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That money was bequeathed to me in their will and is currently sitting in the bank, collecting dust.
It’s not that I don’t have expensive tastes, I’m just not sure how to spend their money when they’re no longer here.
As stupid as it sounds, touching what’s theirs, money I’m sure they had a plan for… it feels like closing the door on our old life.
I’ve grieved my parents. I’ve gone to therapy and done grief counseling. I’ve visited their graves and said my goodbyes.
But no one teaches you how to move on without the most important people in your life, let alone being given things of theirs and claiming them as your own like a thief, as if they were simply never there.
Shaking those thoughts away, I focus on Bellamy. I round the kitchen island and give her a loose side hug.
“Understood.” I tell her, “What are you making?”
“Just some chicken noodle soup, nothing fancy.”
It may not be fancy, but it smells and looks amazing.
“Hands off.”
I turn towards the glacial voice and come face to face with Rogue. He’s standing in the doorway, glaring at me.
Or more specifically, at my arm where it rests on Bellamy’s shoulder.
“In fact, fuck off.”
“Actually, Bellamy promised me some soup. Said I could have the first taste and everything.” I tell him innocently.
She lifts a questioning eyebrow in my direction but watches this play out.
“I thought you wanted to play in the Premier League.” He says, his voice matter of fact as he apparently changes the subject.
“I do.”
“No, it looks like you really don’t, Rhys.” He warns, his tone dropping to a level that’s low and vicious.
“Heard you loud and clear on that one, mate.” I say, tossing Bellamy a wink as I head out. “I’ll catch some of those leftovers later.”
I walk past Rogue, successfully avoiding the sharp elbow he throws in my direction on the way out.
???
Upstairs, I find Phoenix sitting in the dark library, quietly readingThe Count of Monte Cristo.
“Why am I not surprised to find you reading stories of love and betrayal?” I ask him, dropping into a lounge chair in front of him. “Feels almost too on the nose.”
“What do you mean?” He turns the page, not bothering to look up.
“Love. Betrayal.” I say, waving my hand along with the words. “You. Sixtine.” I wave it again.
This time, his eyes snap up to meet mine.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Technically, me neither.” I tell him, because I don’t.
Phoenix has never told us the reason he hates Six, an ex-childhood friend of ours and also potentially the nicest person I’ve ever met.
When he’d announced one day that she was dead to us, we’d blindly agreed and hadn’t questioned the order. Mostly because we were immature boys, but also because he’d been absolutely devastated.
