Chapter 15 #2
Finally, after what feels like forever, Margo speaks. “You’re carrying the battle of two wars. The one overseas and the one here. Both left you with grief and immeasurable guilt. But they aren’t the same war.”
I laugh, but it’s humorless. “All feels the same.”
“What do you want, Jett?”
Her question knocks the wind out of me.
What do I want? Hell if I know. I’ve been too busy surviving to wonder what it is I really want.
I shake my head, jaw clenching. “I don’t know what I want, except I want her to trust that I didn’t choose to leave. And I never forgot her.”
The truth feels like whiskey burning.
I drag my hand over my mouth, ready to be done with all the attention.
“But the thing is, she moved on. She had a whole life without me, and I can’t blame her.
I left, and now I’m back, a completely different person.
” A sardonic laugh escapes. “I don’t even know who the fuck I am.
” Looking at the teenager sitting next to me, I wince. “Sorry.”
He shrugs. “Do any of us know who the fuck we are?”
“Good point, Dylan.” Margo nods. “But that’s why you’re here, Jett. That’s why everyone is here. To figure it out. You’ve been carrying ghosts, and sometimes they keep us from seeing the people standing in front of us. It’s time to forgive yourself and have those hard conversations.”
Her words sink deep, landing uncomfortably.
“Jett.” Margo’s voice pulls me back. “You don’t have to have all the answers today. But you do have to be honest—with yourself, and maybe with her.”
I swallow, throat raw. Being honest with Wren is going to be its own level of torture. The thought of it makes me feel lighter and terrified at once.
Around the circle, the others watch quietly. Some with pity, some with understanding, and some not caring, but none of them have judgment in their eyes. That’s the thing about this place—you could bleed out in words and no one would flinch.
Margo steers the conversation, directing her questions to someone else.
Turns out, it’s Dylan’s turn, the teenage boy sitting next to me.
He talks about how his parents are making him come to these meetings on the advice of the high school’s guidance counselor.
He can’t be much older than Audrey, and I hate how the kid feels like such a loner in school.
High school only makes up four years of your life, but it’s tough. Those four years feel defining.
As the meeting comes to a close, I stand, turning to Dylan.
“Hey.”
He looks at me, creases forming between his eyes. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet before sliding out a business card.
“Here’s my card. If you ever need an escape from the bullshit, give me a call.”
“Don’t you have your own shit to worry about?”
I huff a laugh, pushing the card closer. “Take it. If you want a job, or a place to run to, call the number.”
Dylan stares at the card, and when I think he’s going to ignore it, he surprises me by accepting it. He gives me a terse nod. “Thanks. Not sure if I’ll use it…but thanks.”
“See you around.” I clap the kid's shoulder before stepping away. My phone buzzing in my pocket pulls my attention.
Ron
We’ve got a problem, boss.
Story of my fucking life.
“Son of a bitch!” I hiss as the damn wrench slips again, my knuckles raking against the jagged metal. Pain flares as I bring my hand to my mouth, keeping the blood at bay. Grease is smeared across my skin as blood beads on my split knuckle.
The tractor looms like a stubborn beast, and fluids leak into the drip pans across the dirt-streaked concrete floor of the barn.
We desperately need a new one, but I hate forking out money when we can fix it ourselves.
Even with this one being a complete pain in my ass, it’s still fixable, which means we can use the money on something else.
Mid-afternoon sun streaks through the open doors, heating the barn as sweat runs down my back, causing my shirt to stick to me in patches.
I’ve been working for the past two hours, trying to figure out why the damn thing keeps sputtering.
It’s not the spark plugs; that was the first thing I checked. I’m hoping it was old fuel in the line.
“Piece of shit,” I mutter, shoving at the wrench again. The bolt refuses to budge, slick with oil. The rust mocks me as if it knew I would lose the fight.
The radio on the workbench croons. Tom Petty’s voice spilling out about how you don’t know how it feels to be me.
And isn’t that the damn truth? Between last night and this morning’s group therapy session, I can’t sort through my thoughts.
I don’t know which way is up. All I know is, I’m frustrated, and this fucking piece of junk isn’t helping.
I stand straight, staring down at the engine while I wipe the sweat from my brow. Every muscle feels raw, exhausted, and my mind’s just as weary. You’d think after last night’s release with my dream woman, I’d be walking on sunshine. But hell, that’s half the reason I’m so on edge.
Leaning back over with a resigned grunt, I try the bolt one more time.
As I feel the wrench start to spin, hope blooms in my chest…
and then immediately dies when the wrench slips free from my grip.
The clattering sound meeting the concrete floor ricochets throughout the open space.
And the coil I’ve wound tightly over my emotions finally snaps.
You never showed up.
We never went fishing, did we, brother?
“Goddamnit!” I hurl the tool across the barn. Metal strikes metal, the sound reminding me of gunfire, and my chest heaves. My hands are balled tightly at my sides, and I try to take deep breaths to calm my racing mind.
“You keep throwing tools like that, and you’ll have bigger problems than that damn tractor.”
The sound of my grandpa’s gravelly voice startles me.
I whip around and find him leaning against the barn.
“I didn’t know you were there.”
“Well, I’d hope you wouldn’t pull a stunt like that in front of me.”
He steps inside, moving until we’re nearly side by side.
The faint sweetness of hay clings to him, mixing with the bitterness of his post-lunch coffee and his aftershave.
He’s worn the same aftershave for as long as I can remember.
I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s always been Grandpa’s scent.
“You’re wound up tighter than that rusted bolt, Jett.” He lowers himself onto one of the shop stools. “Wanna talk about it?”
I lift my cap and run my fingers through my hair. “I’ve talked enough today.”
“Group therapy was this morning?”
I nod as he studies me for long enough that I have to look away.
I hate how he can read me like a manual.
Shame crawls up my chest as I stare at the wrench I threw.
I hate when my anger gets the best of me.
I’m tired of feeling guilty and angry. But they seem to be the only emotions my body produces.
When was the last time I felt anything else?
“Your dad used to come out here and do the same shit,” Grandpa says. “He’d work his temper out on anything he could find. Damn near broke more machines than he fixed.”
“At least he was here.” My jaw clenches as my words land hard.
“You’re angry with him.” Grandpa’s words are sharp, not questioning.
I bark out a humorless laugh. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”
Silence stretches. The sound of cows mooing in the distance drifts through the breeze.
I hear Grandpa shuffling on his stool. There’s so much left unfinished between my dad and me, and I’ll never have the chance to hash it out with him.
A part of me resents the decision he made in shipping me off to basic training the night I screwed up.
He made me leave without seeing Wren and explaining myself.
“You think he left you with too much.”
“Amongst other things.” I turn, meeting his eyes, and for once, I don’t mask the betrayal. “He took everything from me, then left me with all this shit. All these damn responsibilities with no direction.”
“It’s not like he chose to leave us.”
“I’m aware,” I snap, my hands resting on my hips. “And I know it’s my fault.”
“Jett—” Grandpa’s eyes soften, but I don’t give him a chance to continue.
“I was the punk-ass kid who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the farm.
I was too busy raising hell and chasing Wren…
” I grind my teeth, willing my emotions to stay at bay.
“I should’ve been learning from him. Not rebelling.
I should’ve paid more attention to the workings of this farm outside of my normal chores.
If I had put in a little more effort, he would still be here. ”
My chest heaves at the admission I’ve carried around with me since I received the call about Dad’s accident. He was working long hours, rushing to get the seeds planted before the rain we were supposed to get. If I had been home, I would’ve been here to help.
“Regret’s a bitch, Jett. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.”
“Everything’s eating me alive, what’s one more fucking thing?”
He rubs his hand down his weathered face, sighing. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever screwed up with the people you love? You’re not the first, and you’re damn sure not the last. When your grandma and I were younger than you, I walked away.”
My head whips back in his direction, but he’s looking straight ahead through one of the open bays toward Grandma’s flower garden.
“Thought the weight of the farm and being a dad was too much. I packed a bag and left her alone with two kids. I thought I’d find myself out there. Talk about a load of shit.”
As I listen to the man I’ve always admired admit to leaving his family, my mouth hangs agape.
“Close your mouth, boy, you’ll catch flies.”
I do as I’m told, reaching into my back pocket for a rag. I wipe my hands, needing something to do as I listen.
Shame flickers across his features, and I hate that he’s sitting here telling me all of this.
“Didn’t last long. I came back with my tail between my legs.
Your grandma could have slammed the door in my face, told me to leave, and she didn’t need me to help raise our kids or take care of this farm.
Hell, she had my brother’s help; she didn’t need me.
But that’s not how she works. No, Lydia is an understanding woman.
She listened to me beg to come home, apologize for being a dumbass, and then consoled me when I admitted my faults and fears.
Our issues weren’t solved overnight, but with time, trust, and honesty, we made our house a home again. ”
Silence falls as “Against the Wind” plays from the speaker, and I process his words.
“Point is, Jett, you’re human. You’re going to make mistakes, carry guilt, but don’t let it define you. You’ve got to find a way to forgive yourself. Once you do, Wren’ll forgive you too.”
I shake my head, my dry throat. The memory of Rafe flashes through my mind. His unrestrained and bubbly laugh and the weight I felt as he slipped away. Wren’s whiskey eyes replace Rafe’s, wet with unshed tears as she fought against me.
“How the hell do I forgive myself? Isn’t it too late?”
The stool creaks as Grandpa shifts from side to side. “It’s never too late. You forgive yourself one piece at a time. Your past is your past, and it can’t be rewritten, but you can stop letting it write your future.”
Fuck. Those words hit me deep.
Grandpa walks toward the wrench I threw. He bends to pick it up before bringing it back. His hand stretches out, and I take the wrench, while his other hand claps me on the shoulder.
“Get the girl, Jett. Bring our Wren home.”