Page 4 of Losing Forever
“Far from here.”
“Where?”
“None of your business.” Like hell I’d tell him where I’m going to hide and start over. He’d follow me. The last thing I want is this shit being brought upon Noah. His family is amazing. They haven’t judged me once, unlike everyone else in my life. Friends. Teammates. Even my former coach looks at me differently.
“What about the money?”
Un-fucking-believable. I slow down long enough to say, “There is no money as far as I’m concerned. Whatever problems you have now are your own. If you contact me again, I’ll use the money to pay for your silence. Even if that means getting involved with the mafia myself.”
Horror shows on Uncle Len’s paling face. “You stay away from them, Grayson. Don’t go anywhere near them.”
“Then don’t come anywhere near me ever again. I’m done with you. You’re dead as far as I’m concerned.”
This time, when I walk away, Len doesn’t follow.
3
Braylee
“Braylee, what do you think about this house?” my cousin Noah asks from his desk behind me.
We’ve only been working at his parents' downtown Clearwater branch for a week. It’s small, with three offices, a waiting area, and a receptionist’s desk. It’s also a fishbowl, with glass walls. Cool if you’re into that, but I prefer a bit of privacy.
One of the offices was already taken by the construction manager, which left the largest in the back and the other. When Noah suggested we leave one for the Realtor and share the office in the back, I agreed without hesitation. There is plenty of space for us to have separate workstations, and I like that it’s not central like everything else.
I swivel in my desk chair and study the house in question. It’s rectangular in shape with dark-green paint, a crumbled driveway, and a semi-flat roof.
“The exterior looks dated and the lawn is either dead or made of dirt,” I say, “but the sidewalk is in good condition. It could be a sign that the neighborhood is nice in terms of resale.”
He chuckles. “You sound like my mom, but that's not what I'm asking.”
If I sound like his mom, it’s because she taught me almost everything she knows. At first, she used it for a reason to speak to me. I didn't talk much after the accident. I spoke even less when I moved to Florida, despite my aunt and uncle’s insistence to include me ineverything.
It’s partly why I enrolled at the local college. At least there I could be left alone.
When Noah moved home after injuring himself during a game at UF and was told he’d never play professionally, I dropped out and neglected my own needs to take care of him.
Who better to help someone through a great loss than a person who’s lost everything?
Aunt Lina, although appreciating my efforts, saw right through what I was doing. Once Noah was back on track, graduating with his degree and following his backup plan to work for the family business, Aunt Lina decided I needed a job, too.
So here I am with Noah—him as a partner and manager, and me the color coordinator in charge of exterior and interior paint, flooring, cabinets, counters, and other decorative accessories.
Pretty sure Aunt Lina invented the job. She said my artist’s eye, along with the classes I’d studied—fine arts and color therapy—made me the perfect candidate. Truth is, she’s afraid if I’m not doing something, I’ll fall into a deep depression. I won't. A person can only cry so much before they dry up. I dried up a while ago.
Now, I'm just a walking, talking human being. I function as I should. I eat, sleep, and converse when necessary. I use color therapy to help myself continue when the guilt gets to me, and I question everything and everyone, including my own existence. I'm living. I just don't know what I'm living for.
“What do you think about the house as a whole?” he asks, suddenly beside me.
He sets his laptop with the listing on my desk and kneels on the floor. He's so tall. Even on his knees, his head is still higher than mine.
“The neighborhood is transforming,” he says. “Based on the comps, there’s room for improvement and a higher sale, but only if you think the house is worth flipping. Does it have the right bones? You're the artist. I trust your opinion.”
I don't think it's about him trusting my opinion as much as it is him not trusting his own. “What do you think?”
He lets out a short laugh. “Are you purposefully avoiding the answers to my questions?”
“No. Sorry.” I study the house closely, looking for everything Aunt Lina says has good investment potential. “How's the roof?”
