Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
I don’t know why, but I immediately attempt to comfort her. “It’s gonna take time to hurt less.”
Her stare shifts to where I’m leaning an arm on the back of Noah’s chair. “Hi, Ryder.”
The nod she’s presented is warm.
Friendly.
“You look like you’re holding up well,” she quietly points out.
“His death didn’t hit me like it did all of you.”
“Is this lip-color wrong for the occasion?” Liz loudly asks our mother.
The interjection causes me to tilt my head slightly to one side on a correction. “Some of you.”
Janet presses her lips together to suppress a snicker.
Regardless of the fact that Janet was the one who cared for Dad in his final days, kept them informed, and went out of her way – according to Noah – to give them access to him in his final stretch, neither wanted her allowed at his funeral. She was willing not to attend to keep the peace yet my brother refused to accept that shit. And I backed him up.
I don’t really know her.
More about her than actually her.
But even from what I know, she’s a better person than the two of them.
“Your suit is nice, Ryder,” my mother unexpectedly compliments from behind me, sending my stare over my shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“Probably stole it,” my sister mumbles at not a low volume.
“Stop it,” Noah swiftly scolds her.
“Actually, Pres bought it.” I send my attention to her. “And she bought the one I wore to the funeral, too.”
“Must be nice to have a sugar mama,” Liz snidely states.
“You’d know considering the number of rich men you’ve ripped off.”
“Enough,” Noah viciously bites, severing the start of a verbal sparring.
“It was nice to see you with Presley again,” Mom speaks once more, summoning my gaze again. “Does she still make that um…jungle bread stuff?”
“Monkey bread,” I casually correct. “And yeah. Her and her mom actually made some for the guests at the get together after Dad’s funeral. The get together you decided not to intend when you found out that wasn’t when his will would be being read.”
Her eyes narrow to slits; however, Janet redirects my attention to her. “That was very thoughtful of them.” Once our stares connect, she adds. “And it was also quite tasty. I would love the recipe for it.”
“I’ll let her know.”
Before anyone else can say something, an impressively dressed Asian gentleman strolls into the room, a briefcase dangling from one hand.
The woman I can hardly believe gave birth to me inquires, “Oh, Janet, is this your brother?”
Seeing Noah’s eyes shut in irritation threatens to make me chuckle.
Fuck.
Just when I think these people can’t get any worse, they do.
“No, Marcy, this is Mr. Chieng,” Janet politely announces. “He was Derek’s – um – Mr. Collins’s estate attorney.”
“You are welcomed to call him Derek,” Noah promptly insists with an adoring grin.
“She shouldn’t be,” Liz huffs from her location. “It’s unprofessional.”
“So is getting a hummer from your wife while you’re supposed to be doing payroll, but it doesn’t stop your husband, does it?” I nonchalantly jab back.
“How do you know about that?!”
He likes to brag.
Noah likes to gossip.
He has many unbecoming qualities – like we all do – but that one is probably my favorite.
“Please proceed, Mr. Chieng,” Noah pushes at a higher volume.
He nods his comprehension prior to moving towards the desk in the middle of the room. “Thank you all for joining me here today.” The briefcase lands on the desk. “As Ms. Liu previously mentioned, I am Mr. Collin’s estate attorney, Peter Chieng.” It’s popped open for his using. “While it is unusual for a reading of the will to still occur in many individual’s opinions, Mr. Collins had specific instructions from the burial matters to stipulations regarding the receiving of your inheritance.”
Yeah.
The fact his funeral consisted of just us, our significant others – that were willing to attend –, Janet and one friend he apparently used to play Backgammon with in the park on Sundays made that shit crystal fucking clear.
“This reading will be brief, and you will all be receiving legal copies of this document as well as the others necessary for collecting what was bestowed upon you.” The man slides a pair of silver glasses out of his dark jacket pocket onto his face and grabs the sheet on top of the file. “To my family – new and old –, thank you for following by my final wishes and keeping this meeting between just you and Peter. I know you all have lives you’re most likely in a rush to get back to, so let me proceed quickly after first encouraging you to take a few lessons from my life. Slow down. Stress less. Appreciate more. For the truth is, at the end of it all, money isn’t what you take away from this life.”
His cliché speech has me whispering my annoyance, “Ohforfuckssake.”