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“We?”
Her hand stills on the glass. “Me. I, uh, I meant me.” She plucks the glass off the blue-paper-lined shelf and shuts the door. “I’ve never really had anyone here since my parents died. I guess I tend to forget they’re gone when I’m here.” She runs the water in the kitchen sink for a moment before filling my glass. “Maybe that’s why I never sold it. And why I like it here so much.”
It’s not fair that her parents died and yet my horrible excuse for a father is still alive.
She hands me the glass, and I gulp it down in one go.
She raises her eyebrows and takes the glass from me, placing it in the sink.
We stand awkwardly in the kitchen, lit up by the wagon-wheel chandelier. All around me are hints of Bell’s past, proof of how loved she was. Pictures, school drawings, handmade ceramics probably made by a toddler Bell. They’re everywhere.
“Well, I guess if that’s it, then you should probably be go—”
“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” I blurt out.
Wide eyes narrow as Bell crosses her arms. “Oh. You’re sorry, are you? That’s all you have to say?”
“No. I mean, yes.” I run a hand through my hair.
“Well?” Her fancy cowboy boot taps the linoleum.
Channeling my mom, I take a deep breath. “How about I start over?”
She gestures to the curved-back dining chairs under the wagon wheel.
I hesitate. “Is it okay if we sit in your dad’s study?”
“My dad’s study?”
“The one with the soup can painting you told me about?”
Her breath catches. “Yeah,” she says, having to clear her throat. “Yeah, we can sit there.” She heads back the way we came, turning right when we get to the front of the house. There isn’t a door, just an arch. The hardwood floor laid throughout the front of the house is covered with a worn braided rug. There’s a tan and blue plaid tweed loveseat on one side of the wall, and on the other, a worn leather recliner.
Before she can move to the recliner, I take her hand and lead her to the loveseat. Warily, she lets me.
Once settled, I push my luck and wrap an arm around her. Her body doesn’t relax into mine, but she doesn’t junk punch me either, so I consider it a win.
Right across from the loveseat, in perfect view from either the recliner or the loveseat, is the small Warhol soup can print Bell had told me about at the museum. It’s a very simple painting, the style devoid of too much detail, highlighting the ease of mass production that the artist found so intriguing. (I’ve been reading up on him since our day in the museum.) But for Bell, it doesn’t mean any of that. The picture evokes happy memories of her childhood, of her parents’ love.
“My father never wanted me. He told me, to my face, that he would’ve gotten rid of me if my mom hadn’t waited so long to tell him.”
Bell’s body freezes next to mine.
“He said he only wanted Thomas. That Thomas represented the continuing legacy. I just represented split shares in the company.”
“Oh my god.” She struggles to sit up. Reluctantly, I let her. “Thomas told me about Stan stealing money and the affair, and even about Liz, but he didn’t say anything about your father feeling that way.”
“I’m not sure if Thomas knows, to be honest.” I frown, considering. We never got around to talking about that. “I mean, we talked about all the other stuff, and we have a plan to fix all the shit my father’s fucked up, but I didn’t tell him about that particular conversation.”
“When did he tell you this?”
“One minute before I ran into you and Thomas at the elevator.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” I cover her hand resting on her thigh with mine. “It wasn’t my best moment. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was my worst. What my father said to me… it really blindsided me.”
She nods.
