Until You Feel At Home

Chapter Six

Brandon

Brandon didn't take well to his routines being shaken up. He didn't like having his mom drop in unannounced (which had happened almost daily since his dad died), he didn't like having to schedule a house cleaner (especially when they charged extra to come from out of town) and, most of all, he hated waking up to anything other than Simon. But his phone was buzzing on the nightstand and he had a sneaking suspicion it was his father's persistent pet, Claire.

She had texted him the day before asking to meet. Then, a couple hours later, followed up suggesting a coffee shop. Now she had the audacity to ask if she had the right number. He was studying the patchy drywall of his ceiling, wondering what the lesser of two evils was between ignoring her and answering. If he ignored her she'd just keep texting. If he met with her... well, they'd have to meet. He sighed loud enough to wake Simon, and text her back. He sent, 'You can come to my house if you insist on meeting in person.' He sent her his address and rolled out of bed reluctantly. Before his feet could touch the carpet he heard the whoop of a new message coming through. 'Great. I'll be there in about an hour.'

Everything he did was laced with anxiety and paranoia. Why did his dad have to put him through this? Why did he make it so clear, in black and white writing, that he wanted both Claire and Brandon to be co-executors of his estate? It was bullshit. Pierce just had to piss him off one last time from the afterlife. Brandon tossed his dirty breakfast dishes in the sink with a bang, scrubbed his skin angrily in the shower, and jammed his arms through the sleeves of his flannel. He was yanking the laces of his boots tighter when he heard a car pull into his driveway. He peaked outside his window and muttered to himself, "Of course she drives a fucking Mini Cooper."

He stepped outside, with Simon right behind him and closed his door. He could make out the blurry shape of a young girl through the windshield and reached down to pat Simon. There were far too many visitors for his poor dog who hated strangers. The car door opened and he watched as a bright white Chuck Taylor hit the dirt driveway. He wanted to snort to himself- what a childish shoe- but his train of thought was lost when she stood up, and shut the car door.

She was on the shorter side, but her striped sunset colored top still didn't reach all the way down her torso. The thin line of ivory skin contrasted with her blinding white jeans. They must have been tailored- there was no way she could have bought a pair of pants that made her ass look that round when she bent down to grab her purse from the backseat. Brandon felt a wave of nausea. What the fuck was wrong with him? She was like a baby to him. What was she, four years younger? God, he needed to get outside more.

"Brandon?" She asked, as she walked toward him. He nodded in confirmation. Simon barked, but when Brandon reached down to comfort him, he'd already started bolting toward Claire.

"Simon!" he called, but she bent down, with her knees in the dirt, and opened her arms for the dog.

"Hey, buddy." She said to him, and started scratching him behind the ears. Simon put his filthy paws on her perfect pants and Brandon rushed to grab him.

"Simon, what the hell are you doing?" he reprimanded.

"He's okay." She assured him, and got closer so Simon could sniff her face, and kiss her chin. "My god, he's so cute. And Simon is a great name. It suits him." Brandon stood by, watching silently, as Claire cooed at the dog and his tail wagged frantically. At least Brandon wasn't the only one feeling feral towards their new guest.

"You ruined your pants." was all he could think to say.

"It's no big deal." She said, finally standing, brushing off as much as she could. There were massive brown splotches down her legs. "They were thrifted for like three bucks. I'm not worried." She stuck out her hand. "Claire Townsend. Nice to meet you. Finally." She gave a kind smile. "You look different than I thought you would."