Page 2 of Losing Forever
It’s nothing new. I feel bad all the time. Survivor’s guilt, I’m told by my new therapist. Another suggestion from my Aunt Lina. Has she thought about me needing a financial advisor, and does she have a recommendation for that, too?
I stand and force a small smile.“Thank you for your help.I don’t think you’re an idiot, Bob. I think you’re a busy man. I’m sorry I got cranky with you.”
He stands and puts out his hand for me to shake. “You have nothing to apologize for. I am busy but that’s no excuse. Please take care and, again, I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
He doesn’t know the story of what happened to my family. It’s not written on the paper he read, just the logistics—three deceased, one survivor and sole beneficiary. If he knew the story, he’d be a lot sorrier. I am. With every breath, I am—because I should have died, too. But I didn’t, and now I have to live with that.
“Thank you.” I take the folder and make my way to the elevator, leaving the same way I came up.
Rain pelts my hair and face when I walk outside. I don’t run to the car or bother to cover up, although I do tuck the folder inside my sweater to keep it dry. Everything I have left in the world is in this folder. Money that was never meant to be mine. Not this way.
I don’t want it, and I'm certainly not going to spend a dime. I can’t. I didn’t earn this. It’s a payment of death. Each penny is a reminder of that. I can't imagine using it to live a nice life. To have luxuries I don’t deserve. Bob spoke the truth when he said money can’t buy happiness, even though he’d meant it in a sarcastic way. As of today, I’m worth five million dollars and no amount of that money will ever bring me peace or joy.
one year later
2
Grayson
Amassive cloud covers the sun, giving me reprieve from the blazing Florida heat. I should be in my bathing suit, sipping a beer on the balcony of my new Gulf-front home with Noah, the only friend I trust.
Instead, I’m outside a law firm in Winter Park after an hour-long meeting from hell. I glare at the office building as though it wronged me. The exterior, which matches the charm of every other shop and restaurant on Park Avenue, is deceiving. You’d never suspect the place deals with criminal clients like my dad and uncle.
“I can’t believe you tricked me into coming here.” I glare at my uncle, Len.
He said I needed to sign papers to release my name from anything relating to my father and his business accounts. What I signed was ownership to a trust fund of riches my dad earned by embezzling money through his local pawnshops, which now belong to the Feds.
“Would you have come if I’d told you the truth?”
“I would have told you to screw off.”
“Exactly. I had no choice.” He raises his hands, looking like a shorter, bald version of my dad.
“Famous last words,” I grumble.
Dad had said the same thing—I had no choice—to me as the Feds walked him from the house in handcuffs.
“I’m out of here.” I round the building and stalk down the alley, headed for my car in a nearby parking lot.
“Wait.” Uncle Len chases after me. “I thought we could talk about your plans.”
I don’t stop.
“Gray, come on. Don’t be this way.” He grabs my arm.
I jerk free from his grasp. It’s not hard. I’m six two and all muscle from playing baseball most of my life. “Don’t be what way? Pissed? Frustrated? Shocked that this is my fucking life now? How should I be?” I glance at the end of the alley to see if any pedestrians are looking this way. To my relief, no one is there.
“You just inherited a shit-ton of money.” He grins with excitement. “That’s better than having nothing. Your dad wanted you to have it all. The major league. No financial burdens. He doesn’t want what happened to him to ruin your future playing pro ball. Go back and sign the MLB contract. Beg if you have to. Don’t let your dream slip away.”
“You don’t know shit about my dreams.” Playing professional ball was Dad’s childhood fantasy, an unrealistic one he transferred onto me.
I never complained. I was a natural and liked the game. It kept me out of trouble—for the most part—and came with a ton of perks. Attention from girls. Big-man status on campus at UF. Fame from getting drafted. But I don’t ever remember thinkingthis is what I want to be. I let Dad direct my steps and my future because the man was a self-made success story—a true inspiration. Or so I’d thought.
“What can I do to help?” Uncle Len reaches for me again but reconsiders and lowers his hands.
“You can go to hell. Better yet, go to jail where you belong.”
If it weren’t for Len, Dad wouldn’t have got involved with the mafia again. As the older brother, he’s always corrupted Dad. It started when they were kids. I’ve heard the stories. They were poor. Their dad was a drunk. Their mom took off after Dad was born, never to be heard from again. They made money by delivering packages for the mafia. But Dad escaped that life when he and Mom had me. They left the Bronx and moved to Winter Park, Florida for a fresh start. Life was great until my fifteenth birthday, when Len showed up on our doorstep.
