep sadness and anger that my friend wasn’t here anymore.
I didn’t want an old house.
I didn’t want to deal with project managers or renovation budgets or bureaucracy.
I didn’t wantanyof this.
And once those immediate, petulant thoughts were out in the open, that dread returned. Because the dread was rooted in the fact that I’d never be able to ignore Chris’s wishes.
“Why?” I asked quietly. “He never mentioned this.”
