So he said nothing.
He was good at that.
Saying nothing when he should say something.
“The blinds,” he finally blurted. “I think I hate the blinds the most.”
“The blinds,” she repeated in a curious tone. “Can I ask why?”
He snorted. “They always used to be open.” He flashed her a smile. “The sunlight streams all the way into the kitchen, and my mom—” His voice cracked, damn it. “She loved getting up early to make coffee and cinnamon rolls. She said that she saw heaven in this room—knew without a shadow of a doubt that it existed, because of the light.”
“That’s beautiful,” Jane whispered.
“She was beautiful.” He glared hard at the stupid wooden blinds. They were objects, stupid objects, but they still held power, made him feel weak. “They were closed the day they died. And they’ve stayed that way ever since. I hate them. They remind me that things are different. They remind me of the day my life changed forever.”
Jane didn’t move.
Nor did she say anything.
He kept talking. “It was an accident.” He stared down at his hands. “Fuck, I hate the word ‘accident’, like that makes the death part easier. A thunderstorm, followed by a plane crash. The twins were little, so Grandfather told me first. He walked into this room and shattered the perfect world I lived in.”
He swallowed and glanced back up at the blinds. “They were closed that day. I knew something was different because they were closed and my mom, she always had them open. Funny, how such a small thing can stay with you.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Jane cleared her throat. “My sisters hate me.”
“That can’t be true.” He shifted in his chair so he could see her better. “Why would they hate you?”
“I was born?” She offered with a forced laugh. “I don’t know; they always make comments about how my dad favored me, but I think he just saw a lot of himself in me. I actually cared about what he cared about, and our relationship was different because I was the youngest.” Her voice broke. “Anyway, I may have taken this job without fully telling them where I’d be and how long I’d be gone.”
“So they’re worried about you?”
Jane slumped forward. “No, it’s more like they’re pissed that nobody’s home to do all of their laundry and cooking. The last text I got called me a selfish bitch for refusing to think about their needs.”
Brock frowned so hard his face hurt. “How old are they?”
“Twenty-seven and twenty-five.”
Brock burst out laughing. “Why don’t they just order takeout?”
“Thank you!” Jane threw her hands into the air. “That’s exactly what I said, but apparently looking up the restaurants in their tiny little phones after getting their nails done is, and I quote, ‘super-duper hard.’ Then they started freaking out about having a delivery guy at the door who was probably a college dropout and looking to rob them.”
Brock shook his head. “They sound like a real…treat.”
“You have no idea.”
Guilt slammed into his chest. “Am I right when I say this was supposed to be more like a working vacation?”
She gave him a silent nod.
“Where the tenant wouldn’t be a jackass like your sisters?”
Another nod.
“Shit.”
“It’s not my fault, you know.”
“What isn’t?”
“The blinds.”
He blinked, and then blinked again. “I’m not blaming you for the blinds.”
“You are.” A sad smile spread across her lips. “I don’t know you well enough to know anything about your personality except you’re angry. And whether you’re angry at yourself, me, the house, the blinds, the only person it’s hurting is you.” She shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to stop trying to control the memories. Maybe in order to get through the grief, you need to face them.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to offer advice than it is to take it.”
Jane visibly tensed. “It’s getting late. I think I’ll head to bed.”
“Jane, wait. I’m so—”
“No you’re not. You’re not sorry. Don’t pretend to know my story, and I won’t pretend to know yours. It wasn’t my place. I apologize.”
The blanket slid off her body into a pool on the floor. She left him alone, staring at the blinds.
They stared back at him.
And he wondered if the blinds were just that: a symbol of the day he’d decided to let his grandfather control his life—solely based on the fear of a twelve-year-old boy who’d felt he had no other choice but to hold on to the man who promised him everything would be okay.