“Go on in,” he says, right behind me.
I take the seat next to the one at the head of the thirty-seat table and eye a pitcher of water.
“Help yourself.” He pushes everything toward me, and I pour a glass of still water.
There’s a quiet knock on the door behind me, and when I spin in my chair, I see a woman with kind hazel eyes and sleek black hair standing with a file folder pressed against her chest.
“Charity,” Coach says. “Come on in.”
She closes the door behind her and takes the seat across from me.
“Ayla, Charity is our HR manager,” he says, plopping into his seat and exhaling. His hands fold in front of him as his gaze narrows on me.
My eyes move to the folder, which I now notice has Bryce’s name scribbled on the tab in blue ink.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“This is Bryce’s file,” Charity says, tapping a pointed red nail on top of the dossier. “Were you aware that he designated 100% of his life insurance premium to you?”
“Wait, what?” I ask.
Her head bobs. “He did. Says so right here if you’d like to see.”
My jaw loosens, and I can’t string together a sentence to save my life.
“There’ll be some formalities,” she continues. “He didn’t list your Social Security Number, so you’ll have to jump through a few minor hoops before this can be paid out, but we wanted to let you know, he left you three million dollars.”
What kind of single, twenty-six-year-old man needs a three-million-dollar life insurance policy?
“Wow,” is all I can manage to squeak out. The room feels hot. I don’t tell them that I’ve spent the past twelve years believing the guy hated me. And not the kind of hate when you say you hate mushrooms or green olives on your pizza. I’m talking pure, genuine, unabashed hatred. This doesn’t add up. You don’t leave someone you hate three million dollars. “Are you sure?”
Charity and Coach exchange looks, chuckling lightly.
“Yes, Ayla,” she says, her voice smooth like honey and cool like an ocean breeze. She opens the folder, retrieves a piece of paper, and spins it so I can see.
There it is, in what I assume is his sloppy handwriting ...
Designated beneficiary – Ayla Lane Caldwell – 100%
I didn’t even know he knew my middle name.
“It says here that his last will and testament is on file at the Greenbrier Law Firm on the Lower East Side. You’ll probably want to reach out to them, when you’re ready, that is. Their number is listed here,” Charity says, pointing to a line on the paper before me. “I can write everything down for you.”
I’ll be extremely shocked if Bryce has left me anything beyond this. This ... this is generous. This is too much. This is completely unnecessary, and I don’t even know if I want it.
Is this his way of apologizing?
I’d have taken a boring old brother-sister relationship over this money any day of the week.
This makes no sense.
Plus, I don’t even know what I’d do with three million dollars because up until now, I’d resolved that I’d be perfectly happy living the rest of my days as a starving artist, with nothing but the clothes on my back, the words in my head, and the occasional cup of hot tea to warm my insides.
“Are you okay?” Charity asks, reaching her hand across the table to cover mine. She reads the shock broadcasting across my forehead.
“I’m just a little shocked, to be honest.” I sit up tall and clear my throat. “We weren’t exactly close.”
Coach sniffs, nodding. “Yeah. Kind of figured that. We never knew he had a sister. Only found out because of this.”
“I never even met him.” I shake my head, soaking in the hush that falls over the room. “Anyway. You wanted to talk to me about a foundation?”
Coach squares his shoulders. “Yes, we’d like to set up a charity in Bryce’s name, maybe offer hockey lessons to underprivileged youths or scholarships. Not quite sure which direction we want to go, but we thought we’d let you decide.”
“Oh, um.” I’ve never spearheaded anything that didn’t involve a computer, Microsoft Word, thousands of sentences, and innumerable hours of alone time with the door locked.
“If you’re up for it, we’d love for you to be the CEO of the organization,” Harris says.
I’ve never been a team player, preferring to do everything on my own. Guess that’s why I’m the writer and Bryce was the athlete.
My jaw hangs, but nothing comes out. My gaze moves between the two of them, and while this sounds like the last thing I want to do with my spare time, I can’t tell them no. I can’t walk in here, walk out with my cool three mil, and not give back to the legacy of the man who so bizarrely set me up for the rest of my life.
“Sure,” I say with a breathy smile.
Harris and Charity smile, like I’ve just made their days.
“Just so you know, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” I say.
Harris pulls his phone from his pocket, pressing his chin against his chest as he thumbs through his contacts. Ripping a piece of paper from a notepad a second later, he scribbles down a name and number for me.
“This is the team attorney,” he says. “He’ll help you file any necessary paperwork.” He jots down a second name and number. “And this is a buddy of mine who does a lot of philanthropic work. Anything else you need, you let me know. I’d really like to get the team involved as much as possible, so anytime you need the guys, they’re all yours.”
I rise, unsteady on my feet, and Charity hands me a copy of Bryce’s life insurance information.
“Thank you.” I turn to show myself out, passing a mirror in the hallway.
I sure don’t look like a millionaire.
And I don’t want to act like one either.
My hands tremble as my new reality sends shockwaves straight through me.
I need a cocktail and a good, hard pinch, because so far this feels like a dream I could wake up from at any moment.
The second I hit the pavement outside, I call Bostyn and ask her where I can find the stiffest drinks in all of Manhattan, and she tells me to meet her at The Prescott Club at nine o’clock tonight.
Five
Rhett
* * *
This place is dead, but that’s exactly why I came here. No one in their right mind drinks on a Monday night.
I like this bar.
They know me here.
No one gawks or stares.
They don’t allow patrons to snap pictures.
And I know when I’m ordering top shelf liquor, I’m actually getting top shelf liquor.
“Another one?” the bartender asks, rapping on the wooden counter in front of me. He’s hunched over, lips tight as he tries not to judge me.
“I’m good.” I lift my crystal tumbler, giving proof that the glass is only half empty. Fitting.
“Anything else I can get you?” he asks with his sad little eyes. He knows.
He’s read the articles.
He’s heard the news.
Everybody’s heard the fucking news.
“Yeah,” I chuff. “Can you tell those fucking girls down there to keep it down?”