The secrets between us

The first step

The alarm tore through the silence of Monday morning, a shrill sound that seemed louder than it had any right to be. I groaned, rolling over, my arm fumbling across the nightstand until I silenced it. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, my chest rising and falling heavily as reality pressed down on me. Today wasn’t just another day. Today, I had to put on a suit and walk into Dad’s world, the world he had spent his lifetime building, the world that had suddenly become mine and Edward’s.

I sat up slowly, running both hands through my hair, trying to rub the exhaustion and dread away. I could still feel the lingering effects of the weekend, too much beer, too little sleep. Both Edward and I had tried to drown the weight of grief in familiar distractions: bars, drinks, fleeting company. But it didn’t work. Every laugh tasted bitter, every smile forced. Dad’s absence was too big, too raw.

Dragging myself into the shower, I let the hot water beat against my skin, loosening the knot in my chest just enough to breathe. By the time I came out, a towel around my waist, the suit lay waiting on the chair where I had laid it out last night, black pants, crisp white shirt, jacket still in its dry cleaner’s plastic. I pulled it piece by piece, fingers clumsy with nerves. I wasn’t a boy anymore. I couldn’t afford to be.

When I finally made my way downstairs, still dangling around my neck, I found Edward already in the kitchen. He looked almost exactly as I did: black slacks, white shirt, dark hair slicked back neatly, a grim expression tugging at his features. He was leaning against the counter, pouring steaming coffee into two mugs. When his eyes met mine, neither of us spoke at first. Words weren’t needed; everything was written in the heaviness of our gazes.

He slid a mug toward me. “Ready for this?” His voice was rough, hoarse from sleep or maybe from everything else we’d been carrying.

I wrapped my fingers around the warmth of the cup, inhaling the bitter scent before taking a sip. The heat steadied me. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Just then, Mom entered the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway for a moment, her eyes resting on us. Something in her softened, and a proud but broken smile curved her lips. “You boys,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You look so handsome. Just like your father.”

The words pierced something deep in me. She crossed the room quickly, wrapping each of us in a hug, pressing her cheek against our shoulders. I felt the weight of her grief in the tightness of her embrace, but I also felt her strength, the determination she carried even while her heart was shattered.

We gave her space, letting her move slowly about the kitchen, spooning sugar into her coffee, blinking away the sting in her eyes.

“You’ll love everyone there,” she said at last, her back to us as she stirred her cup. “They’re kind. They’re loyal. Your father wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

Edward and I exchanged a glance. We both knew what she wasn’t saying: Don’t let his dream die.

After a few pieces of toast were eaten more out of duty than hunger, we left together, climbing into the Range Rover. The drive felt surreal. New York had never seemed so alive, so loud, so relentless, horns blaring, people darting across streets, skyscrapers gleaming against a pale morning sky. And yet, inside the car, silence reigned. My heartbeat thudded against my ribs, each block bringing us closer to L&P.

When the towering building finally came into view, I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my palms slick. L&P louis and Patif. Dad and his best friend, James Patif, had built this from nothing. James eventually moved on, but Dad had kept the name, out of loyalty. Now the name felt enormous, monumental, almost crushing.

We pulled into the underground garage, the hum of the engine echoing off the cement walls. I caught Edward glancing at me, his face pale. He didn’t need to say anything. I knew exactly what he was thinking, because I felt it too: What the hell are we doing here?

Up on the twelfth floor, the doors opened to a space that radiated success. The receptionist greeted us with a sympathetic smile, her eyes lingering on us a little longer than necessary, as though she could see our grief written all over us. Her voice was warm but careful, as if we were afraid we might break. “The conference room is ready for you,” she said gently, pointing us toward the far corner.

Edward and I walked through the office, taking it all in. Rows of glass-walled offices lined the perimeter, each one occupied by people in sleek attire, their desks neat, their fingers moving quickly over keyboards. Phones rang softly, voices hummed in low conversations. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed sweeping views of the city, sunlight streaming across polished floors and modern furniture.

Dad had spared no expense, not just for himself but for his employees. He had always believed in giving people the best environment to do their best work. Seeing it now, I understood just how much pride he must have taken in this.

The conference room was large, the kind of space meant to impress clients and intimidate competitors. A polished oak table stretched the length of it, surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. On the table, fresh fruit and flaky pastries sat neatly arranged beside pitchers of water and coffee.

A man already sat waiting with a folder open before him. When he noticed us, he stood immediately. His suit was dark, his tie perfectly knotted, but his eyes were kind.

“The Louis boys,” he said warmly, extending his hand to each of us. “I’ve heard so much about you.” His grip was firm, steady, the kind of handshake that anchored you. “I am so sorry for your loss. We’re going to make this transition as smooth as possible. Your father was a remarkable man. He ran a tight ship, yes, but he was generous too. Most of us have been here over a decade, and that loyalty was because of him.”

I glanced at Edward. Neither of us had worked any job longer than a few weeks. The contrast was glaring, almost embarrassing.

The man, his name was Richard, the head of operations, guided us first to the break room. It was more like a lounge, complete with plush seating, a gleaming espresso machine, even a stocked fridge. “Your father believed in giving us balance,” Richard explained. “Happy employees are productive employees.”

I made fresh coffee, more for the action than the need, and followed him back to the conference room where Edward and I took seats side by side. Slowly, people began to file in. One by one, they shook our hands, offering condolences with genuine warmth. Their faces blurred together at first men and women of different ages, dressed sharply, carrying themselves with quiet confidence.

By the time the room was full, there were about twenty of them. Twenty people who had worked under Dad, learned from him, admired him. And now they were looking at us.

Four of them introduced themselves as managers, men who had been with the company long enough to know its veins and arteries, its heartbeat. They began to outline the basics, easing us in rather than overwhelming us. They promised private sessions in the weeks to come, teaching us piece by piece, never letting us drown.

Then came the representative from customer service. Her name was Sarah, and she was nothing like I expected. She walked in with quiet confidence, her dark hair swept neatly into a bun, her blazer tailored, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. When she spoke, her voice was calm but commanding, her tone professional but warm.

She explained the philosophy of L&P’s customer service, why they were ranked among the best. It wasn’t just about solving problems. It was about creating trust, building relationships, making clients feel valued. Listening to her, I felt the pieces of Dad’s vision click into place. He hadn’t just built a shipping company. He’d built a legacy of loyalty and trust.

And Sarah, God, she was gorgeous, yes, with striking features and an effortless grace but more than that, she radiated competence. Confidence. She knew her place here, and it was a place she had clearly earned.

I exchanged a look with Edward, who raised his brows slightly as if to say, See what I mean?

As the meeting unfolded, I realized something unexpected. We weren’t alone. Dad had left us with people who knew what they were doing, people who cared about this company as much as he had. We weren’t expected to be him, not yet. Maybe not ever. We were just expected to show up, to learn, to respect what he had built.

And for the first time since the funeral, I felt a flicker of hope.

This wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t going to happen overnight. But maybe, just maybe we could do this.