Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
Indi
A text wakes me from a deep sleep. It was easy to nap on El Honey's soft quilt and slightly lumpy mattress. I'm still catching up on all the sleep I lost in the last week. The walk home helped clear my head and tamp down the irritation I was feeling after the few moments with Jameson. It seems the two of us will never be able to smooth out our history enough to even be cordial to each other.
The text is from Kinsley.
A bus of tourists just pulled up to the sandwich shop, so I'm going down to help Nev. Help yourself to whatever in the fridge.
Thanks. Do you mind if I cut a few of the roses out front? I want to go to the cemetery and visit your grandmother and my dad.
Of course. Take as many as you like. The pruning shears are in the shed out back. Oh, there's a bike there too. You can use it to get around town.
By the way, Nana is buried just to the right of the rose garden. We thought it was the perfect resting place for her.
Great. See you later.
I open the bedroom window and warm summer air rushes in. I set a piece of cheese on bread and nibble it before going out to cut some roses. I haven't been back in town for many years, and Weston's been gone too. Dad's grave is no doubt overgrown and neglected.
A few minutes and a few thorn pricks later I hold a cluster of yellow, fragrant roses in one hand as I pedal the bike three blocks to the cemetery. The air is warm, but the coastal breeze always provides relief. It's a constant reminder that just past the tall spruces and cliff edges, the Pacific Ocean stretches out to the rest of the world.
I reach the Rockhurst Cemetery and lock up the bike outside the gate. Half the graveyard is filled with old, weathered tombstones from the last two centuries. Most of the stones are crooked and cracked, and a pair of angel statues that have stood watch over them for many years are starting to look more like monsters than angels. Their delicate facial features have decayed, leaving big holes where noses and lips should be.
The newer half of the cemetery is filled with shiny marble markers that are mostly flat in the ground, the more affordable headstones. Weston and I badly wanted our dad to have a tall, vertical marker, one that matched his grandness in our hearts and minds, but Mom refused, insisting it was too much money. An ornate black iron fence surrounds carefully planted and pruned rose bushes of every color and fragrance. There's a stone fountain in the middle where an angel pours water from an ewer into the surrounding basin. A sign on the fence forbids visitors from using the roses for individual graves.
El Honey's plot is still covered with a fresh patch of sod, and there are many bouquets resting on top of the marker. I can still smell and taste her incredible oatmeal cookies. After Dad's death, I spent much more time with El Honey than with my mom. She knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. I think that's why the Wilde brothers, especially Zander and Jameson, spent so much time at her house. And she never turned anyone away.
I place half the roses on her grave "Thank you, El Honey. I hope you're having a peaceful eternity."
I'm ashamed to realize I'm lost when trying to find my dad's grave. I remember a woman named Poolie Ransom is buried nearby because her name was so unusual. I finally find Poolie, turn a sharp left and walk across a small knoll to my dad's grave. There's a shiny new bench under an oak tree just past his plot. An elderly woman wearing a straw, bonnet-style hat is throwing seeds out for the birds. A group of pigeons huddle nearby waiting for the next toss. The bonnet is deep, but I can see her smile under the shade of the brim. She waves. I wave back.
I find my dad's marker. I'm expecting it to be weed-choked and neglected. Instead, it's shiny, and the grass around it is lush and green. A bouquet of lilies is resting in a half-wilted pile on top of the marker. I sit down next to it and swallow back the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, Dad. I was busy trying to chase my dream career, only the dream must have belonged to someone else because I hated it, every minute of it." That revelation becomes clearer to me with each day away from L.A. Maybe it was Sunni and her carefree life and breezy, happy outlook that made me realize I was doing it all wrong.
I rub my fingers over the name, Edward Roy Nash. He's been gone for half my life, but that day is still raw and fresh in my soul as if it was yesterday.
Sixteen years earlier
" T his rain is wreaking total havoc on my hair," Susie complains as she tosses her duffle bag on the bleachers. Susie gets up at the crack of dawn to run a flat iron through her natural curls only to have those same curls bounce right back the second a little fog or rain hits them. I constantly tell her to embrace the gorgeous curls, but she tells me "try the Shirley Temple look for a day, and you'll be reaching for the flat iron, too."
"Keep your feet flexed," I tell Kinsley as I help her stretch her legs by pushing lightly on her back.
"You're turning me into a pretzel," she complains.
The other girls pile in for practice. We had big plans to practice a few new routines out on the field, but the weather had other plans. The rain has been falling for three straight days. Dad mentioned something about an ark this morning as we ate frozen waffles. He and mom were up early arguing about bills, a subject I always found too boring to listen to. I pulled the pillow over my head to try and catch a few more winks before getting up for school, but my mom's shrill tone cut right through the pillow. I've been feeling the early morning start all day.
My parents didn't argue a lot, but when they did it was as if they'd stored up all their anger for one big blow out. In the end, Mom swept out of the kitchen, telling all of us to just toast some frozen waffles. Dad sat with us, grumpy at first, but then he watched in amusement as Weston methodically filled each waffle hole with syrup. I joined in to watch, but Weston was clueless about his audience. Dad and I had a good laugh about it. It was easy to pop Dad out of a bad mood. Unfortunately, it wasn't the same with Mom. She'd be mean and short-tempered the rest of the day.
The girls tend to spend the first ten minutes of practice stretching and tossing around gossip from the day. It helps them get their minds on the cheers once we get started. "It's a little cold in the gym, so warm up slowly," I advise. "Don't need any pulled muscles before the big game this Friday."
"When our hot quarterback, Zach, will score big points," Lisa teases. Her eyes round, and her cheeks turn pink. "There's your brother," she says with a sigh. Lisa has been crushing on Weston all year, but he's still dating Naomi. Lisa looks past me again, and her brows bunch with worry. "He looks upset."
I straighten from my stretch and turn to look at him. Weston has stopped a good ten feet from where we are. His face is void of color, as if he's about to get sick. When his gaze lands on me, a deep, cold shiver shakes me to my core.
The girls have gone quiet, and the only sounds are the bleachers creaking from the cold temperature and the rain slapping the cement outside the gym. I hurry toward him and notice my feet feel heavy, like I'm dragging blocks of cement. Something is horribly wrong.
"West?" I ask. I don't have a clue why he's here, but my voice is already shaking, and my knees are trembling. "What's the matter?"
Weston is dripping water on the tile floor. He swallows hard before talking. "There's been an accident. Dad's in the hospital."
His arm shoots out to keep me from collapsing. The girls are gasping and whispering behind me. Kinsley races over and wraps her hand around my arm to steady me. "Is it bad?" she asks.
Weston has no answer, but his face grows even paler. "Come on. We need to get to the hospital."
"I'll take care of your stuff," Kinsley says. "Just go. I'm sure he'll be fine," she calls to us as we push out into the rain. The cold drops pelt us as we walk what seems like miles to the student parking lot. There are a million questions swirling through my head, but it's too hard to communicate in the bad weather, and I want badly to get on the road to the hospital. The relentless rain will make travel harder.
I feel sick to my stomach, and I'm shivering from the cold. I'm still dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, my workout outfit. Weston smacks the heater a few times to get it working. The defroster is crap, like everything else in the old truck. Weston worked two summer jobs to earn enough to buy it from a neighbor, but it has taken way more money just to keep it running.
Weston pulls the sleeve of his sweatshirt down over his hand and leans forward to wipe the condensation off the inside of the windshield. The wipers creak and scrape a line in the glass as he pulls out of the parking lot. I release my breath, glad we're on the road.
"Who called you?" I ask.
"Mom." It's all he says, and that makes the nausea in my stomach worse.
"West? How is he? Is it bad? I mean—shit—is he in a coma or something? What happened. Was it an accident, or did he hit something?"
Weston frantically wipes the wet hair out of his eyes. "Fuck, I don't know, Indi. Stop pelting me with so many questions. Mom just said he was in an accident." He pauses and swallows hard. "She was crying."
I slump back against the seat hard. My mom doesn't cry easily. When Sparky, our dog, had to be put down because of cancer, all of us, Dad included, were bawling, but Mom just went on with her day, talking cheerily to a friend on the phone and then finishing a crossword she'd started in the morning.
The hospital is ten miles away, and it seems to take forever to get to the emergency parking lot. I haven't been to the small community hospital since Dad drove Weston to the ER after he crashed on his skateboard and ended up with a concussion. The lot is mostly empty, but there's an ambulance parked in front of the emergency doors. The sight of the ambulance sends another deep shudder through me.
"Do you think Dad came in by ambulance?" I ask. It's a stupid question, but I'm trying hard to visualize him walking in holding a cloth or something to a superficial cut on his head, something that would just require stitches and that would ensure we would all be at home tonight hearing his story and laughing about it over burgers.
Weston doesn't answer my question. His face is grim as we get out of the truck. The rain has slowed to a drizzle. I'm shaking hard from the cold and the fear. I expect a flurry of activity, a newly arrived accident victim would cause some chaos, doctors and nurses dashing about to help the patient brought in by ambulance. I allow myself a moment of calm, like the scene inside the hospital. If they're not rushing around frantically, then maybe it is just a scratch or a bump on the head. I take a small sip of air to calm myself more and then Mom steps out of a waiting room. She's hunched over, her face in her hands, and a woman doctor is holding her arm.
I grab hold of Weston's arm to keep from passing out. The ambulance driver and two policemen step out from another passage. They're wrapped in yellow rain gear, and they're mumbling to each other.
I keep a tight grip on Weston as Mom and the doctor approach us. I keep telling myself to wake up, to get out of this awful dream once and for all, but I'm still standing in the small corridor with its harsh lights and funny smells.
Mom reaches for Weston, and he holds her even though he's having a hard time holding himself up. "He can't be dead," Weston says. "He can't be."
I stand there frozen, still hoping this will all be a bad dream. I can see the police walk toward us through the tears. Everything is blurry, and the room is spinning. And I still can't wake up from this nightmare.
"What happened?" Weston's thin, hoarse voice floats over my head.
"There was a pedestrian on Harbor Avenue. It was raining hard. Apparently, your dad swerved to miss the boy, and his car left the road and hit a tree. It caused massive head trauma."
"Who? Who the hell was walking out on that road in the middle of a storm?" Weston asks angrily.
The policeman turns and looks down the hallway. A figure is sitting on a bench. He stands up and turns toward us.
"Fuck," Weston says through gritted teeth.
My feet carry me down the corridor before I know they are moving. Jameson stands completely still. Water drips off his hair and clothes, and there's blood smeared on his shirt.
"I'm sorry, Indi. I'm sorry," he manages to blurt out before I reach him.
And then my fists swing at him, and I pound his chest hard over and over again. "I hate you! Why the fuck is it always you?" I scream. He stands frozen to the spot and makes no attempt to stop me as I pound him. He stands firm, taking every blow and not even flinching. My tears are flowing so fast the saltiness coats my mouth.
Then two hands grab hold of me. "Enough," Weston says as he pulls me into his arms. "Enough."
Now
I wipe away tears as I push aside the lilies and place the roses next to them.
"He comes once a week," the woman calls in a frail voice.
I blot my eyes with the back of my hand and walk over to the bench. The pigeons are angry with me for upsetting the balance of things. "That young man comes every week to put flowers on that grave."
"What young man? Do you know him?"
She chuckles and tosses another handful of seeds out. "He's a real looker. Like his dad once was."
Her cryptic clues only confuse me more. My mind goes to Zach. But that doesn't seem possible.
"I come here every day to feed the birds. My husband, Benjamin, he loved birds. He would hang feeders all around the yard, and I used to get so mad at him because they made such a mess." She takes out another handful of seed and throws it. A seagull has joined the lunch bunch, and the pigeons are not pleased. "I wish I could take back every one of those scoldings," she says in a far-off tone as if she's drifted back in time. She lifts a shaky hand. "Benny is right over there, next to the maple tree."
"I'm visiting my dad."
She looks over at me. "He must have died young," she says.
I nod. "Way too young."
"Well, we talk sometimes, the young man and me. I know the rest of the town thought those boys were trouble, but I think they just needed the right person to love them. Heaven knows they weren't getting that from their dad."
And then it hits me. "So, one of the Wilde brothers has been putting flowers on my dad's grave?"
"Yes, the handsome one with the pale blue eyes. Such a nice young man." And there I have my answer. There is only one Wilde brother with light blue eyes. Jameson has been putting flowers on Dad's grave. My reaction is a mix of anger and bewilderment. Seems like that's my usual reaction whenever Jameson comes up in conversation.
I leave the cemetery chewing on this new piece of information and still don't know if I'm angry or just shocked. I climb on the bike. It's easier to ride without clutching flowers, and without giving it any thought, I find myself heading in the direction of Jameson's house.
The wind burns my cheeks, and I'm breathing embarrassingly hard by the time I reach his street. His truck is in the driveway. I stop at the entrance to the street and put my feet down, balancing the bike between my thighs. It's entirely possible that deep down I was hoping he wouldn't be home, but now I'm here, and so is his truck. I hop back on the seat and let the bike mostly roll down the street to his house.
I can feel my heart beating in my chest, and it's not from the ride. I park the bike out front, walk up to the door and knock. The front stoop and nice mahogany door look different in the sunshine and with my head clearer from sleep and food. I reach my hand to knock and then lower it. I have no idea why I'm here or what I'm going to say. I turn to make my escape when the door opens. Rio is standing in the doorway wearing a straw cowboy hat and pink leather cowboy boots under her jeans.
"You're just in time. I need help deciding which pictures to post." She reaches for my hand and pulls me inside. "Dad is a terrible photographer, but I think I can salvage a few. Sir James, we have company." She lifts her phone. "I saw you on the porch camera." Rio stops and looks up at me. "Were you leaving?"
"Uh, no, I was just going to check that my bike wasn't blocking the driveway."
Jameson steps out of the hallway, shirtless with his thick, wet hair combed back off his face. It takes me a second to find my tongue. "Uh, sorry to interrupt your day—" I say lamely.
"You're not interrupting, is she, Dad? I'm going to show her the pictures and see if any of them are useable." She adds an eye roll.
"Nope, shower first. You smell like Irish, and as much as I love that pony, I don't want to smell her inside the house."
Rio grunts. "Fine." She turns back to me. "Stay please. I desperately need your help. This man is absolutely useless when it comes to creating good posts." She stomps down the hallway to the bathroom.
It's hard not to laugh. "And I thought our age group was addicted to social media," I say.
"Trust me, it's way out of control. They post everything online, and that seems to be the way they communicate. I've never heard her actually speak on the phone. I'm worried about her generation, and there you have it—I've officially finished my transformation to boring, grumbly old man. Next, I'll be raising my fist and yelling at kids to get off my lawn."
"I don't think you have to start wearing stretched out corduroy pants with thin leather belts quite yet." We stare at each other for a second. "I'm sorry about earlier."
He looks down and shakes his head as he rakes his fingers through his hair. "No, I shouldn't have gone off like that."
I'm having a hard time keeping my gaze from sweeping down his muscular chest and six-pack abs to the dark line of hair that trails down below the waist of his jeans. I came here to talk to him about the flowers at my dad's grave, but I'm finding myself distracted by his half-naked body.
The shower turns on in the bathroom. The light banter is over, and Jameson's unearthly gaze grows more intense as he moves a step closer. I can see the Adam's apple move in his throat, and something about it sends a rush of heat through me.
"Did you forget something?" His deep voice pops me out of my unexpected trance.
"Forget?"
A crooked smile turns up his mouth. I always hated that cocky grin, but now, seeing it, I'm thinking hate is way too strong of a word. "You showed up here, remember? I was sure you wouldn't be back."
"I was going to leave, then Rio saw me on the porch camera, and the next thing I knew, I was being hired as official photo picker."
His smile vanishes. "You came here, but you weren't planning on knocking?"
Something about the way he asks it, puts me back on defense. "You've been putting flowers on my dad's grave." I don't mean to make it sound like an accusation. At least I don't think I meant it that way, but it comes out like that anyway.
His Adam's apple moves again. Why the fuck does it have me so mesmerized? "Who told you that?" He nods once. "Berniece, the bird feeder."
"Why are you doing it?"
He stares at me, and suddenly, we're back at the day when we met face-to-face after Dad's accident. He couldn't look me in the eye, and I couldn't look away. I walked straight up to him, sobbing uncontrollably and pounded him on the chest. And he let me. It was as if he needed the punishment as badly as I needed to give it.
"Just something I need to do," he says curtly. "Do you want me to stop?"
I nod and then shake my head. "I don't know."
"That day, the day your dad died, sticks in my soul as much as it does yours," he says.
"I doubt that." There I am, back on defense. What is it about this man that makes every inch of me react with emotion?
"Not in the same way of course." He moves closer, and I'm mad because he knows damn well it's throwing off my resolve to remain stoic. "Every day, every fucking day, Indi, I wish I'd been anywhere else other than walking down that stupid road. And that's only on days when I'm not wishing that it had been me instead of him."
I flinch at those words. "No, don't say that."
"But it's what you wish," he says.
"How the hell can you say that? What I wish is that my dad had left the house fifteen minutes later or that the stupid sky hadn't opened up with a downpour or that my dad hadn't left the house angry at my mom because it made him drive too fast in that storm." The tears are falling, and I wish they weren't. "As mad as I was at you for being there, for being the person who caused him to swerve off the road and hit that fucking tree, as mad as I was at you for causing his accident, I've never ever wished it had been you instead of him. I never wished that, Jameson." I sob and he pulls me into his arms. I struggle to resist for all of a second, but every ounce of that day, the pain, the anguish is flowing through me. I land against his hard, naked chest, and those same emotions dissipate. For a moment, I allow myself the pleasure of feeling secure for the first time in months. I never felt the same security in Landon's arms. Never. But this is Jameson Wilde, my nemesis. How can it feel so right pressed against his body?
We part, reluctantly. It seems he needed me in that moment as much as I needed him. "Do you need a drink? I've got cold sodas in the fridge," he says.
"I'll take a cold soda. Thanks." He brings back a drink and then goes into the bedroom to grab a shirt. I'm disappointed and relieved all at once.
We sit for a second sipping soda and listening to Rio scream out Taylor Swift songs at the top of her lungs.
"She is so friggin' cute," I say.
"Most of the time," he says with a prideful gleam in his eye.
I turn to him and realize we sat down closer than I expected. I can still smell the soap on his skin. "We've never talked about it. I guess I was never strong enough to hear the details. It wasn't fair to you. I'm sorry."
Jameson puts the soda on the coffee table and rakes his drying hair with his fingers. "You know most of it. I stayed with him. I know rumors started that I saw him go off the road and then I ran, worried I'd be blamed for it. Which I was"—he looks pointedly at me—"Do you really want to hear it?" he asks.
"Do you want to tell it?" I ask.
His face drops "Never got to tell it to anyone." He looks at me, and he's wearing the pain of that day in his expression. I can feel that same haunting pain radiating off him in waves.
I take a deep breath. "I want to hear it."