"This is my room, where you can stay," Harley walks to a door on the left and opens it, striding inside. I follow him. It's a big room with two beds, a door in the corner that I'm assuming is the closet, a large double desk completed with shelves of folders and two computers.
On the nightstands, there are matching lamps and photos in frames that I'm not close enough to make out. The floorboards have been painted black, and a large gray rug makes it homely. Most of all, it's clean and tidy and smells good. That's a total surprise.
"This is my bed," Harley says. "I'll get you a change of sheets."
"Thanks," I say. "Are you sure you don't mind?"
"The alternative is that you sleep in the den. You won't get much privacy in there."
"It won't be for long," I say.
"You aren't staying?"
"I don't know what I'm doing. This… well, it's all out of the blue."
"Are you at college?" Harley stuffs his hands into his pockets and leans back against the desk. His soft brown eyes framed with long lashes and strong brows seem to take in more than just what I'm telling him. "I am… but I don't know if I'm going to go back."
"How come?"
"That's a story for another time," I say.
He nods slowly three times. "This must be difficult for you… coming back like this when…" He pauses, stumbling over the words, “your dad had died.” No one ever seems comfortable talking about death.
"It's definitely not easy. I didn't know anything about you guys."
"We knew about you." He smiles as though he's remembering. "Dad was always mentioning you. I think he did it to keep his memories alive. He always wanted us to know that we had a sister out there somewhere. A sister we would need to take care of one day."
I bristle as Harley refers to my Dad as his. This situation is so messed up, I really don’t know how to feel. "A sister you didn't know. Why would you need to take care of me?" I raise my eyebrows and cock my head to the side.
"Because that's what family does, Maggie."
Harley straightens up and heads to the closet. He disappears momentarily and returns with a stack of linens. "Here, let me help you change this."
He places the sheets on the desk and starts tugging at his bed, pulling the pillowcases off, the under sheet, and the comforter. He quickly remakes the bed while I stand with my arms hanging uselessly at my sides. When he flaps the comforter across the bed, my hair flies around me in the wind.
"Thanks," I say. "I really do appreciate all this."
"It's okay." Harley shrugs. "If the situation were reversed, I'm sure you'd do the same. I'll show you Dad's room now."
I know that I'm going to need to face this, but just the thought of stepping across that threshold sends a wave of hollowness through my chest. Harley strides out of the room with as much purpose as he entered, and I shuffle reluctantly behind him. When he reaches a door further up the hallway, he pauses outside. I can tell this moment is as hard for him as it is for me, maybe even harder. My dad had been a parent to this man when he had no other — a rock in his life, not a virtual stranger for so many years. He was here when Dad died, and maybe he saw him before he was taken away.
"We haven't touched anything. It's all as it was. Figured it was up to you to go through everything in there."
"I don't know if I can," I say softly. Harley turns, and his eyes that meet mine are filled with empathy.
"It's going to be hard," he says. "I'm not going to lie and tell you otherwise. It'll be hard, but you'll be okay. All of this… it's part of life. We're born, we live, and we pass on." He nods once and then twists the handle and opens the door.
For a moment, I stand frozen, then a smell so familiar reaches me that I have to clutch onto the door jamb for support. I can smell my dad, the linger of his cologne still in the air. It's so unexpected that I'm frozen.
"It still smells of him," Harley says, shaking his head. Then he's walking into the room.
I can't follow. It's just too overwhelming. I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, but that only makes it worse. Then I feel a hand on my arm. "It's okay," Harley says. When I open my eyes, I find him close. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes and a scar on his cheek that I imagine is a sports injury. He doesn't strike me as a brawler. I blink slowly and breathe out the breath I've been holding. "I should have been here," I say. "I'm here too late."