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BigDog469: there he is

MouthyMike: im hot & ready!!!!

“Hey, fellas.” I lean back in the chair and let my knees fall wider. Not too much. Just enough. “Miss me?”

Chapter three

The Match

Paul

There’s a box of tissues on the conference table.

That feels aggressive. I’m sure whoever prepares rooms for newly bereaved people thinks the tissues are kind. Necessary, even. A tasteful gray box placed within reach of the person most likely to lose control.

Me, apparently.

I decide not to touch them.

Jessica has no such issue. She pulls one free, not because she’s crying, but because there’s a lipstick mark on her coffee cup. Reggie watches her dab the rim, then looks back down at the folder in front of him.

He was Renny’s lawyer. Now he’s the estate’s lawyer. I’m not sure what people become besides past tense.

He’s in his sixties and has the requisite Power Gay look: a pulled face and a hairline as symmetrical as his tan. Only his glasses and a slight delicacy in his hands hint at his true age. I only know it because I remember some of his birthday parties when he still allowed candles on the cake.

Renny liked him because he was discreet. I liked him because he laughed at Renny’s jokes without making me feel obligated to join in.

Today, he does not laugh.

“Before we get into the specific asset structure,” he says, “I want to say again how sorry I am for your loss. Henry was a remarkable man.”

Henry.

I nod because this is what I do now. People say sorry. They say Renny was remarkable, impossible, one of a kind. I nod for all of it.

Jessica says, “Thank you.”

Her pen is already in her hand.

I brought nothing. Not a pen, not a notebook, not a folder. I put on clothes today, and that will have to do.

Reggie begins.

The first ten minutes are mostly words I can’t hold on to: probate, ownership interests, transfer upon death. I’ve sat beside Renny in enough meetings to catch the rhythm, if not all the lyrics. Usually, he did the talking, and I paid attention in the pleasant, decorative way expected of a man who knew the good caterers.

That isn’t fair. Not entirely.

Jessica asks questions. Good ones, I assume, because Reggie nods and says, “Exactly,” twice. I look at the water glass in front of me and watch condensation gather near the base. The conference room is too cold. Lawyers keep rooms cold. Maybe it makes grief sit up straighter. Maybe it just keeps people awake.

“The residence is straightforward,” he says. “That was held in Henry’s name but passes to you under the will, Paul. Personal property as well, unless otherwise designated.”

I nod.

“The business interests are more complex.”

Jessica’s pen pauses.

I lift my eyes.