Page 82 of Targeted By Desire

“I have no interest in being in a classroom in any capacity. If you really wanted to keep me busy, you’d let me continue working remotely.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling you’d say that,” he muttered.

We pulled up to a small copper red house. I recognized the short driveway and white shutters from trips when I was younger. I was so distracted by my book, and ignoring the previous tension in the car, to notice the direction we were going.

This was Logan’s and my father’s old house. They’d rented it while they were in college, and the owner later ended up selling it to them. “A graduation gift for his best tenants,” my father used to tell me.

He used to bring me down here every year for the school’s homecoming weekend. We’d go to the child-friendly festivals, watch the football game, and go on walks around the neighborhood.

Occasionally, he’d have speaking engagements at the school and let me tag along for the road trip. Each time, we stayed right in this house.

I haven’t been here since before he passed. With my mother in a new relationship and Logan more focused on the future than the past, I didn’t really have much reason to.

As we walked up the porch steps, I noticed the once vibrant copper paint was dulling into a pale rust color and weeds were sneaking up onto the stair rails.

The familiar scent of amber wood and sage greeted us as we walked through the door.

Inside, not even an inch of furniture had been moved. The black sectional we used to nap on still sat on the back wall of the living room, parallel to the flat screen television mounted on the opposite wall. In the dining room, the old chairs were engraved with dents from us sitting for long dinners and card games. Some of my old drawings peeked out from the doorway leading into the kitchen, hanging on the refrigerator door.

My dad’s laughter echoed through the silence, the ghost of the missing puzzle piece that used to make this place whole.

I almost didn’t notice the blurring of my vision until I felt Logan’s hand on my shoulder. My hands raced to my eyes, wiping away the tears before he could notice. Before they could fall.

“I know this is hard, but it’s the only place I felt comfortable having you stay,” he explained.

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “This is fine.”

“I’ve assigned some of the guys I trust to keep an eye on you, so I’m gonna wait outside for them. You go ahead and settle in.”

Nodding, I squeezed the strap of the duffel bag hanging on my shoulders and headed upstairs.

The crack of the door leading into my father’s old room called to me as I passed. I knew I shouldn’t have stopped in front of it. I should’ve kept walking to the guest room I used to call my own. But the echo of his voice blew through my ears again, beckoning.

Stepping into the room was like walking back into his arms. The scent of his old favorite cologne pulled me into a soft hug. Photographs of his smile greeted me from frames on the nightstand beside his bed. On his little corner desk, a pen sat crooked atop the middle of half-finished a piece of paper, like he’d stepped away for a moment.

I hovered in the doorway, waiting for his voice to acknowledge me. Ask me why I was creeping up on him and invite me into his arms. I wanted to flop on his bed or sit in his rolling chair to relive some of the memory, but I didn’t want to disturb the space. I wanted it to continue sitting just as he left it.

I closed the door, making sure it clicked behind me, and continued down the hall to the guest room.

There, the only sign of my younger self was the old pink blanket that lay over the comforter. I did my best not to leave much behind here. To avoid losing things, I left most of my prized belongings at home when we traveled.

This instance was the first time I’d brought them with me.

Perching on the bed, I pulled my duffel bag onto my lap and shuffled through it for the velvet jewelry boxes. One held the diamond ring and matching band that I’d begged my mother to let me keep when she tried to sell them to a local pawn shop. The other held a charm necklace my father bought me for my last birthday; it was my first from a high-end jewelry store. He’d decorated it with my favorite gemstones and symbols. They were one of the few pieces of him I still had left.

I opened the drawer on the nightstand to tuck them away, but froze when I noticed an envelope sitting inside. My name was written across in my father’s handwriting, and the edges had yellowed from time.

What was this doing in here?

My mother had given me everything he’d left behind. How did this scoot past her radar? Knowing my father, he probably didn’t tell her he planted it here. Or if he did, she wasn’t paying enough attention to hear him.

Curious, I traded the jewelry for the envelope. It was heavier than I expected, filled with papers.

Carefully, I broke the seal and pulled out the contents.

At the top of the folded pile was a letter dated the day before my father’s death. My eyes burned as I started reading.

Dear Simone,