When I was given everything I could ever want, I didn't slow down long enough to think about how it would feel. It didn't click that I was sitting where my dad once did, turning dials and mashing buttons on his radio. My radio.

Now, standing in the foyer of a house so alive yet quiet with his dark blue raincoat hung up and his penny loafers on the shoe rack.

I plop down on the ottoman, feeling heavier than ever. I can feel his spirit and smell his cologne practically glued to everything in sight.

When I lean forward and reach to remove my sandals, my heart skips, and my fingertips stop against the material.

The floor holds bits of sand and dust. Neither of which I want on my feet, but the custom of removing shoes is now another thing of the past.

Across from me is the living room and further in is the bathroom. I instead stand and continue toward the other arch beside the living room's.

A pot was left on the stove. What once was food is now so old it fills the small kitchen with its toxic fumes. Pinching my nose, I step toward the sliding back door overlooking the close parking lots and shops in the distance.

The lock turns like something's wedged in the grooves, and the door crackles open as if it'd fall apart at any moment.

The salty air sweeps across the moldy one and ushers it out little by little. I go around the kitchen and proceed with the window that resists as much as the sliding door.

Once it's open, I set my hands on my hips and let my eyes roam the place. From the yellow wallpaper and brown baseboards to the hickory floorboards that track my steps.

He'd left a plate of something unidentifiable gripping his metal fork on the two-person dining table close to the stove. Next to his plate is a half-finished glass of water.

I expected to be up to my neck in boxes and clutter or furniture so old and neglected that they fall apart at the slightest touch, but it's practically still new.

The house is left still and empty with proof of his time here; still and empty like he left for a while but will return at any moment.

I pick at my nails gathered in front of my stomach while my shoulders rise to my ears and I trudge down the hall of two doors.

The first was his bedroom, but I walk by without a glance in its direction. My splayed fingers hover over the knob for the last door. My heart hammers in my chest, telling me to turn and leave.

I can't listen to my heart and won't give in to my wobbling legs, which threaten to let me fall to my knees.

Instead, I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Though the air reeks of decay, salt, and Obsession by Calvin Klein, it strengthens me.

Before my eyes reopen fully, I turn the knob and nudge the door. Because it lacks the resistance of the front door, window, and sliding door, I stumble into what once was a bedroom before he redecorated it.

My strawberry blonde hair swings in my face so I push the curls behind my ears and look from one framed bug to another -- Beetles, butterflies, moths, and crickets. He collected and preserved mosquitos in resin and ants in glass farms on the dusty industrial shelf.

If one died, barring the ants, he'd remove them from their cases and pin them to a board with a dot of glue. He spray-painted each frame gold or silver and would sign below the bug before framing them.

Ants buried their own. He wouldn't touch them unless one of the colonies died out, then he'd pour in resin to make a mold of their home.

I remember people buying those as much as they'd request ladybugs and weevils.

Ignoring his bedroom, I walk throughout the house to make note of what needs fixing or changing. I leave behind footsteps that make it seem like I paced from room to room.

Toilet paper, dish soap, brillo pads, and a feather duster; something to seal the wallpaper, and a box of trash bags.

I leave the sliding door and window open but lock the front door.

𓆉︎𓆉︎𓆉︎

The cart vibrates my elbows, rumbling left and right like it hasn't seen oil in ages. The front wheels spin in circles and if it weren't secured, I'd be afraid of them spinning loose onto bystanders.

With each step, I scan my list, then eye the shelves for what I need. I'd picked up everything but the sealant and I'm sure I look insane, doing slow laps around the general store.

"Need help?" I turn my head to peer over my shoulder. My brows relax and a smile creeps onto my lips when I see my former classmate -- Johnathan Heaton.

His once long auburn hair is freshly cut around the sides, leaving the center brushed forward with the tips passing his hairline.

"Oh, hey," I say, exhaling as I take in all that's changed in weeks since Dad's funeral.

He has a sleeve of tattoos on one of his toned arms and has finally grown a beard, though it sits as a short Egyptian goatee. He's even a few inches taller, now towering over me with my head at his chest.

"Hey. You're still in town, I see. Where've you been hiding?" Carts rattle by as people pass us in the aisle. He's carrying a black basket of bottled drinks -- some leafy green and others as red as pomegranates -- and vegetables in plastic translucent bags.

"No, I just got here today. Dad's estate lawyer scheduled us in to go over the will." His grin fades and I blink slowly while uncontrollably dipping my head. My shoulders slump as I mentally kick myself for bringing it up.

"I'm sorry," he says like he's apologizing for mentioning it. I shake my head and my bangs sway on either side of my forehead.

I tell him, "No, it's fine. He left me his beach house and a car," in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, but it's like wiping away paint with dry tissue. Swallowing and motioning to the space around, I say, "That's why I'm in here, actually; I need supplies to fix up the place."

"You plan on moving back here?" His brows rise and he slightly tilts his head, a smile faint on his lips. Sensing his cheerful mood returning, my body straightens and fills my chest with air.

"I don't know yet. Once I get it fixed up, then I'll give it more thought." When he asks what needs to be done, I tell him, "I have to sweep and put his bugs in boxes, then figure out how to glue the wallpaper back on the walls. It's loose in the living room, the hall, and in the kitchen."

"You need sealant." I mumble that I figured as much, and he asks, "Do you have any," to which I shake my head. "That's fine, I have a pint of it on my boat. How's about I drop by and help?"

"I'd love the help," I say, stammering in the beginning. I was mentally prepared to teach myself how to use a glue gun if needed, but thankfully it won't come to that. I'm certain I'd have made the problem much worse. When he turns and gestures his head toward the front of the store, I push and veer the cart around. "You have a boat?"

He chuckles while answering, "Yes," and I stroll alongside him to check out. He opens his arms like he's on a stage before admirers, ready to bow. "You're looking at the glue that holds Port-Christi together. I have a crew of over twenty men that ride out with me to catch catfish, crawfish, lobsters, and crabs."

"Well, when did this happen? I don't recall you ever wanting to work with your dad out on the water." I scan his casual attire of cream-colored shorts, sperrys, and a muted sage green t-shirt.

"That was when I was in high school; of course, I was seasick and mostly too afraid," he says matter-of-factly like it's to be expected. Again, with a toothy smile, he puffs out his chest. "No, I'm the boat captain now, as of last month."

We reach an empty lane with him in front of my cart. He sets the basket on the conveyor belt and digs for his wallet in his side pocket.

The slow, rhythmic beeps from nearby registers mix with rumbling carts and chatter. While he flips open the brown leather wallet and retrieves his American Express card the older lady drags the bottles over the scanner, then into awaiting bags.

"Congratulations. How's about we go out for drinks to officially celebrate? It'll give us a chance to catch up." He looks over at me and pauses with that smile still there. Slowly, he nods like he's waiting for me to laugh and say I was joking.

"If we have time, sure. I'll have to meet you at the house and who knows how long it'll take to glue the wallpaper down, but yeah; I'm interested." She mashes buttons on the screen to ring up the fresh produce, then with the final beep of her machine, she drops the bag of vegetables into another bag.

"Your total is thirty, eighty-two. Would you like to round up and donate to Saint Jude," she monotonously asks, pushing her small frames up her thin nose with her index.

As he flicks his gaze from my cart to her, then back, he asks, "Yes, but before that can you add her stuff with mine?" When I object, we spend a moment in a push-pull of me declining his offer and him insisting. Someone behind me clears their throat, politely ushering us to proceed with our transaction. "No, trust me, it's fine. You're not spending a dime on that place if I can help. Just think of me if you decide to rent or sell."

The last part, though he's joking, makes me close my mouth. My tense shoulders slump as the air releases from my lungs. He tucks his wallet in his back pocket and then sets his card on the stand next to the reader. Johnathan leans toward me, lifts the Swiffer Sweeper box, and sets it on the conveyor belt.

As he loads my items, my flip phone rings in my pocket. I take it out to see Adam's name on the outer screen.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟