77. Present Day
Present Day
Jase woke at dawn to very chirpy birds and Graham farting on his leg.
Better than a headache and the shakes, but not by much.
He kicked his brother and Graham rolled over with a snort.
“Asshole,” Jase grumbled, crawling over Graham’s sweaty legs and feet to the door.
Pink skies were waiting outside the tent.
“Holy shit,” Jase muttered with the sunrise bleeding in his eyes.
He staggered back toward the house to wake his old man.
Dad was a fool for a good sunrise. Said they were a privilege of riding and Jase should catch as many as he could.
Other than in Santa Cruz where he’d sat with Lindsey on the beach while the sun rose behind them hidden by gray clouds, he hadn’t chased those reds and oranges and pinks in years.
His dad would cuss him out if Jase came knocking at this hour, but too bad. He should see this.
Jase made it a few steps when he remembered.
No.
His knees buckled in the weeds.
Fuck, no.
Goddamn it.
How had he fucking forgotten?
The breath he sucked down cut his lungs and he choked on it. Was this how Graham’s panic attacks felt? How were they supposed to live without the man who taught them how?
He fought to breathe. This wasn’t panic, it was fucking grief. And it ate him up from the inside. One minute he was gagging over his brother’s funk, and the next he was sobbing in the wet grass at the sunrise painting the sky with all the colors his old man would never see again.
Was it always going to be this hard? A lifetime of forgetting to remember? Picking up his phone to dial the only number he ever called and realizing—over and over—that no one was going to answer? What was the point of living if he was totally fucking alone?
“It’s not okay, you bastard,” he growled. “If you want me to say it’s okay and let you off the hook, it’s not. How could you fucking do it?”
He wiped his nose, his eyes, his whole leaky face.
“Did you think this would help? Put us in a tent and show us a good sunrise and your boys would be fine? We’re not fine, Dad. Graham can’t fucking breathe without you. And I—I—”
Fuck, he screamed. None of it was fucking fair. He looked around for something to hit but there was nothing but weeds, the tent, that stupid fucking paddle boat—
“Jase?”
Through the tall grass, Jase saw Graham’s head sticking out the tent door.
His bearded mug was ripe for punching.
Graham had no idea his brother’s fist was primed. He wasn’t even looking at Jase. The pink sun was in his eyes.
“Oh, fuck,” Graham exhaled.
Jase’s chest dropped watching his brother’s face change with the stages of his own grief. Remembering. Understanding. Not accepting. Asking questions with no answer. Bargaining for a different ending.
“That motherfucker,” Graham whispered. Tears spilled down both cheeks.
All the fight left him. Jase pressed his fingers into his eyes, and his shoulders shook with sobs. He’d never cried in front of his brother. The sunrise over the pond was more of a funeral than the burial Jase had missed.
Graham crawled out of the tent and hooked a hand under Jase’s arm.
“Get up,” Graham urged. “Let’s go.”
A few weeks ago, Jase would’ve torn out of his brother’s grip. Today he lumbered to his feet. Every muscle and bone complained at the effort and Jase’s own will would’ve preferred to stay on the ground and just let the weeds take him.
Graham hauled him down the bank to the sun-beached paddle boat on shore. He brushed off the seats and pushed it out into the water.
“The paddle blades—” Jase argued.
“They’re fixed,” Graham said.
“Doesn’t mean she’s seaworthy.”
“Dad had it out a few months ago. Stop being such a bitch and get in,” Graham said.
Jase would still rather let the weeds take him.
“Come on,” Graham said. “I’ve got some bones to pick with Dad, and I want to do it out here. You?”
“Yeah,” Jase said. “Yeah, I’ve got some.”
Graham held the boat steady for Jase to climb into one of the front seats. Clad only in his boxers, Graham sat in the other and they paddled to the middle of the small pond.
Where they cursed their old man and those fucking perfect pink skies.