Come As You Are (3 page)

Yep, I was going to be late. Traffic was bad, I hit the lights wrong, and there was construction on University Avenue. But at least the meters at St. Anthony Main took credit cards. I parked, inserted my Visa, stood there for five minutes trying to figure out what I was doing wrong, finally got it to work, and headed across the brick street to the restored stone mill that housed restaurants, cafés, a theater, and offices.

Ordinarily I would enjoy a trip to this part of Minneapolis since it was one of my favorite spots with the falls and the Minneapolis skyline. But not today. Today the view didn’t even touch me.

I entered the old mill at street level, looked up Richard Stinson on the wall directory, then wound around the cavernous building with its brick walls and restored wooden floors until I found the door with the lawyer’s name on it off in the corner of a narrow hallway near the restroom.

I was feeling nauseous again. I thought about ducking inside the restroom but I was already thirty minutes late.

Did you knock on a lawyer’s door? Or just walk in?

I tested the knob. The door opened and I stepped inside a small waiting room. From behind a half-wall a woman peered over her computer, looking at me in a way that said I wasn’t her office’s normal clientele. “May I help you?”

“Molly Young,” I told her. “I have an appointment with Mr. Stinson. I’m sorry. I know I’m late. Traffic was bad.”

She smiled, all cool now. “Go right in. He’s expecting you. The room at the end of the hallway.”

“Thanks.”

As I walked away I heard the rattle of a plastic phone and the receptionist saying, “Your eleven o’clock is here.”

I had no idea what to expect. I knew nothing about lawyers or legal stuff, and my father had never talked to me about his will. I was actually surprised he had one.

The door at the end of the hall was closed but I heard voices indicating Stinson wasn’t alone. I gave a timid tap on the door.

“Come in.”

Suddenly I felt nervous. Not sure why. I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and pushed the door open to find myself at one end of a long narrow table flanked with cushy office chairs. Ceiling lights that were too bright. Some artwork on the walls that looked like it had been picked up at a furniture store. Or maybe not. Maybe it was some original stuff, something anybody with highbrow tastes would immediately recognize.

At the far end of the table, opposite me, opposite the door, sat two people, one on each side. There was Mr. Stinson, hair dry this time. Across from him, dressed in the same plaid shirt I’d seen draped across the hotel chair just a few hours ago, was the guy I’d slept with last night.

Holy crap.

The guy and I stared at each other for what seemed like an hour. What the hell was he doing here? Did he work for Mr. Stinson?

“Take a seat, Ms. Young.” Stinson motioned to the empty chair next to him. Sit? I wanted to turn and run. What the hell? I mean, what the hell? And the guy? He had a what-the-hell look on his face too. Maybe an even bigger what-the-hell than mine. Almost like he’d had a bucket of ice water dumped on his head.

“Um, I don’t want to be rude,” I finally said, still standing in the open door, “but I’d really prefer it just be the two of us.” I unstuck my gaze from the boy-man to latch onto Stinson.

Stinson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I asked you here at eleven o’clock for just that reason, Ms. Young. I wanted to break this to you before you met Ian. Please.” He motioned toward the chair again. “Sit down.”

At that point I realized I was sweating. A lot. Armpits, a trickle running down my spine. My upper lip was wet, and I swiped at it with the back of my fingers, letting the door slam closed behind me. But I didn’t sit down next to either of them. Instead, I dropped into the nearest chair, which happened to be two feet from the door and at the head of the table. With a clang, I dragged my black messenger bag onto the expanse of wood, the metal rings echoing loudly.

“That’s fine,” Stinson said, “if you’d like to sit there.” He cleared his throat, and now I saw that he had several sheets of legal paper in his hands. The will, I presumed.

I didn’t get it. This Ian dude must work for Stinson, but doing what? A student? Sometimes students shadowed professionals. Maybe he was a law student and this was credit. Yeah, that might be it. But the table in front of him was empty. Not a pen or a piece of paper. Maybe he was a courier. Maybe he had to run something to the courthouse or run something to the bank. Whatever needed to be done. I think a will had to be filed at the courthouse. Yeah, I’ll bet that was it. Courier.

I forced myself to breathe. What did it matter? I’d just pretend I didn’t know him. Which wasn’t going to be hard to do since it was the truth.

I glanced at him. He was staring again, but he quickly looked down at his hands, which were folded in front of him.

Stinson cleared his throat. “Dr. Young was very fastidious about his will,” he said. “And he was good about keeping it updated. This latest version was drafted a little less than six months ago.” He passed stapled papers to both of us. “Here’s a copy for each of you.”

Okay, that was weird. A courier wouldn’t actually see the will. That took me back to student. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why is he here?”

“You’ll get it in a moment. Let me direct your attention to the first page where you’ll see that this document was dated six months ago. Then let me direct your attention to the very last page.”

All three of us riffled through the awkward legal-size pages, and there was my father’s bold signature. And there were the signatures of witnesses, along with the notary public’s stamp. That looked right to me.

“Now let’s go back to the second page.” Paper rustled as we all shuffled back. Without encouragement from Stinson, my eyes scanned the text, moving faster as I began to comprehend.

When I was little I was hit by a car and got a compound fracture. The last thing I remembered was lying in the street, seeing my leg bent in a really weird way, a way it shouldn’t bend. And then I heard this roaring in my head, and the screen I was looking at dimmed from the edges in. Almost like an old movie, or like a lens closing. Like right now.

I dug into my bag for my bottled water. I unscrewed the cap and began drinking like crazy. Then I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand like some cowboy in a western. I wanted to dump the entire bottle over my head but I restrained myself.

Stinson was droning on and on, and the guy was silent. He hadn’t said a word. Not a word. But he’d watched the whole water thing. I was pretty sure of that, because I’d felt his eyes on me. Stinson finally stopped reading and looked at me in expectation.

“What does all of it mean?” I didn’t want him to know I hadn’t listened to a word he said.

He coughed and shifted. And now, my brain turned the radio dial, tuning in the lawyer until his words were clear.

“I’m sorry, Molly.”

And he
did
sound sorry. He sounded really sorry.

“I tried to talk your father into giving you a larger cut, but the only thing he left you was a standard sum put in place to keep relatives from contesting the will, and that amount is $500.00. Everything else goes to Ian here.”

“Ian.”

I’d seen the name on the form. Ian Young. We had the same last name.

Who was he? My father’s brother? He was too young to be a brother.

“The house?” I asked.

“I’m sorry.” Stinson removed his glasses, done with this awful job of breaking bad news.

I looked at the guy—Ian. His face was blank. I didn’t have a clue what he was thinking. “Who the hell are you?”

Stinson filled me in. “Ian Young is your father’s birth son.”

My brain stopped, then restarted. Unlike me, my father’s adopted daughter. But a son? I didn’t even know he
had
a son. So this guy was the spawn of Satan. Figured. And now I did wonder if Ian had roofied me. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that.

The room began to dim again, but this time I realized it wasn’t going to stop dimming. And then my stomach kind of pitched.

I scrambled from the chair, tugged open the door, and dove out of the tiny room. I hurried through the waiting area, ripped open the outer door, and ran in the direction of the bathroom I’d passed on the way there, the metal stall door clanging as I made it in time to throw up nothing but water, bile, and Advil.

And all I kept thinking was that I should have jumped.

The sound of the flushing toilet was violent and deafening. I needed to sit down. Why the hell didn’t pubic toilets have lids? “Bloody hell,” I muttered, leaning my forehead against the metal wall of the stall, arms dangling loosely at my sides. Nothing. He’d left me nothing. The bastard monster.

Oh, and I knew damn well why he’d done it. Perfectly well why he’d done it. We’d hardly spoken to each other over the past two years. Well, he’d begged me to move back home, and he’d called, calls that I ignored. But when I applied for college loans I found out my father had to be included in the process because I was under twenty-four. Stupid rule. And so we’d met, and he hugged me, and told me how glad he was that I was going to back school, and how much he missed me.

Now I kind of regretted not being warmer to him. Not because of the money, but because he was dead. Wait. Don’t make a hero out of him, I told myself. Nothing changes when someone dies. Death doesn’t suddenly turn an asshole into a nice guy, or a monster into a saint.

Yeah, I had to hang onto that. Tight. While all of this was going through my head I was also thinking of the guy. I mean, how? How in the hell had it happened?

And now, as I thought of his face, that gorgeous face, I recalled unzipping his pants and cradling him in my hands. And I remembered his stiff penis between my legs.

I heard the outer door open, followed by the hiss of a hydraulic cylinder. I stayed where I was. Eyes closed, forehead against cool metal.

“Hey, you okay?”

A male voice. Young male voice, so I was pretty sure who was standing on the other side of the stall door.

I straightened, fumbled with the catch on the door, pulled it open, and strode to the sink. I didn’t look in the mirror because I was pretty sure my reflection would scare me.

“I didn’t even know you existed,” I told him before I turned on the water and began washing my hands.

“Same here. Well, I knew he had a new family, but that’s all.”

“Ever heard of Google search?”

“I didn’t want to know anything about him. Or what had happened to him.”

I turned off the water and grabbed a handful of paper towels.

I still hadn’t looked at him. Just his boots. Just his jeans, legs crossed as he leaned against the wall.

“So…we’re related,” he said, his voice sounding weird and strained.

I tossed the paper towels in the trash container. And now I looked at him. “Sister lover.” Maybe I wouldn’t tell him the adopted part. Maybe I’d keep that to myself.

The horror on his face made me laugh. I’d hit my mark. I began to wonder if he’d tracked me down. Maybe followed me from the after-funeral party.

“Are you going to keep the house?” I asked, resting a fisted hand at my hip. His arms were crossed over his chest in what looked like a protective gesture.

“I don’t know…” And then his expression changed. “Do you live there? I won’t kick you out. You can stay there until I decide what to do.”

“Oh yeah, that would be handy, wouldn’t it? Me staying with you? I don’t know what kind of sick game this is, but stay the hell away from me. You’re a perv. Just like your dad.”

I shoved against him and past him in a sweep of anger. I heard him coming after me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, catching up with me, grabbing my arm, pulling me back around. “If you’re saying this was all some twisted plan of mine you’re wrong.”

“Oh, and I suppose we just somehow ended up together last night. And I somehow ended up in your bed. And we somehow fucked.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. Because that’s exactly what happened.” I spotted a flash of something. Cunning? Then he dove into his version of last night. “I found you throwing up outside a bar and I asked if you were okay.
You
came onto
me
. And this?” He poked one finger through a circle he made with the fingers of his opposite hand—the international sign for fucking. “It was
all you.
All
you’re idea. You pretty much attacked me. So if anybody is the perv, it’s
you
, not me. And what the hell kind of person goes bar hopping on the day of her father’s funeral?”

He looked disgusted. I wanted to kick him.

Instead I shoved past him, jerked open the door to the lawyer’s office, strode back to the long table, and grabbed my bag.

“Are you leaving?” Stinson asked, hands braced on the arms of his chair.

“I think I’ve heard all I need to hear.”

I had to walk back past Ian, who was still outside the office. I could see his shadow through the door’s beveled glass.

I didn’t look at him.

“I have your cell phone.”

I stopped mid-flight. I turned.

There it was, my iPhone in its pale blue case, looking weird in his hand. Long fingers. The vintage shirt. Shaggy hair that curled around his ears and over his forehead. He hadn’t shaved. He needed to shave. What color were his eyes? Green? Hard to tell in this light.

I snatched the phone from his hand.

Before I could spin away he said, “Be sure to check the photos. I think you’ll find some interesting ones.” He smiled. The kind of smile I’ve used when someone I hate steps in a pile of shit.

“Fuck you.”

“You’ve already done that.”

He went back into the lawyer’s office where he would rake in his piles of money with both hands, and I turned to head… where? Maybe the bar I’d passed on the way in.

* * *

In the bar I took a seat in a dark corner, ordered a beer, and pulled out my phone. I checked my texts first. There were all of the ones from Rose. A string of them asking where I was, telling me she was worried, getting more upset with each one. A few missed calls, one from the lawyer to remind me of today’s appointment, a couple random ones from people at school who didn’t know what had happened, asking about some group project that was due in a few days. Why wasn’t I there?
You need to hold up your end.
That was from some girl named Alice who’d named herself project leader. Another call from a guy named Sabal, who introduced himself as my father’s TA.

“I’m sorry about the timing of my call,” he said in the voicemail, “but I’m taking over your father’s class and I wondered if there was any way I could get access to his notes and syllabus.”

My finger hovered over the delete button. Not my problem, but then I stopped myself, feeling guilty. This poor guy had been left with a mess to fix.

Check out the photos
, Ian had said.

The beer came. I thanked the girl and ordered another. I downed the first one, then hit the photo app on my phone. And there we were. By we I mean Ian and me. I’d been worried, thinking they would be nude photos of me, or penis photos of him, or nudes of us both together. But in a weird way these disturbed me just as much or more. There were probably twenty photos in all, most taken in some booth at a bar. Both of us smiling at the camera. Me, feeding him fries. Me, drinking drinks. A lot of photos of drinks. Me, kissing Ian on the cheek. Ian not seeming to mind. Me. hanging on Ian, wrapping myself around him. The last one? I’d apparently jumped on his back and he was holding me by my legs.

And a fun time was had by all…

I wish I could remember. I especially wish I could remember the sex.