Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Finn
She pulls her legs up under her and watches as I push a slice of pizza around on my plate.
“So, I’m pretty bad with emotions,” she says.
“No. You?” I tease.
“Shocking, I know,” she muses. “But I’ve known you for a while, and I’ve never heard you talk about Hunter.”
I nod. “Yeah. Like I said before—it brings the mood down. And I don’t want to be the guy who lost a brother. People look at you differently when they know.” And it’s true. I want to be the guy who leaves every place a little better than how he found it.
What I don’t say is that I don’t like the way it feels when I talk about it. I don’t like to feel the anger that’s stirred up, or the way it mixes with grief. I can’t change it. I can’t go back and fix it.
What I can do is live my life like he would’ve, and never ever miss an opportunity to be grateful. For the big things and the little things.
But then Raya asks, “Do you . . . need to? Talk about him, I mean.”
Do I? Do I want to go there? Do I need to go there?
“No pressure,” she says. “I won’t be offended if you’d rather not.”
I really don’t like revisiting this. But part of me wants Raya to know. It’s the only way she’ll ever know Hunter and how amazing he was—the only way for me to introduce my brother to this incredible woman.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “It’s hard because—well, it’s just hard.” I set my plate on the coffee table and think about the brother I lost.
“Hunter was two years older than me,” I say, thinking it’s best to start with the facts, but also aware that apart from that day she picked up his photo in my apartment, it’s been a really long time since I’ve said his name out loud. “He was obsessed with hockey.
“He’d talk about professional players nonstop. Knew all of their stats, who was getting traded to which team, even who was coming out of high school or college and was going to make a huge noise in the league.
“He was going to enter the draft.” I pause.
“He would’ve gotten picked up too—he just had a gift.
Dozens of letters and emails telling him he was a ‘rare talent.’” “A kid with crazy natural talent paired with the work ethic of a rancher? Unstoppable,” I laugh just thinking about it.
So many chores. And so early in the morning.
Who would’ve thought eventually I’d be grateful for it?
I scoot back, settling into the couch, and look at Raya, grateful to find her eyes kind and curious.
“Everyone thought he was crazy, you know, because he was such a loudmouth, even at age twelve, about the fact that one day he was going to play pro hockey. He talked about it like he had no doubt he could do it. Nobody from our small town had ever done anything like that. He may as well’ve told people he was going to be an astronaut,” I laugh, remembering how the guys would tease him. He never backed down.
“My pop isn’t the best with words—he thinks actions are louder, so he built an ice rink in the backyard.
His way of showing support, I think.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos until I find one of me on the rink with my brothers, taken last Christmas.
“This is it.” I hand it to her, and she looks at it, pinching the screen to make it bigger.
“You all look so much alike,” she says.
“Right?” I take the phone back and scan my brothers’ faces. “Bunch of knuckleheads.” I laugh.
I pull in a slow, deep breath. This is the hard part. The part I don’t like to remember. I’ve found that if I say it quick, it hurts less. But only a little bit.
“So, one night,” I say, “on the way home from a game, Hunter came up over a hill and there was a car on his side of the road. In his lane. Head-on collision. The woman driving walked away without a scratch. Hunter didn’t .
. . uh . . . he didn’t . . .” A ball of anger forms in my chest, replacing the sadness that’s always there when I think about the life my brother didn’t get to live.
“Hunter didn’t walk away at all.”
Raya goes still. She knew the ending, but it’s still jarring. The kind of tragedy that should never, ever happen. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
Somehow, her words don’t sound empty. Or pitying. They just sound honest and heartfelt.
“You know, as awful as it was, I do think losing Hunter taught me—my whole family, really—a lot about living in the moment,” he says. “I know better than to waste a single day.”
“Says the guy who spends his days off playing video games.” She shoots me a look.
It breaks the tension a bit, and I’m grateful. I turn mock-serious. “Hey. That is not a waste. That—is a very fun distraction.”
“I’ll never understand it,” she says, shaking her head.
“Well, don’t knock it until you try it,” I grin at her, and the weight of the conversation settles back in a bit, but not as heavy.
“I just want to make him proud.” I shrug. “Live like it matters. Because it does. Gotta make it count for something.”
Curiosity washes over her face. “‘Live like it matters.’ You said that to your mom when you got off the phone.”
I nod. “Yeah, we say it for Hunter.” A soft shrug. “Easier than saying his name.”
I’m glad I told her, but talking about it always comes with a price. I go back to my food, trying to put all the feelings back in the right boxes.
We eat in a comfortable silence for a minute or so, and then she looks at me, brow knit with concern. “What happened to the driver?”
I don’t know what my face does, but it must be something because she frowns.
“Oh. I’m . . .sorry, is that a bad question?” she asks.
I look at her. I want to be honest, but I’m not sure I want to talk about the woman who killed my brother. Not tonight. Not when we have a tree to set up. And Christmas to celebrate. Not when I know that the anger is always directed at her.
“I don’t really know where she is now,” I say, which isn’t a lie.
It’s just not a whole truth either.
“But she’s in prison, right?”
I look away. “Not anymore.”
She goes still. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” I look at her, and without thinking, I add, “She, uh, sends me letters sometimes.”
She hugs her legs a little tighter. “She what?”
“Yeah, I don’t know if it’s a step in a program she’s in or what, but . . .” I trail off.
“What does she say?”
“I’m not sure.” I shake my head. “I’ve never opened one.”
“Oh.” She watches me.
I haven’t opened one because I know she’s going to say how sorry she is. Or worse, ask for forgiveness. I’m not exactly ready to read the former or grant the latter.
“I don’t know if I’d be able to read those either,” she says. “I can’t even begin to imagine what a mess I’d be if something happened to Poppy or Eloise.”
“I know, somewhere, there has to be some kind of, I don’t know, closure, or forgiveness, or whatever, but—”
She finishes my thought, “—But you aren’t there yet.”
I nod, a little embarrassed, because aren’t I supposed to forgive? I’m pretty sure that’s written in a very important book somewhere. But nobody explains how to do it. It’s hard to hand out forgiveness when the person you’re supposed to forgive stole something priceless.
Man, I miss him.
Raya studies me, almost like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Did you know that my dad gave you a name sign?”
I shake my head, thankful for the change of subject. “A name sign? What does that mean?”
“In the deaf community, only a deaf person can give you a name sign. It’s usually the first letter of your name mixed with a sign that describes you.”
“What was mine?” I ask, because I really had no idea.
She does the motion with her hands, then says, “It means kind. My dad has only been around you a few times, but he knew that about you.”
“Show me again?”
She does, and I repeat the movement with my own hands. “How do I say your name?”
She shows me—hands in an “X” over her heart, then opened out to the sides, fingers crossed on both hands.
I do the sign back to her, then meet her eyes.
“Independent,” she says, without me asking.
I smile. “Ha. That tracks.”
She rolls her eyes and smiles, then her gaze settles back on me, and the mood shifts again.
“Forgiveness isn’t for her, Finn,” she says. “It’s for you.”
I nod. This is the part that’s head knowledge, not heart knowledge. I know this already. I’ve known for years. Makes sense, right? Just forgive, no big deal, get on with your day—but my heart’s not willing to do that. “My pop has said that exact same thing.”
“I also think kind people,” she indicates to me, “have a hard time when their emotions don’t feel kind,” she says.
“Like independent people,” I indicate to her, “have a hard time when they need help,” I volley back.
Her eyebrow lifts so slightly I almost miss it. “Touché. But we aren’t talking about me.” She pauses, then adds, “My point is—you get to feel all of that. It’s all valid.”
I blow out a breath. “I know.”
“And—” she shrugs, “if you did decide to forgive her, maybe some of that anger would go away.”
“My dad says holding onto it only hurts me.”
“You disagree?”
I scoff. “No, I know he’s right. I guess that’s the point. I don’t know how to let it go.” I look up and find her watching me, but there’s no judgment there. Only concern. Or interest.
Or . . .
I remind myself to stop reading into things, blow out a breath, and shake the thoughts away. “Okay. Let’s move on. That was a lot.” I shake my head. “I don’t really talk about this stuff with anyone. And I’ve never told anyone about the letters.”
Her face softens. “But you told me . . .?”
I nod.
“Why?”
I shrug. “Maybe I wanted you to know there’s more to me than you think.” I meant for that to come off as lighthearted, but it doesn’t land that way.
I look at her. The air between us shifts, and that pang of desire is back so strong I have to look away.
“So since you shared all of that about you,” she says, “it’s only fair that I share something about me. Something no one knows.”
“My back’s about to break from keeping so many of your secrets,” I say with a smile.
“Yeah, about that—” She twists the end of her napkin. “Thank you. I’m shocked you never let it slip.”
“What can I say?” I shrug. “I’m a lockbox.”
She goes still. “Which is why I think I can tell you how Justin and I started dating.”
Finn
I leave Raya’s house a little dazed, not only because I now know the truth about Justin, but also because I dragged out the memories of Hunter, and now they’re sitting right at the forefront of my mind.
I walk to my car, snow crunching under my shoes, air brisk and cold, replaying my conversation with Raya.
Hearing her talk about Justin, about the resumes and this crazy plan she came up with to try to manufacture the perfect mate, makes me realize that Raya’s scared.
She’s scared of her own feelings. Scared of getting hurt. Scared of not being in control. She’d never admit it—not out loud—but I can see it clear as day.
Which is why I need to concentrate on just being her friend. And stop giving in to every impulse to reach out to her.
I can be patient, right?
The conversation stirred up more than my feelings for Raya. It stirred up my feelings about everything. Things I haven’t dealt with and don’t want to, even if I probably should.
I shove my hands in my pockets and rub my fingers together to get them warm.
Maybe that was the point.
I try not to think about it. But now, apart from Raya, it seems like it’s all I think about. Like, those letters I’ve hidden in my glove box are alive, still pulling my attention.
It’s annoying. And I’m pretty sure there’s only one way to silence them.
This is what I’m thinking as I park my Jeep in the parking garage. Tomorrow we leave for Canada for a week, with games in Toronto, Montreal, and Ottawa. I should go inside and pack, but instead of getting out of the car, I just sit.
I stare at the glove box.
I think about what Raya said. About what my dad has said.
I reach over, pop the glove box open, and pull out the letters.
And for the first time, I actually ask myself if forgiving that woman is even an option.
The thought makes me react like I tasted something rotten.
I lean forward on the steering wheel, remembering the night I found out Hunter was gone. The way losing him tore our family into pieces. How hard it was to work our way back from that. How each one of my siblings processed the loss differently, and how I never processed it at all.
How our family’s story now has a “before” and an “after.”
I grit my teeth at the injustice of it.
So I set out to live a life that would make my brother proud. To do the things I thought he’d do and take every chance I got because anything less than that would be like kicking sand in his face.
I play the way I do because he can’t. I live the way I live because he can’t. And I love the way I love because he can’t.
I shouldn’t have to do that. I shouldn’t have had to go through what I went through.
And I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for her.
How am I supposed to forgive that?
I suck in a sharp breath and look at the return address on the top envelope. Eileen Tierney.
I take the envelopes and shove them in the pocket of my coat, not caring whether or not they get crumpled.
I get out of the Jeep and close the door, anger bubbling down deep, and Raya’s words are back, an unwanted reminder.
“If you did decide to forgive her, maybe some of that anger would go away.”
If I decide. Like it’s a switch I can flip.
Should it be that easy? Should it be a simple decision that happens overnight?
I don’t know. And I can’t think about it now. I have a trip to pack for. And even though it’s not perfect timing, I’m glad to be going out of town because distraction is good right now.
But the next day, as I walk out to the chartered jet, I slip my hand into the pocket of my coat and feel the balled-up letters—an unwelcome memory that none of this is going away.