Chapter 7 Justice
JUSTICE
Songs:
Days like This by Van Morrison (Cover by Dermot Kennedy)
Fast Car by Tracy Chapman
Her blush had become my favorite color
The weather felt far too jovial for such a somber occasion.
I sat in my truck drumming my fingers against the steering wheel while waiting for Hope to show.
I didn’t know when exactly she’d become my person, but here we were. I’d been back in town all of a week, and each day had been spent with her.
Hope delighted and surprised me in equal measure. Tough, funny, smart and resilient, I’d always considered Hope to be off limits—even though she was the exact woman I normally went for. But removing the barriers—and god had she broken those down—made me want her more than I could ever imagine.
I’d slowed us down not because I didn’t want her but because I wanted to savor every second of the buildup—the looking, the touching, the tasting, the being.
Somewhere in the last few days, the line had become blurred. I knew I needed to stop this before it went too far, but I couldn’t.
And fuck if that didn’t make me a fucking selfish bastard.
A family of sparrows flew through the cemetery, cruising through the grave markers to settle in the shadowed branches of a peach blossom.
When I’d last been here, the tree had been a sapling, weak and vulnerable. Now it towered over the gravestones, adding a tragic beauty to the field.
Hope’s knuckles rapped against the window of my truck, jerking me from my morose thoughts.
“Ready?” she asked. She looked like a fucking Stepford wife with her big doe eyes, and her gorgeous dark hair curling gently down around her shoulders. She wore some kind of yellow sundress that was far too modest while simultaneously being the biggest cock-teasing dress I’d ever seen on a woman.
No, I wanted to say. Let’s go get drunk and fuck the memories away.
My mouth watered for a taste of beer followed by a taste of her, but I ignored the impulse, gritting my teeth and forcing a nod.
I exited my truck and Hope handed me a basket.
“Here,” she said. “Carry this. It’ll make you feel useful and remove the need to figure out what to do with your hands.”
We began to walk, following the worn dirt path.
“Am I that obvious?”
She shook her head. “No. I just know the feeling.”
“Fuck.” I stopped. “Your dad is buried here, right?”
She nodded, turning her face toward the far side of the lot. “Over there. Well, his headstone is. We couldn’t afford a proper burial, so we went with cremation.” Grief lingered in her sweet smile. “We spread his ashes in the orchard. Mum likes to say he had a hand in the next years’ bumper crop.”
I caught her hand and tugged gently, pulling her into me. “Thank you for sharing.”
She wrapped her arms around my middle, holding tight. “Thank you for inviting me. You’re not alone, Justice. Remember that.”
I took comfort from her embrace.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mike moving around the back of the lot, securing the area.
It seemed even this private moment was doomed to be interrupted.
I sighed and slowly let Hope go. She caught my free hand, entwining our fingers.
“This way,” she said, leading me between the old stone markers. “Let’s go say hi to your parents.”
Their markers stood at the rear of the lot near a grove of trees.
I hadn’t been here since we’d buried them twenty years ago. At the time I’d been an angry teen furious at the world for taking the two people I loved most. It had taken months before the anger had faded and the grief had settled.
And in that time, I’d become a drunk asshole, pissing off my brothers and fucking around until the whole town had known exactly how wild I was.
My feet dragged as we neared their stones until I couldn’t move an inch closer.
Hope stopped beside me, her hand squeezing mine reassuringly.
“I should have bought flowers,” I muttered roughly. “Or… anything, really.”
“Open the basket.”
I glanced at her. “Are you serious?”
She grinned. “I assumed you might forget. Being here is enough of a mind screw without thinking about what to bring with you.”
I let go of her hand to crouch and dig through the basket. Inside, I found a bouquet of lilies, a blanket, a small bottle of whiskey, and an assortment of drinks and food items.
“I thought you might like to have a picnic,” she said gently. “But we don’t have to if you don’t feel up to it. I don’t mean to pressure you, but I thought—”
“It’s perfect.” I closed my eyes, fighting for control.
The stinging sensation gradually subsided, and I opened my eyes to see Hope watching me.
Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, mirroring the intensity of my emotions.
The afternoon light hit her hair, setting it on fire, and for a second everything I knew about my life and her shifted.
Hope had become the beacon of light in my darkness, a gentle touch in a world of rough edges. Her unwavering support and belief in me were like a lifeline, pulling me out of the depths of despair.
She asks nothing of me but honesty.
I reached out and cupped her face in my hands, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips. “Seriously, Hope. You’re fucking perfect.”
She brushed her fingers across my brow, gently pushing my hair away. A soft, bittersweet smile touched her lips. “Not even close but I appreciate the sentiment.”
We spread the blanket out while I steadily avoided looking at the names carved in the solid granite.
Someone came regularly—probably Fletch—to clean the graves and lay fresh flowers.
Hope settled on the blanket, adjusting her skirts around her and kicking off her shoes.
“Ready?” she asked, handing me the flowers.
I swallowed heavily. “No.”
She smiled a sad, understanding smile. “But you’ll do it anyway.”
“But I’ll do it anyway,” I agreed, sucking in a breath. “Give me a minute.”
“Of course.” She reached for her phone and pulled some wireless headphones from her pocket. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”
I moved to Mom’s grave and crouched to clear away a few stray leaves.
“Hi Mom,” I murmured, feeling like a fucking idiot. “Sorry it’s taken me so long.”
My throat closed, tears clogging it as I placed her flowers.
I scooped up the whiskey, glancing at Hope who had her back to me, her attention on her phone as she gave me privacy even as she offered support.
“Dad,” I greeted, placing the whiskey bottle on his marker. “I know. I’m an ass. I’ll cop to it.”
I shook my head, unable to find the words to express the pain that radiated as fresh today as it had twenty years ago.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, placing a hand on each of their stones. “I should have been there. I should have…” I swallowed. “There’s so much I regret. So much I wish I could have done differently.”
Mom’s headstone featured all the usual information, her name, date of birth and death, her meaning to us, but one of my brothers had organized for a single lily to be cut into the stone. While on Dad’s it was a line from his favorite song by Van Morrison, Days Like This.
You’d always know he was in a good mood when he’d hummed that song, forcing Mom to dance with him barefoot in the kitchen.
They’d been so full of life and love. Life wasn’t fucking fair.
I bowed my head, letting the calm breeze and warm sun wash over me.
It took a while but slowly, so fucking slowly I barely realized, the grief began to make way for peace.
“I miss you guys. So fucking much. I hope you’d be proud of me.”
I kissed my fingertips and pressed them to my mom’s stone. “I won’t stay away so long this time. Promise.”
I stood, dusting off my knees and turned to find Hope watching me. She smiled slowly, gently, and opened her arms wide inviting me to take comfort in her.
She’s my sunshine after the pain.
The line hit me like a bolt, my fingers itching for a pen and paper.
I ignored the impulse and moved to her, allowing her to wrap me in a tight hug.
In her arms, I find my ease, the words whispered through my head with the murmur of a melody.
I gently drew back from her, forcing a grin. “Alright, what did you bring me?”
She pulled beer, soda, sandwiches and cookies from her basket. “Take your pick.”
My mouth watered for a beer, but I reached for a soda.
“You mind putting them away?” I asked, nodding at the alcohol. “I’m five years sober, but feeling a bit tempted today.”
She froze, her face dropping. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I should never have—”
I placed a hand on her knee, halting her tirade.
“Don’t. You couldn’t possibly know. No one outside the band and a couple of friends do.
It’s not a big deal. I wasn’t an alcoholic, but I’d started down that road.
After waking up in a different country and not remembering the last three days, I made the decision to get sober and I’ve stood by it.
” I offered her a half-grin. “It’s also better for my skin. Or so I’m told.”
She huffed out a laugh that sounded more forced than genuine. “I’m still sorry.”
“No biggie.” I passed her the beers. “Now, what are you reading? More of these saucy books?”
Her blush had become my favorite color.
“Not here!” she hissed.
“No?” I rolled over onto my back, shuffling until my head was in her lap. “But this seems to be the best place for it. Add a little spice to an otherwise uncomfortable situation.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, but you enjoy it.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.
“Speaking of.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened my notes app. “Let’s see, so far I’ve recorded fifteen sex scenes in the first two books, five instances of which included anal—”
Hope’s hand slapped across my mouth. “Justice!”
I grinned, and somehow this fucked up day got a fuck of a lot better. “Too far?”
She handed me a sandwich. “Eat.”
“Trying to shut me up?”
“Yes.”
She glanced around then leaned down to quickly kiss me. “I’m glad you came.”
I reached up to cup the back of her neck, holding her in place. “So am I. Thank you.”
Our eyes held, unsaid things passing between us.
An aching need took residence in my chest. This thing between us no longer felt fake. I knew it was, but that didn’t stop me from wanting more than I had any right to ask of her.
Slowly, I allowed her to sit back up and reach for her own sandwich.
“Now,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m unashamedly about to pump you for information about your tour.”
I chuckled. “Baby, you can pump me for anything you want.”
“Justice!”
Chuckling, I bit into my sandwich.
Hope hit play on her cell, Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car playing through the speakers.
“You remembered,” I said.
“Of course.” She swayed to the melody. “How could I forget the first song you ever learned? You only played it every day.”
With the song that changed my life playing, quietly we finished our lunch.
It was only later that night, as I lay staring up at the ceiling of my old bedroom, that I realized the heaviness I’d been carrying for years had dissipated.
Grinning, I rolled over and fell asleep dreaming of a woman in a yellow sundress.