12
Jesse stayed away from the house Thursday evening and Clara was glad, because he was obviously in a rotten mood. He might say that the shabby, beloved old place had been nothing more than a foster home, or that the Wilders had been nothing more than a foster family, but she knew he was lying.
She just didn’t know why.
Her sixteen-year-old cousins showed up after dinner with armfuls of clothes and some exciting news: “Dad’s taking us to Dallas this weekend to audition for Next Texas Rock Star and we need your help deciding what to wear!”
Lorelei and Eloise were blonde and fair like their mother, identical twins with vastly divergent personalities, but nonetheless inseparable. “Y’all are going to play guitar in front of thousands of people?”
“And sing,” Eloise added calmly.
“We’re gonna win, too!” Lorelei cried. “You better not doubt us. We don’t need any negativity.”
“I believe,” Clara said at once. “What song are you going to do?”
“‘Travelin’ Soldier,’” they said in unison.
“Okay….Well, show me the outfits you brought.”
They left three hours later with several pieces of Clara’s own clothing. She saw that the Maserati was back, so Jesse must have disappeared into his room. She said good night to her parents and went to bed.
In the middle of the night she heard car doors slam outside. She was too cozy and sleepy to get up, but she smiled knowing that her little brothers were home for the weekend. Whatever was ailing Jesse, the boys would straighten him out.
She woke up feeling energized and optimistic. She touched up her hair and added a little highlighter around her eyes—brothers could be brutal—and headed down the stairs to defend her Pretty Princess title.
“Hart,” she exclaimed, entering the kitchen to find her elusive older brother at the coffeemaker. “I thought you were flying in later!”
“Surprise,” he said dryly. “Thought a road trip might be fun.”
Hart was, objectively, the best looking of the siblings. He had the Colonel’s athletic build and black hair, but their mother’s softer mouth and sleepy brown eyes made him almost pretty. Girls, including Clara’s own friends, had been fascinated by him since before he was old enough to care, teachers had always loved her because she was his little sister, and she was pretty sure his high school football coach’s firstborn son being named Hart wasn’t a coincidence. For all that, though, the guy was surprisingly easy to be around.
“And was it fun?” she asked, grinning. “Or did they drive you nuts?”
“Both.” He met her eyes, intense and serious. “Where’s Jesse Flores?”
“I don’t know. In his room?”
“Room’s empty.”
“He’s been driving Mom’s car.”
“Car’s here.”
She shrugged. “Maybe he went for a run.”
He stared at her.
“What? I’m not hiding him!” she exclaimed, getting a coffee cup for herself.
“Aren’t you?”
It was her turn to stare at him. “Why would I? I hope y’all beat him up.”
“Why? Has he been a jerk?”
“Not the whole time, but he’s got a stick up his butt for sure.”
Hart appeared to consider this news for several moments.
A slight sound made Clara glance toward the fireplace and she smiled to see her brother Beck passed out on the couch. “Beck couldn’t make it upstairs?”
“Guess not. He slept the last few hours of the drive, too. I think he’s been partying too much.”
She sighed, and decided it was her duty as an older sister to wake him up and give him a hard time.
Hart stopped her. “Hey, this is for you.”
She took the envelope. “What is it?”
“Check for five grand.”
“ What? Why?” she cried.
He shrugged. “Good faith.”
“You’re such a weirdo! Thanks, Hart!”
“You’re doing us all a favor, helping Mom.”
“I’m not really doing anything,” she objected. “I just live here.”
“Like a war correspondent.” He took a sip of coffee and noticed her smiling at him. “Don’t hug me.”
“Barf,” she said automatically, but she felt very fondly towards him as she tucked the envelope into her pocket. “Does this mean you’ve had a good quarter?”
“You could say that.”
She gave him a sisterly shove, which he took well. Then she made her way over to the snoring young man on the couch. “Beck! Wake up!”
He groaned and rolled away from her.
Clara sat down hard on his side. “Becky! It’s morning! Come on.” She gave his rough cheek a few vigorous pats. “You better shave. You look gross. Oh, you smell so bad.”
“Go away, Clara,” he begged hoarsely.
“Get up,” she urged. “It’s Mom’s birthday! She’ll come in here any second!”
His eyes opened. “Okay, get off.”
She got up, and he rose stiffly from the couch. He was still in jeans, and hadn’t even removed his tennis shoes. His hair was long and shaggy, and the patchy beard was new. “Are you hungover?” she asked suspiciously.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t drink before a road trip.”
“I had a hangover last weekend.”
He blinked at her. “What? For real?”
“Yep.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did,” she said rather proudly.
“But you don’t drink. You said it’s a waste of calories.”
“It is, but I did it. Go take a shower or something.”
“You’re lying,” he said with certainty.
He started wearily up the stairs just as Nash appeared on the landing, looking fresh and wide awake.
“’Morning,” Nash said brightly. He was clean cut, neatly dressed in clothes his mother still bought for him, and close to six and a half feet tall.
Beck grunted in response.
“Clara!” Nash greeted her, grinning widely.
She opened her arms for a bear hug from her baby brother.
True to form, he lifted her briefly off the floor in his exuberance, but he put her back down almost immediately, saying, “I brought you some UH sweatpants so you can represent. You can wear them to the gym. They’re small. Is that okay?”
“Small is good! I’ll definitely wear them.”
Then the back sliding door opened, and the three siblings turned and froze as Jesse came in from his run, removing his earbuds as he shut the door once more.
“No way,” Nash murmured.
“Hart,” Jesse warned sharply, but Hart was making a beeline for him.
Clara’s hand flew to her mouth as Hart threw a punch at his foster brother, and was momentarily relieved when Jesse dodged his fist. Then she grimaced as Jesse tackled Hart to the floor, hard.
Jesse had been a good wrestler, and it showed, but Hart was resourceful and motivated, and they’d both learned the Colonel’s “combatives” as teens. Clara winced as her brother landed a punch to the doctor’s unshaven jaw. A few seconds later, Jesse’s fist smashed into Hart’s nose, and her brother growled an expletive.
Her parents appeared in the kitchen doorway and Nash put his spare arm around his mother, hugging her and Clara to his sides as he watched the fight with his signature good humor.
“How long do we let this go on?” Dr. Wilder asked her husband.
The Colonel observed the situation for a moment, and then uttered one word: “Enough.”
It was like magic, Clara thought. Jesse and Hart stood up, breathing heavy and glaring at one another, but the fight was over.
“You want to fight, do it outside,” the Colonel said acidly.
“Queensbury rules,” Nash added with mock severity. “This is a free-for-all.”
The Colonel looked at his towering youngest son with a smoldering eye. Nash smiled impishly at him, and offered a frank hand, which his father shook.
“Welcome back,” the Colonel said.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Hart’s nose was bleeding, and Jesse had a swollen red scrape along his jaw. Neither one of them looked ready to move on, but they didn’t launch at each other.
“Where have you been?” Hart demanded.
“Don’t play dumb,” Jesse snapped. “You know where I’ve been. We live three miles apart.”
“Don’t you dare act like I’ve been snubbing you,” Hart returned. “You told your girlfriend to have me arrested when I showed up at your apartment. You threatened me with a restraining order! Now you’re in my parents’ kitchen, walking around like you belong here.”
“He does belong here,” Nash put in. “He’s family.”
“No, he isn’t,” Hart growled. “Family doesn’t do what he did.”
Clara looked at Jesse and decided that he looked…confused. No longer furious but not guilty, either. Just…kind of bewildered.
“I never threatened you with a restraining order,” he said roughly. “What kind of story is that?”
“You don’t remember the restraining order? Do you remember telling my mom that you’d take her to court if she stopped paying your tuition?”
“ What? ”
Clara winced at Jesse’s tone, but Hart doubled down.
“I grew up believing you were my brother. We all believed it. Then you turned on us.”
“Is that what your mom told you?” Jesse asked stiffly. “Ask her who turned on who. Because she’s the one who cut me off the day of my dad’s funeral. She said she’d pay my tuition until the end of the year if I never contacted any of you again.”
“No, I didn’t,” Dr. Wilder gasped.
Jesse was staring at her across the wide room, the pain and betrayal in his gaze unmistakable. “Now who’s forgetting?”
“Not me ,” she said in surprise.
“Clara said I told Hart to leave me alone. Clara said you told her and the boys that I was mad at you because my dad was dying, and I want to know why nobody told me that I had four little Wilders living within five miles of me during the worst and loneliest time of my entire life. But I guess you decided that y’all were done with me. Didn’t you?”
Now Dr. Wilder looked puzzled. Not embarrassed, not guilty—puzzled. “You were mad at us,” she said helplessly. “Don’t you remember? You sent all those horrible emails.”
“I never emailed you in my life,” he retorted rashly. “Show me the emails I wrote!”
“They’re in your file.” Dr. Wilder waved a hand towards the hallway.
“Of course they are,” he practically snarled.
“I’ll get it,” Nash volunteered at once, and jogged out of the room.
The whole family stood perfectly still and silent until he returned. The Wilders were looking at Jesse Flores, and Jesse was looking at Grace.
“Here you go,” Nash said, returning. He went straight to Jesse with the folder. “Flores, Jesús L.”
Jesse snatched it. “What kind of psycho prints and files emails?”
Dr. Wilder was not offended. “Well, it’s lucky I did, since you don’t remember any of them.”