Page 174 of The Incredible Ordinary

He nods.

“I want it.”

“This iswhere you spent your summers growing up?” Jordan asks as he slides his hand over the marble kitchen counter and looks around and out the double French doors that lead to the backyard of Gerard’s house. I refuse to call it Maplewood Manor. Not speaking ill of the dead, but it’s a fuck-awful name for this place.

“Until the divorce. Gerard got the house, and my mother got the apartment in the city.”

Jordan throws me a look over his shoulder.

“When’s the last time you were here?”

“Not even sure. Maybe when I was fifteen? Seventeen? I don’t remember.”

He nods and doesn’t prod. It’s not that I’m exactly against reminiscing, but the truth is, there’s not much to say about this place.

“Where do you want to start?” Jordan asks.

We finally managed to sell, so before we hand the keys over to the new owners, we have to do a sort of final walk-through and figure out if there’s anything we want to keep before the rest is donated.

Aiden’s been bugging me about this for weeks, but I’ve been putting it off for no real reason other than I don’t feel like doing it.

That’s a lie.

What’s holding me back is the fact that as of right now, I don’t know whether there’s anything in this house that is about me. I don’t know. And that leaves room for hope that somewhere in here are folders with newspaper clippings with my name in them. Or recordings of the matches I’ve played. A fucking T-shirt. Anything.

I’m afraid to find out.

The house and Gerard’s belongings have turned into some sort of boogeyman I’ve been trying to avoid confronting, but I also can’t seem to just say “fuck it, I’m making my peace with it, I don’t want anything.”

“Maybe the living room?” I say halfheartedly.

Jordan comes and wraps his arms around me from behind. He leans his chin on my shoulder.

“Want me to burn it all down?” he asks.

I snort out a laugh. “Would you?”

“For you? Anything.”

“We’ll see how I feel by the time we’re done.”

We go through the kitchen with its mostly bare shelves and cupboards, glance into the master bedroom at the back of the house, then walk through the living room.

“Does this place have a trophy room?” Jordan asks. “Or wherever you people keep all the… medals? And stuff.”

I turn to look at him and grin.

“Medals and stuff?”

“Cups. I don’t know what you win when you win.” He tilts his head to the side. “Where do you keep yours?”

“Storage unit, mostly. I’ve auctioned some off for charity over the years, and some are on display in museums and exhibitions.”

“You’re very, very hot.”

I raise my brows at him. “Because I have trophies?”

“No.” He waves his hand dismissively. “We already moved past that topic. It’s a new one.”