Other than my friends and family, no one has contacted me about Christopher’s death. Not his mother, distant relatives, no one from that part of his life.
No one’s offered condolences.
Or asked questions about his death.
It’s as if he only existed to us.
Until I receive a call.
The call from Christopher’s attorney shocks me, and my hands shake as I schedule a meeting with him … to review Christopher’s last wishes.
Since when did Christopher have an attorney?
After hanging up the phone, I take my Chinese takeout and pop a squat in the laundry room. I open the lid, grab the chopsticks, but drop them when something hits me. Bringing my knees to my chest, I scoot across the floor to rest my back against the wall.
The call confirms everything I’ve been terrified of.
Christopher hadn’t woken up one day and decided he wanted to die.
No, if he talked to an attorney and got his wishes in order, that means this was a well-thought-out plan.
Day after day, he knew he was leaving me.
He’d looked me in the eyes and told me he loved me while knowing he was going to break me in every way possible.
How could he do this to me?
He hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me.
He hadn’t loved me enough to talk to me about it.
It made sense. Christopher’s father had done the same thing. When he was ten, his father purposely ran his car into a tree to kill himself. Christopher said his mother had been relieved that her abusive husband was dead—not that she was any better. That relief morphed into anger when she learned that Christopher’s father set up a will and left the modest insurance policy to his son. He couldn’t touch it until he was eighteen though.
It was the ultimate insult to his mother, and since his father wasn’t there for her to unleash her fury on, she threw it all at Christopher. And he hadn’t only gotten it from her, but his new stepfather as well. To them, Christopher was a thief, stealing the money they deserved.
I want to scream.
He’d planned to leave me.
Christopher is no longer mine.
But I still feel like I’m his.
The office of Haney and Burnett at Law is in a small brick home, converted into an office, fifteen miles outside of town.
My steps are slow as I walk toward the building. At twenty-six, never have I considered making a will, of having last wishes.
An older red-haired woman greets me when I walk in and then directs me to an empty room. My nose twitches. The room smells like old firewood, but there isn’t a fireplace in sight. A circular table crowds most of the room, and four chairs are seated around it.
“Mr. Haney will be with you in a moment,” the woman says with a sincere smile. “The other party will be in here as well.”
I stiffen.
Second party?
I don’t get the chance to ask who this other party is because she’s already left the room. I inhale deep breaths in an attempt to not freak out.
Is it Christopher’s mother?
For the love of God, please don’t let it be his mother.
“Amelia, thank you for coming.” A balding man enters the room. The odor of firewood is overpowered by Old Spice. “Marshall Haney.”
He sticks out his hand, and it’s sweaty when I shake it.
Then, the man behind Marshall is revealed.
I cringe and shuffle back a step, into the wall.
This might be worse than Christopher’s mother.
Behind Marshall is Jax. His face hardens at the sight of me.
My stomach drops, and the room goes quiet for a moment, but the silence is broken when Marshall claps his hands.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Marshall’s voice almost sounds as if he’s making an announcement.
The room suddenly feels smaller, as if we’re being sucked into a vacuum. Jax glares at me, and for the first time in a long time, I allow myself to take him in. His cologne overpowers Marshall’s. Jax has grown from using cheap cologne to smelling like a man walking into a million-dollar business meeting. A man’s man. His style has matured—ripped black jeans, a designer tee, and white Chucks. He went from no facial hair to ruggedness along his cheeks, under his nose, and down his chin and throat.
I struggle to keep my composure as we sit—Jax and I taking a chair on each side of Marshall. Jax stares straight at me, as if I’m something he wishes would disappear, and as much as I want to avoid eye contact with him, I feel that it’d make me look weak, make him think he has the upper hand on me.
Even while still grieving, I can’t let Jax think he’s won.
Ever.
Now even more so.
Now that he blames me for something I didn’t do.
“Amelia, Jax, you two know each other, correct?” Marshall opens the folder that’s been sitting on the table since I walked in.
I only nod.
Jax doesn’t answer.
“I’ll make this quick since it appears neither of you wants to be here, and I don’t blame you. I’m sure you’re going through a rough time,” Marshall says with sympathy in his tone and on his face.
He knows what Christopher did.
And Marshall might have the answers as to why Christopher did it.
But why now?
Marshall makes it quick, just as he said he would. “Christopher left his share of the brewery to Amelia.”
“What?” Jax and I say simultaneously.
Marshall apprehensively glances between Jax and me. “He wanted you to run it together.”
“I’ll buy you out,” Jax immediately says. “Name your price.”
Marshall holds out his hand to stop my response. “Now, wait. Per Christopher’s will, she must wait ninety days before she can sell.”
“And what about Jax?” I throw my arm out to gesture to the jerk across from me. “Does he have a stipulation on when he can sell?”
He shakes his head. “Jax is already co-owner of the brewery. You’re the only one who has to wait, Miss Malone.”
“What the fuck?” Jax hisses.
“Marshall slides a stack of papers to each of us. “Here are the details. If you have any questions at all, let me know.”
“Is that all that’s in the will?” I ask.
Marshall nods. “Yes. Those were his last wishes.”
Why would he do this to me?
Was it out of love or spite?
Sensing the animosity, Marshall says, “Miss Malone, you don’t have to be involved in the business. But you will acquire the income from Christopher’s profits, as he did when he was alive.”
“So, I’m supposed to just hand her money without her doing the work?” Jax hisses, gesturing toward me with disgust on his face.
“That’s for you two to work out,” Marshall answers, every inch of his face screaming, Get me out of here. “I’m only the messenger of his wishes.”
“Is that even legal?” Jax asks, his strong jaw clenching. “To just hand over a portion of your business to someone?”
“It is,” Marshall replies.
My head spins.
Why did Christopher throw this plot twist at me?
Did he think I’d want the brewery … that I’d want to work with Jax?
“Christopher said his wish was for the two people he cared about more than anything to run the business together.”
“How do you possibly think two people who don’t like each other can do that?” I ask with a tremor in my voice.
It’s a stupid question for Marshall.
How would he know this?
He doesn’t have a personal history with us.
Marshall’s face falls. “That isn’t for me to declare. I don’t ask my clients these things.”
I’m not sure if he meant for that to sound heartfelt or cold.
It gave the vibe of both.
When I pay another glance to Jax, it looks as if the idea of working with me makes him sick.
Same, buddy. Same.
“Yeah, well, all wishes can’t come true,” Jax snarls.
Marshall ignores his comment and pulls out two envelopes from the folder, handing one to Jax and one to me. My name is scrolled on mine in Christopher’s handwriting. He had sloppy handwriting—a weird mixture of cursive and print, as if he’d quit in the middle of learning each one and kind of just morphed them together.
It hurts, seeing my name. He’d written it knowing what he’d do.
Jax has a similar envelope, but I don’t know if his name is written on his. Not that I’d ask. The less conversation we have, the better. I’m still processing the whole you two are now partners thing.
Jax Bridges and I can’t be business partners.
Hell, we can’t even be friends.
Did Christopher want us to kill each other?
To join him in death?
I want to scream at Christopher for this.
“Why did you wait all this time to give us these?” Jax asks, as if Marshall had been holding on to them like a winning lottery ticket. Like he’d witnessed us in the diner and thought it was the perfect time to ruin our week further.
“That was another one of his requests,” Marshall replies. “To wait until this very date to give it to you.”
The room goes quiet again.
Neither one of us opens our letters.
It’s funny, really. How two people who despise each other so much have so many similarities—similar actions, similar things that anger them, and similar thoughts that once brought them together before destroying them.
“If you two need anything, please let me know if I can be of any assistance.” Marshall shoots us one last nervous smile and leaves the room.
Christopher obviously didn’t hire him for his sympathetic personality.
“I’m going to tell Marshall he can assist in kicking your ass,” I hiss to Jax, carefully sliding the envelope into my purse.
“Touching, given you just had your chance and didn’t,” Jax says. “You were a chickenshit when we were kids, and you’re just as much of one now.”
I grimace. “Piss off, Jax.”
We aren’t in public any longer, aren’t a show for our entire town to watch, so I won’t be as nice to him as I was at Shirley’s. Jax knows how spiteful the real Amelia can be, and he’s about to see it full force. Maybe if he sees that bad side of me, he’ll sell me the brewery. It’ll be tough though, given that they built it from the ground up and it’s named after Jax’s family’s bar, but not impossible.
“Say hello to your new business partner,” I say, standing. “I’ll make sure it’s hell, working with me.”
“Oh, evil Amelia.” Jax rises from his chair. “You don’t need to work with me at all. Keep your ass at home, and I’ll manage the brewery just fine.”
“And what? Steal money from me?” I stomp over to face him with only inches separating us. We’re so close that I inhale the sweet smell of wintermint gum. “I don’t think so.”
“We both know you don’t give two fucks about a dollar that comes from the brewery. You either want it because it reminds you of Chris or to make my life a living hell, which I’m sure you’d take infinite pleasure in.”
“And you don’t seek pleasure in my being miserable?”
Our attention leaves each other when the secretary lightly knocks on the door and clears her throat.
“Mr. Haney has an appointment in five minutes,” she says in a low voice.
She is politely kicking us out.
“Okay,” I say.
As I turn to leave, I kick Jax in his shin.
Is it immature? Absolutely, but Jax brings out a side of me I’ve never shown to anyone else. A competitive side, a side that can get dirty, and one that likes to get back at him for everything he’s ever done.
When I get back to my car, it hits me.
Marshall said Christopher requested he wait until today to give us these letters.
Today would’ve been our wedding day… had I not canceled it.
I play with the letter in my hands.
Can I do this?
Christopher left nothing but questions when he died.
Since his death, I’ve searched for clues, racked my mind, but I always come up empty. Maybe I’m not looking hard enough because as much as I crave those answers, the thought of knowing them terrifies me.
What if it was my fault?
What if I made him unhappy?
Closing my eyes, I inhale a calming breath that does the opposite. It’s what happens almost every time I enter my bedroom. I stare at the envelope, running my finger across the curve of my name, and my throat turns dry. Then, I set the envelope on the bed and scramble out of the room.
As if I just completed the most difficult task of my day, I sigh and drag a bottle of wine out of the fridge. I don’t bother with a glass before going into the laundry room and drinking straight from the bottle.
Ninety days.
Then, I can sell my share of the brewery.
Why make us wait?
Christopher knew how Jax and I felt toward each other.
I take another swig of the moscato.
Christopher hated moscato. So does Jax. Beer men, obviously.
Don’t you have to be a beer man to open a brewery?
I guess it doesn’t matter. My father has been sober for decades, and the man owns two bars and bartended for years.
My mind swims from thoughts of Christopher to Jax as I take another drink. He asked me to sell my share of the brewery. And even though it’d only been mine for seconds, I already felt protective of it. Possessive. Unsure if there’d be a time when I’d want to let it go.
Fuck that.
I might not have been married to Christopher, but I was there with him every step of the way. Not only that, but the brewery is also all I have left of Christopher—besides our townhome, which I’ll eventually sell. I only need to find a buyer who’s okay with the previous owner passing away in their new home. No biggie.
I do social media management for multiple businesses, so I can manage doing that job and working at the brewery. The brewery used to be one of my clients, but Jax fired me the day after Christopher’s funeral.
I set the wine down, grab my phone, and call Ava.
“Hey, babe,” she answers.
“Christopher left his share of the brewery to me.”
She’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Oh, wow. Does Jax know?”
I’m sure that will be everyone’s first reaction upon finding out this new revelation of events.
“We found out today,” I reply. “Together.”
“Oh, man, I’m sure he’s ecstatic.” She lightly laughs. “So, what’s your plan? Will he buy you out?”
“That’s the first thing he asked when he found out.”
“Do you want him to buy you out?”
I rub at my tired eyes. “I can’t sell for ninety days, per Christopher’s request.”
She sighs. “Why would Christopher do that to you?”
“I’m just as clueless as you.”
“You want to keep it, don’t you?”
“I mean …”
I might have to wait to sell, but Jax doesn’t.
“If you want to keep it, keep it. Don’t let Jax scare you away from it. But if you think it’ll be too hard, let it go. Sell to Jax the earliest you can.”
“I wish Jax weren’t such an asshole,” I moan, throwing my head back.
“He’s an asshole who loved Chris like a brother.”
Ava is right. Jax and his family took Christopher in and saved him from his horrible life.
I yawn as my neck tenses. “I need to get some sleep.”
“In a bed?”
“None of your business.”
“If you can’t sleep at your place, come to mine. Don’t keep sleeping in your damn laundry room, Amelia.”
“It’s fine. I like it here. It’s close enough to the memories, but not too close.”
We hang up, and right before I finish off the bottle of wine, my phone beeps with a text.
Jax: I’ll figure out a way to buy you out.
I curse him while replying.
Me: Good luck.