Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
I’m quick to correct her to take away any guilt she might be developing. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. I haven’t been working with them on the estate. What’s in the appraisal? Is there room in the spring schedule for the auction? ”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m thinking it will more likely be midsummer.” She sits back down, confused by my strange reaction. “We’re meeting with the executor at the end of the week for the initial inventory and appraisal. The deceased died recently.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “He had a skiing accident, and he was young. That’s so horrible. I’m sure it’s a difficult time for the family right now.”
I grab my temples, closing my eyes. As the tears well up, the pain gains strength, and my heart feels like it might shatter again.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asks. My eyes bolt open, and I make instant eye contact with her. “You’re shaking. What’s going on?”
My body stops rocking in the chair before I realize I’m even doing it. My eyes soften, and I can breathe again as my irregular heartbeats realign to their natural rhythm. “I’ll be fine.” To end her speculation, I lie. “I have the worst headache. I think it’s a migraine.”
She’s suspicious but doesn’t push. “I have migraine pills if you want one.”
“I’m going to wait it out a bit longer. Thank you. I’ll let you know.”
She sits back down, and I hear her typing resume at her regular hunt-and-peck pace.
I take another deep breath through my nose, holding it before releasing it out my mouth. Calm. I’m calm now.
I try to rationalize that Smith & Allen doesn’t allow us to handle estate auctions of friends and family members. That makes sense, but a part of me wants to see what is being consigned by his estate.
I don’t care about the money or his family heirlooms. I care about the book that we waited six hours in the cold two winters ago so he could have his favorite author sign it. And the shirt I had monogrammed with his initials for his internship interview our senior year. Did he still own that obnoxious alarm clock that played that annoying rap song from the nineties or the picture frame that once held our engagement photo? Those things probably won’t be listed, but I’m still curious. They are the things that made up the Jim I knew, and he wasn’t the Rolex-wearing James Bennett Jr. who worked on Wall Street or the one who cared more about which restaurant to be seen at than he did about his friends.
I’m curious, but I’d probably be disappointed to discover what his life became after we broke up—what his life was becoming toward the end of us. I sweep these thoughts away, remembering that this is about business, not about him or us, and not about expectations I once held.
Rachel leaves on time, and I let her. I’ve been disappearing into my own mind most of the day. She lets me be when I’m like this.
I can’t bear to spend another evening at home with all my depressed thoughts again, so I resign myself to the auction room and gallery on the first floor. I double-check that every piece in the next auction has the proper lot number to the catalogue and that the estimate is listed correctly. It’s not my job, but I need the busywork to keep my mind occupied. The specialists have already done a thorough job, but I find the room comforting and quiet. Anything is a welcome escape from thinking about the past right now. I don’t think about dinner or even remember that I miss the meal. I stay until I’m about to collapse. That’s good for me since I fall asleep without the aid of the television or the soft crashing of ocean waves from my sound machine. My mind is too tired to dream, so I sleep well.
The anxiety I avoided last night due to the auction hits me hard this morning. My first thought is that today is Jim’s funeral. While I ready myself, my mind escapes into the memories of Jim in our better times, our happier times. He was always considered a catch, even before I met him at Brown University five years ago. We were in the same history class and sat alphabetically next to each other. He was different then, dynamic when he spoke and charming to a fault. His charisma made him popular with students on campus, and he was genuine in his interactions.
I didn’t allow myself to fall for him right away. I was caught up in self-doubt, wondering why he would want to date me. Like most girls at nineteen, I was uncomfortable with all the changes in my body. I was becoming a woman and still trying to identify with this new me. He was a sweet boy who gave me endless attention and compliments—maybe he sensed I needed it. What I didn’t expect was how much I would come to rely on him for his thoughtful words.