“He was emotional and under duress. I assure you, he likely would not have hugged me under normal circumstances.” There was that one time in second year when we were on the same side for a class debate, and when we won he spontaneously hugged me, but it was excitement, nothing more.

Beverly gives me one of her knowing looks. I hate them, because it means she thinks she has something on me, something she thinks I want. Which is not Daxton Hughes. Maybe once upon a time, when I was young and stupid and easily influenced by a wink and a smile, but not now.

“Regardless, there’s a level of comfort and familiarity that you can capitalize on.”

Fine. She wants to play this game, well, I can play, too. If I’m going out of my way to bring the traitorous lion into my own den, I better reap the rewards. “What’s in it for me if I get him to come to the dark side?”

“The reward of knowing you’ve strengthened our team.”

“If I’m going to persuade Daxton to switch firms, I’d like to pick up another pro bono case.”

Beverly purses her lips. “You just took on a pro bono case.”

“That was months ago, and it’s been resolved.” I haven’t been able to stop thinking about a foster situation Holly mentioned last week. If I’m going to invite someone I loathe onto our team, I want something in return. This is the perfect opportunity to get what I want without having to fight for it.

“Fine. As long as it doesn’t interfere with you convincing Daxton to work for me, you can take the pro bono case. Any other negotiations?”

I flip my pen between my fingers, considering all the angles. I can’t believe I’m entertaining bringing the man who pulled the rug out from under me into my life and my building on a daily basis.

It’s not like I’ll run into him all the time. Entertainment law is on the opposite end of the floor. Although I may see him occasionally in the break room. I rarely eat lunch in there. I can deal with seeing him across the boardroom for weekly meetings. I think.

“I’ll let you know if I have anything to add to the list.”

chapter five

LIFE REPACKAGED

Daxton

I have no idea how people single parent without going insane. I don’t cook. It’s never been my thing. I order groceries from a delivery service and supplement with takeout. I have a menu for every day of the month. Surprisingly, it turns out thirteen-year-olds don’t love McDonald’s enough to eat it for an entire week. After six days of fast food, Emme boycotts it entirely.

“Well, what do you want for dinner?” I ask after she turns her nose up at every single takeout menu spread over the counter.

She crosses her arms, annoyed. “I don’t want takeout.”

I mirror her pose, equally annoyed. Since I have no intention of disrupting Emme’s life more than it already is, I put my condo up for sale this morning. I spent the rest of the day packing all my stuff, separating it into two stacks of boxes: things that will go into storage and things I’ll need. I ended the day by bringing a carload of things home. It’s amazing what one person can accumulate over five years. Tomorrow I need to work on getting rid of some of my parents’ old things to make room for mine.

“I’m bagged, Emme. I can’t do a restaurant tonight.” I also need a serious shower after all that packing.

“I want shepherd’s pie.”

Well, that’s rather specific. “Why don’t we go to the grocery store to pick one up, then?” That seems like something they’d have in the frozen food section.

“I don’t want store-bought shepherd’s pie. I want Mom’s.” Her bottom lip trembles, and I feel like shit for getting snippy with her.

“Why don’t we check the freezer and see what’s in there?”

She chews on her thumbnail, but nods and follows me to the basement. I’m relieved when I find more than one pan of our mom’s homemade shepherd’s pie in the chest freezer, and like the amazingly thoughtful mom she was, there are cooking instructions fixed to the lid. “It’ll be an hour.”

“That’s okay. I can wait.” She takes it from me, hugging the frozen brick to her chest as she heads back upstairs to the kitchen. She turns on the oven, setting it to convection— which apparently takes the cooking time down by about fifteen minutes.

I pop the cap on a bottle of beer while we wait.

“Can I have a sip?” Emme asks as she chops vegetables to make a salad.

I raise a brow. “A sip?”

“Of your beer.” She fidgets with the cuff of her hoodie.

Sometimes at dinner on the weekends my parents would let Emme have a sip out of their wineglass. They’d been the same way with me.

I pass her the bottle and she tips it up. She makes a face and hands it back, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “That’s gross.”

“It’s an acquired taste.” One I’m happy she hasn’t acquired yet.

She roots around in the fridge and produces a can of Coke, presumably to wash away the unpleasant flavor. “Are you going to move into Mom and Dad’s room?”

“Eventually.” I can’t sleep in the shrine to my teenage stardom years much longer if I want to keep my sanity. “Are you okay with that? Me taking their room?”

She chews on the inside of her lip for a few seconds, mulling it over. “It’s bigger and not filled with all the stuff from ten years ago, so it makes more sense, right?”

I nod, aware this is a conversation we need to have, even if it’s difficult.

She rolls the can of Coke between her hands. “Are you going to give away all their clothes?”

“Are there things you want to keep?” I could store some stuff in the basement until she’s ready to let go.

“Can I help you clean it out, so I can pick the things I want?”

“Of course, Emme.”

When dinner is ready we sit at the island and dig in. The potato topping is a little dark around the edges, but it tastes so much like my childhood. Emme makes it halfway through her meal before she breaks down.

She pushes away from the counter, already out of the room and rushing up the stairs before I can call her name. Her bedroom door slams shut a few seconds later. I stare at my half-eaten meal, no longer hungry. I don’t want to waste any of this, because soon all these tangible pieces of my mother will be gone.

“Help me,” I mutter to the empty room, looking for the advice I so often sought from my dad on family dinner nights. “Someone tell me how to help her.”

No one ever mentions how much harder everything is once the funeral is over, when everyone else goes back to living their lives and we’re stuck here, wading through years of memories and trapped in the relentless grip of grief. At thirteen everything is supposed to be fun and friends and what the hell you’re going to wear to school the next day, not packing up your parents’ things because they’re no longer alive.

The next morning I find my sister already in my parents’ room, sorting through our mother’s clothes. She has two piles, and they’re roughly the same size. I brew a coffee in the Keurig I purchased for them last Christmas. They were a lot better than me, using those recyclable pots that are a huge pain in the ass to clean.

When I return, my sister has moved on to my dad’s closet.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice still gravelly.

“Yeah.”

“You were pretty upset last night.”

She shrugs. “I had a day.”

It’s hard to argue with that, so I let it go and help her empty out my dad’s closet. Once the space is mostly clear, Emme tackles our mother’s shoe rack. My mom loved her shoes.

“You can’t wear heels until you’re eighteen,” I say when she comes strutting out in one of our mom’s very old sequin dresses and a pair of stilettos.

She props a fist on her hip. Her outfit, combined with her stance, makes her look like a young version of our mother. “That’s ridiculous. There are dances in eighth grade, and semi-formals in high school.”

“Well, you’re sure as hell not wearing those to a school dance, or that dress.”

“Why not?”

Because I will have to walk around with a baseball bat and threaten all the boys with it to keep them away from you. “Because you look like a foal, wobbling around. You want to wear heels, you pick ones you’re not going to topple over in, and only on special occasions. Heels aren’t even comfortable and they ruin your back.”

Emme disappears again inside our mother’s closet. “You sound exactly like Dad.”

I smile at that. I must be doing something right if I’m pissing her off and she’s compared me to our father.

Emme carts boxes of shoes to her room—who knows where in the world she’s planning to store them—while I start going through my mother’s dresser.

I’m halfway through cleaning out the sock drawer when I discover the thing no son ever wants to find. Tucked neatly behind two rows of socks, hidden well enough that they’re not noticeable at first but not so far back to make it difficult to access, are sex toys. Plural.

I search the dresser for something I can prod with, uncertain whether it’s just perverse curiosity ruling me at this point. Holy hell. It appears my parents were kinky motherfuckers based on the non-sock items taking up space in the drawer. There is a seriously vast array of lace and satin, and dear fucking God, there’s leather in here, too.