Page 38 of Precious Legacy

Despite our family name and everything it stands for, we live in a humble little neighborhood, in a two-story townhouse that sits on a quaint street. It depicts the exact opposite of what this family is, but I know that’s what we need when you’re running the businesses our families do.

Apparently, our house has been in the family for a few generations, dating back to when my great-grandfather lived here. A lot has happened in this place, and I meana lot.My great grandfather died here, along with my great aunt. Then my grandfather and uncle died here before my dad took over. It should be haunted with the amount of death it’s seen, but the only times we’ve been scared is when my brother and I used to prank each other. Most of the time, we would hide in eachother’s closets and make sounds or move each other’s stuff. In our life, there are far scarier things than ghosts and ghouls, so jump-scaring each other is child’s play in comparison.

There’s so much history clinging to these walls that my dad has never been willing to let go of it. My mom once said that this is my dad’s safe place, despite the pain this house saw. Maybe that’s why they never left; because she felt just as safe as he did. We’re the only family mom has, so it’s understandable that she might feel some familial connection here, too. She used to tell me that things only get better because we want them to be, and I try to embrace that saying as much as possible.

“You still got your bike, Lani?” Dad asks from the other side of the kitchen, where he’s staring out the window that faces the street.

“Yes,” I reply, arching a brow.

Dad sips his whiskey, deep in thought. He’s focused on something outside, though I don’t know what. It can’t be my bike—I don’t have it with me since mom picked me up.

“You getting it serviced regularly?” he asks.

“Dad,” I sigh. Sometimes he’s about as subtle as a fire alarm.

“What?” He whips his head around to face me, an innocent smile gracing his lips. He approaches the kitchen island and strokes his hand lovingly over my hair. I can tell he’s making an effort, and for a second, I forget that we’re worlds apart from understanding one another. The thought doesn’t even cross my mind that we’re still battling my previous life choices.

“It’s old,” Dad states with a hint of condescension. “I want my precious girl to be safe.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. It’s rare my dad shows fondness for me. Most of the time we’re at each other’s throats, but this kind of affection definitely helps me forget about our warring personalities. I know I should put my differences aside for my mom’s sake. After all, she’s always been on my side.But it’s my dad; we clash. We speak our minds and we’re quick to anger. We don’t hold back and we certainly don’t let our emotions rule us. Me and dad are too alike, and that’s why we butt heads so often. We’re stubborn and hot-headed and until one of us backs down, we’ll never see eye to eye.

“Yes,” I heave a gentle sigh. “It’s up to date with all its services.”

“Why don’t you get a new one?” Varo chimes in. “It must be rattling by now.”

“It’s not even that old!” I laugh, though the look my dad gives me tells me I’m not fooling him. Aunt Lexie gifted it to me a few years ago. It’s in perfect condition, and I’ve never had any problems with it. Hell, I’ve not even had an accident on it, but there’s no denying that every time I mount that bike, I’m risking my life.

“Lani,” my mom admonishes playfully. “It’s like twenty years old!”

Yeah… she’s right. The bike is old, and if I had the money, I’d buy a new one. One like Roman’s with a shiny new trim and sexy wheels. But that’s just a dream because until I start working, I can’t afford shit.

Okay, that’s a lie. My parents have always provided me with whatever I’ve needed. Not in a spoiled way, but a way that ensures I know where the money came from. I respect them, I respect the hard work they’ve both put in to making sure me and my twin have everything. I understand it couldn’t have been easy, which only makes me want to earn my own money; make my own way in the world.

“Well, I can’t afford a new one right now,” I mutter, eager for the subject to drop.

“You’re not in trouble, are you?” Dad asks, placing his glass on the countertop. His hands grip the edge, knuckles whitening like he’s trying to contain his worry. “Because if you are?—”

“No, I’m not in trouble. I just need to be sensible with money. Besides, it was a gift from Aunt Lexie.”

Dad scoffs before pushing away from the counter. I sense that he’s trying not to force the subject, which I’m grateful for. For once, he’s letting me make a decision despite his bumpy relationship with my aunt.

Unfortunately, my brother doesn’t get the memo. “You could afford a new one if you had a job,” he comments as he steals another carrot from the bowl. “Or if you came to work for me.”

Mom slaps his hand, scowling before she moves the vegetables away from him. “Ignore him, sweetie. If you’re struggling, you can always move?—”

“No, he’s right.” I grimace. Even saying the words out loud makes me want to wretch—sometimes I hate that my brother has good points. Since he’s now leading the family, my dad holds more respect for him. Don’t get me wrong, my brother is a good leader; he learned from the best, after all. But sometimes, I wish he’d just shut up.

“Cori said that Haven is excelling in her clinic,” Mom mentions as she takes the roast chicken out of the oven. “Have you thought about doing something like that?”

“What? Slicing and stitching people? No thanks,” I wince. Just the thought of cutting people open makes me queasy. Sure, I could probably handle blood and violence, but holding a knife to someone's flesh just doesn’t appeal to me.

“Not a doctor,” Dad supplies. “But something professional.”

I feel his hand rest on mine, where my fingers grip the corners of a page. It’s folded and worn from where I’ve let my nerves get the better of me without realizing. All this talk about professional jobs is leading down a path I’m not sure I’m ready to navigate just yet, but with only two weeks to go before I actually start my training, I probably should tell my family.

Inhaling deeply, I try to calm the nerves that feel like frayed edges rubbing against concrete. My palms are sweaty, and I have to wipe them over my jeans so I don’t ruin Mom’s magazine even further. “Actually, I have thought about it.”

“You have?” Varo gapes, his eyes wide with surprise. “You want to be a doctor?”

---