Objects of My Affection Read Online Free

without my mother approving it.”
    â€œNothing?” I’d already mentally been wielding an ax and smashing that ugly, cracked duck statue upstairs to smithereens.
    â€œNothing. I may have hired you, but she’s the one paying your salary. And she decides where each and every item goes.”
    â€œYou don’t mean what’s obviously trash.”
    â€œI mean everything.”
    I picked up a crumpled potato chip bag. “This.”
    â€œYes, that.”
    The objects in the house seemed to suddenly glow and dance and mock me. I’m no math whiz, but even I can figure out it’s going to be impossible to personally handle all of what’s in Marva’s house in the span of time available to me. I have less than eight weeks—fifty-two days to be exact, and some of those are weekend days when I won’t be working. It seemed doable when I thought I’d merely be pointing to entire piles and telling the work crew, “All this goes.” But piece by piece by piece … multiplied by a bazillion? The paperwork alone! I’m screwed. Her house is huge. Even my dinky two-bedroom house took some time to dismantle after I sold it.
    My house.
    Siiiiiiigh.
    It’s been a week since I packed up the last few things and drove away—seven days of playing musical beds with Abigail and being an awkward add-on to Heather’s perfect family until I get back on my feet. (And I’m not exaggerating about the wonderfulness of her family. Her husband, Hank, is the poster husband for a nice guy. Their son DJ’s only fault is being close in age to Ash, so every time I see him do normal high school things, it’s a stab in the gut.)
    To think a year or two ago I had what appeared to be a good life. A house, a job, and a son—things that at least let me pretend it all wasn’t falling apart. I also had a boyfriend, Daniel, whom I was wild about and who I thought loved me back. That was, until he dumped me … and for a reason that hurt more than anything I could have foreseen. I’d rather it have been another woman than what it was.
    Now all I have left is a closet-size storage unit and what I’ve brought with me here, which isn’t much. Clothes, sundries … the bare essentials. The one precious item I’ve kept is a photo of Ash, which I keep tucked in my wallet. It’s his senior portrait. He’d had the flu the day it was taken, although now I wonder if he wasn’t sick at allbut hungover. Still, I love it. Ash is giving his usual smirk … the smile that tips more on the left side. His blond hair is falling into his eyes the way it always does. He has a slight sunburn across his nose. For the split second that the photographer clicked the shutter, Ash looks like any high school student with his whole future ahead of him.
    I roll over onto my stomach, determined to get some sleep. Maybe I’m fretting over nothing. Will told me his mother is ready to do this. She might need prompting—a hand to hold hers and lead it ever so gently to release whatever’s clutched in it—but I can do that.
    I’m sure it won’t be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
    M arva is sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarette when I pull up. I’m hyperaware of the rattling of my car’s engine. It’s long overdue for a tune-up, but I’m afraid to take it in because they’re going to tell me what else is wrong with it. I drive a classic cherry-red 1971 Ford Mustang convertible that I’ve had for twelve years—although the top is broken so it’s technically not a convertible anymore. As cars go, it’s not “me,” but that’s exactly why I bought it. It was my “F-you, Billy” purchase after my divorce, once my money was my own and I could afford to flip him off with the car he’d always coveted. I was surprised to find how much I actually grew to love it—the feeling