I get up slowly off the floor and toss the sheets aside. Winter’s on its way. There’s a heaviness hanging in the air and in the sky. The trees have almost all lost their leaves, and there’s a frost over the grass every morning that dissipates by noon.
I walk downstairs to find Peyton sitting at the table with a cup of coffee.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, looking away.
We’re both surprised (and a little grateful) when there is a knock at the door. Peyton gets up and answers it. A tall woman in a medical gown is waiting on the doorstep. She has beautiful dark skin and light auburn hair. She’s carrying a paper bag filled with containers.
“I made you some of your favorites,” she says, holding up the bag.
“Thank you, Sam,” Peyton says, letting her inside.
“Who’s your friend?” the woman asks, giving me a friendly wave.
“He’s an old friend of mine. He’s staying with me until he can get back on his feet.” Peyton explains.
“How nice! I was so worried you would get lonely in this big house all by yourself.” the woman says. “What’s your name, kid?” she asks, turning to me.
No one has called me “kid” in a while. Samatha looks like she’s in her early seventies, so I must look like a child to her.
“Will,” I say shyly, shaking her hand. There’s a silver band across her ring finger.
“Nice to meet you, Will.” the woman says. “I’m Samantha.”
“Will, this is the nurse that took care of my grandfather while he was in hospice,” Peyton explains. “She comes by sometimes with homemade meals.”
“Peyton here gets so engulfed in his ‘coding’ that he forgets to eat sometimes.” Sam scolds gently. “Especially after everything that he’s been through, it’s the least I can do. The Presleys became like family to me,” Samantha explains. “Especially Peyton. He’s such a sweet boy...” she pauses, giving me a curious side-eye. “...and rather cute as well.”
“Sam,” Peyton groans.
“What? I’m just saying it’s about time you got yourself a partner. My wife and I have been married for over thirteen years. Life can get pretty lonely on your own. It's nice to have someone by your side, whether it’s a friend or a partner.” Samantha asks, playing coy.
“Samantha, did you ever see Felix writing letters?” I ask. Peyton shoots me a glare, but I keep my eyes pointed forward.
“Oh, are you talking about the letters beneath the floorboard?” Samantha asks, unpacking the containers onto the counter.
“You knew about them!?” Peyton asks loudly with a baffled look on his face.
“I stubbed my toe so many times on that damn nail,” Samantha chuckles. “One day, I took the nail out, and the board came loose. I never read any of them myself-I didn’t want to be nosy. The funny thing is, I showed them to Mr. Presley, and he told me to just put them back where I found them. So I guess they weren’t that important.”
“Dad knew about the letters?” Peyton asks.
Samantha nods her head. “You know, a few days before Felix died, he got into a big fight with Mr. Presely. It was only a day after I had shown him the letters. Makes me think whatever Mr. Presley saw, he didn’t like it.”
“Did you hear what they were fighting about?” Peyton asks.
“Not much. I do remember Mr. Presley saying something along the lines of, ‘she should have left you a long time ago.’”
“I don’t believe it,” Peyton mumbles, covering his eyes with his hands.
“Maybe we should talk to your dad,” I suggested. “He might be willing to tell us what happened.”
Peyton lowers his hand just enough to let his eyes show. They’re narrowed with anger-an anger I’ve never seen in him before. He was always very gentle and kind, but the more the truth is revealed, the more I see it twist him into a different shape, a different type of person.
“I think you’re right,” he says slowly.
Samantha takes her car keys out of her pocket and spins them on her finger.
“I was a little curious myself,” she chuckles.
. . .
The Presley family household is as expected. It’s a luxurious mansion by the lakeside, with rose bushes lining the paved walkway up to the door. There's a wreath hanging from the door made from braided red reeds. If you look over the side of the manor, you can catch a glimpse of the silver water.
Peyton knocks on the door while Samantha and I wait behind. Peyton’s mother answers the door, peeking out shyly. She’s a short, slender woman with a masculine build. Her hair, eyes, and skin are all a rich, dark brown.
“Peyton, how are you?” she says politely, wrapping a cotton sweater over her shoulders.
“Hi, Mom. Do you mind if we stop in? I need to talk to Dad about something.” Peyton says.
“Of course!” his mother says, herding him inside. “Oh, Sam, it’s so nice to see you as well,” she adds. Her eyes finally land on me and sharpen.
“Will,” she says curtly. I lift up my hand and do a weak wave. The Presleys had never been a fan of Brandon or me. Peyton came from a white-collar, old-money family that chose appearance over authenticity. But Peyton had never been like that, and they blamed it on us as being “bad influences”.
I snuck Peyton out of the house; I showed him how to shoot a slingshot and how to climb trees; I taught him how to be as wild and free as you’re meant to be as a child. But my efforts were combated by his parents. While I made him wild, they tried to make him tame. His father was especially strict. Peyton could play almost every instrument you could give him and always kept a stagnant 3.0 GPA. But behind the scenes, it was his father that was dictating every hobby and every grade Peyton was allowed to have.
“Hurry, come inside before you both catch a cold,” Peyton’s mother says hurriedly, holding the door open.
The interior of the house is almost identical to Felix’s-not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. But where Felix decorated his home with antiques, the Presleys decorate their home with priceless works of art and mid-century furniture. It feels like walking in a museum, a “look, don’t touch” kind of home (which is barely a home in my opinion).
Samantha distracts Mrs. Presley, sharing her gossip in the kitchen. Peyton gives her a thankful look and then ushers me down the hall. We reach a door with a golden handle, but Peyton hesitates to open it.
“What is it?” I whisper. Peyton doesn't need to tell me. I can read it on his face. I had seen that look a million times when we were younger, whenever his father called him to come back home, to practice piano, to get him to a soccer match.
“He doesn't own you, you know,” I say, looking up at him gently. “You’re your own person.”
Peyton smiles, and yet again, I’m pulled in like a black hole. He reaches out for the handle and pushes open the door slowly.
“Hello?” Peyton says, licking his lips nervously.
“I see that you still can’t seem to remember to knock,” Mr. Presley says bluntly. Between two tall bookshelves built into the walls is a sleek metal desk. Mr. Presely is hidden behind a bulky monitor in the middle of the desk, typing noise on the keyboard.
“Dad, I was wondering if we could-” Peyton begins.
“Sir,” Mr. Presley corrects.
“Sorry. Sir, I was wondering-” Peyton tries to begin again.
“God, did moving away make you forget all of your manners?” Mr. Presley growls, standing. He doesn't have an intimidating body to match his ego. He’s a scrawny, sickly-looking man. His skin is the pale greenish color of spoiled milk. But his cold, gray eyes are bone-chilling.
“I wanted to talk about Grandpa,” Peyton says firmly.
“What about him?” Mr. Presley asks, irritated.
“Did he ever…see other women?” Peyton asks, beads of sweat blooming across his forehead.
Mr. Presley gives him a puzzled look.
“Not that I know of. You could unbury and ask him yourself if you like.” Mr. Presley chuckles.
“It’s just-my friend, and I have found some evidence that may suggest he, um-” Peyton fumbles his words.
“We think he cheated on Peyton’s grandmother,” I say bluntly. Mr. Presely folds his hands behind his back and turns toward me slowly, like a rotating statue.
“Cheated?” Mr. Presely says with an amused sneer. “And what ‘evidence’ do you have for that?”
“We found a box of letters hidden beneath a floorboard in his room. They’re all written to the same girl, but she’s not Peyton’s grandma. And the dates suggest that he was writing them almost all the way up until the moment he died.” I explain.
“Is that so?” Mr. Presley says. “Peyton, do you believe all of this as well?” he asks, turning toward him.
Peyton drops his head to his chest and rubs at his arm. His lips crease and fold over one another awkwardly. Mr. Presley turns from Peyton back toward me.
“You think a box of old love letters is sufficient evidence? Well, I think you don't have a leg to stand on.” Mr. Presley teases, smirking down at my prosthetic. Peyton’s face goes livid, and he lunges at his father, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.
“You do not get to talk to him like that,” Peyton snarls. “In fact, you don’t get to talk to me, or anyone, like that.”
Mr. Presley stares at him a moment, his face hard to read. He gently removes Peyton’s hands and walks back behind his desk. He faces the window, looking out at the lake behind the Presley estate.
“Felix had had an affair.” Mr. Presely says without looking at either of us. “If you can even call it that, it was entirely one-sided. But even when he married your grandmother, his heart still belonged to Margrett. My mother knew. She never saw the letters, but she could tell his heart belonged to someone else. It made my blood boil to see her feel like second place. So when he died, I felt glad.”
“...Why didn’t you tell me about the letters?” Peyton asks, choking up.
“We are respected within our community; we have been for generations. We have a reputation, and I wasn’t going to let my father’s blunder spoil that.” Mr. Presley explains.
“I didn’t ask why you wouldn’t go public. I asked why you wouldn’t tell me.” Peyton grits, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Because you loved him,” Mr. Presley sighs, folding his hands behind his back. “And I didn’t have the heart to take that love away from you.” Mr. Presley turns toward us, glaring.
“Get out of my office,” he says coolly.
Comments (0)
See all