Page 28 of Of Heather and Thistle
Heather hesitated, then typed back.“Just need a day.”
His reply was immediate.“Got it. I’ll tell Irene something came up. Let me know if you need anything.”
Another pause. Then another text popped up.“Like a hitman. Or a churro. Your call.”
Heather huffed out a breath—almost a laugh. Almost.“Just a day, Marky. Not a crime spree.”
“Fine. But the churro offer stands.”
She sighed, tension slipping from her shoulders. Mark didn’t ask questions—he just had her back.Even when she didn’t have the words, he knew how to make space for her.
Heather tossed the phone onto the bed next to her and let her eyes drift shut again. Just five more minutes. Then she’d get up. Then she’d start figuring out how to put her life back together.
Byrdie, who was curled at the foot of the bed, flicked her tail once.
Heather sighed. “I know, I know. I’ll move in a sec.”
Byrdie didn’t bother looking at her—not fully, anyway. Instead, she cracked one eye open, just enough to say,‘Sure you will.’
Heather groaned. “Traitor.”
Byrdie exhaled slowly and rested her head back on her paws, unimpressed but still waiting.
Heather forced her eyes open, pressing her palms against her face. She flipped her phone to silent and forced herself to move.
She threw herself into mindless tasks—rearranging bookshelves, reorganizing drawers, scrubbing the sink until her knuckles ached. Even cleaning out Byrdie’s litter box, because at least cat shit was easier to deal with than the tangled mess her life had become. But no matter how much she distracted herself, her gaze flickered to the envelope on the counter. The Glenoran paperwork—her inheritance—her mother’s past; Heather’s future.
She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, not with everything else unraveling around her. But now, as she scrubbed the sink with more force than necessary, she realized she wasn’t avoiding the decision to go to Scotland anymore—she’d decided that last night. What she was avoiding was what came next regarding her father’s house.
She sighed again, tossing her kitchen sponge into the sink. There was no easing into this, no careful planning. Scotland wasn’t just an idea anymore—it was happening.
Her eyes drifted toward her mother’s estate documents and, this time, she didn’t hesitate in reading over it to learn more.
* **
By nightfall, after cleaning the entire apartment twice and reorganizing a cabinet that didn’t need it, Heather sat at her kitchen table, laptop open, staring at the email draft she’d been working on for an hour.
Subject:Decision Regarding Sale of the Property.
It was her father’s house: the place she grew up— the place she spent years suffocating in neglect.
She could still smell the brandy that had soaked into the carpet. Could still see the cracked walls, the broken cabinets, the stacks of unpaid bills. The real estate agent had suggested she visit his house before finalizing the sale to take inventory, to see if anything was worth keeping.
Heather’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She could go back to see the house one last time. Maybe she owed it to him. Maybe…
No.
She didn’t owe it to him.
The last time she stood in that house, the stale scent of liquor hung in the air, and his silence pressed against her like a weight. The last time she stood in that house, they were wheeling his body out the front door. Heather swallowed hard, her vision blurring. It wasn’t that she didn’t care; it was that she couldn’t. She had spent enough of her life drowning there. She refused to sink into it again. Her hands trembled as she forced herself to type:
I’ve decided to move forward with selling the house as-is. Please proceed with the listing. I won’t be visiting the property, so feel free to coordinate with the cleanupcrew for access.
She hesitated for only a second before she hit send then stared at the email with her fingers frozen over the keyboard. The words were there; the decision was made. So then why did her chest still ache? Not because she wanted to keep the house—not even close. But because this—this moment right here—was the last time she would ever have to think about it. Wasn’t this the last thread connecting her to the man who was supposed to be her father? It was the house where she spent years tiptoeing around his drinking and temperamental indifference.
Her throat tightened as an uninvited memory surfaced, cutting through her like a blade:
She was nine, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Her dad was at the table with a half-empty bottle in front of him and his head in his hands. She had worked up the courage to say it that night: to tell him that she missed Mom. That she was scared. That she just wanted him to look at her and actually see her—not a shadow of the woman he lost.
