1 #2
His rancid life had etched itself into his features, giving him a sinister mien. The close crop haircut revealed the tip of his tattoo above his right ear where the scorpion tail curled around the red rose. Fresh guilt infused with deep sorrow surged through him. I am so fucking sorry, Charlie.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Startled, he met Sullivan’s gaze in the mirror. Did you just read my mind?
His brother’s lips curled in a wry smile. “Yeah.”
Fuck . As children, they had read each other’s thoughts as clearly as the spoken word. Over the years, they had learned to control the psychic bond, and when he embarked on his fatal trip, Rafferty had closed the mental link. But in his weakened state, his defenses lowered.
“From the moment you regained consciousness in the Amazon, you’ve been drifting in and out of my thoughts,” Sullivan added.
The last thing he wanted was for his brother to have a front row view of his fucked-up life.
It assured me you were alive.
Deep shame filled him as his twin opened his thoughts, revealing the raw pain permeating his soul.
“Worry about you consumed me. It ate at me.” Sullivan stabbed a finger at his chest. “Then, as the months went by and you stayed silent, concern turned to anger. And it became so bad, I couldn’t find the willpower to fucking care anymore.
Because you never cared,” Sullivan raged, throwing his hands in the air.
“Trick Lawson, doing whatever the fuck he wants, consequences be damned. Always have, always will.”
Sullivan’s bitter censure ricocheted off the walls, slamming into him, each one more condemning than the last. Bracing his arms on the vanity slab, Rafferty hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Rafferty. One more day in that fucking jungle, and you’d’ve died. Died . And—”
A knock on the bedroom door sounded.
Sullivan drew in a ragged breath. “You need to change your ways, brother, before it’s too late.” And with that dire prediction, he stalked out of the bathroom.
Rafferty swallowed as his throat thickened. “I know,” he admitted to his reflection, pushing upright.
Ma’s voice mingled with Sullivan’s.
He turned away from the vanity and crossed the bathroom.
“Rafferty,” Ma gasped and rushed over, throwing her arms around him.
He welcomed the pain flaring from his wounds. God knows, he deserved every stabbing bite. Drawing his mom even closer, he hugged her back. “Ma.”
She smelled good. Something floral mixed with the aroma of cooking. Home. He tightened his grip, inhaling deeply. How he’d missed this. Her hugs, her love.
“You’re skin and bone,” she whispered, running her hands over his back.
“Pretty sure you’ll fix that lickety-split.”
Ma pulled back, gripping his forearms, looking him square in the eye. Her eyes were vivid blue from the unshed tears. “Will you give me the time to do that?”
He couldn’t stop his own eyes welling with emotion, and he certainly couldn’t talk past the Texas-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded.
“Give me the words.”
How often had he heard that exact phrase as a child? By God, he’d missed this woman something awful. “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked, his lips twitching with humor for the first time in days. No, for the first time in months.
“Good. Dinner is ready. Can you manage a walk to the kitchen, or must I bring a tray?”
“Kitchen.”
Dressed in clean sweatpants and a loose Henley, he stepped into the spacious kitchen.
His courage faltered as his gaze settled on his father seated at the head of the table.
As with Ma, Pa had aged — hair greyer; more lines furrowing his skin — yet his posture was erect and proud, portraying a man content with his life.
Pa smiled. “Welcome home, son.” There was no condemnation in Jonathan Lawson’s deep voice, only deep satisfaction.
Rafferty opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him as a fresh wave of shame washed over him. “Pa,” he rasped, moving closer.
“Come sit.” Pa nodded to the seat on his right.
The place of honor.
“No.” He did not deserve that position. Rafferty stopped, gripping the back of the chair two down from his father. “I’m good here.”
“It was an accident, Rafferty,” Pa said in a quiet voice, getting to the heart of his shame.
“If I hadn’t come home—”
“An accident , son. I have never blamed you. Never will.”
Ma reached an arm toward Pa. “Jonathan, maybe we can talk about this later.”
“No, darlin’. Our son needs to know that in this home there is no place for condemnation. No matter what happened in the past, it is over. Done. The only way is forward.”
Rafferty’s hold onto the chair tightened as he fought back the surge of emotion. “How can you forgive me for putting you in that wheelchair, Pa? For destroying your life?”
“My life is not destroyed, son. Merely altered. There is nothin’ to forgive.”
With a ragged cry, he rushed forward. His father moved his wheelchair and held open his arms. Rafferty fell to his knees in front of the man who had dried his tears as a kid and pressed his face against his father’s lifeless legs. “I’m so sorry,” he said, over and over between body-wracking sobs.
And as his father’s hands stroked over his head, his shoulders, his back, and the man whispered, “I know, son, I know,” a sense of peace, of rightness, settled over Rafferty.
He was home.