CHAPTER FORTY
CONNECTICUT, PRESENT DAY
“I killed him.”
The truth exhaled out of my lungs with the most surprising sense of relief I'd ever felt. I was grateful for the darkness shrouding Stormy's childhood bedroom. Grateful I couldn't see the look of shock and horror on her face. She would be right in feeling both, now knowing that the man she loved had stolen the life of another, but I didn't want to see it. I saw it enough when I looked in the mirror.
She was so quiet, barely breathing beside me. I licked my lips, suddenly dry and desperate for moisture, and I filled the dead air with more stupid, terrible words.
“He died at the hospital. I found out while they were stitching me up.” I touched the one-inch jagged line at my jaw and then the place where Tommy's knife had protruded from my lower abdomen, just above my groin. “They told me I was insane for caring, but I just kept asking, ‘Is Tommy dead? Is he all right? I didn't want him to die. I-I didn't mean to kill him. I just … I just wanted him to stop. I …’”
“You did what you had to do,” Stormy croaked, her voice sounding like it was full of splinters. Like it hurt her to speak.
Hanging my head, I tried to decipher the inflections in her tone. How she was feeling. What she was thinking.
“But I could've stayed with him,” I replied quietly. “He was defenseless at that point. But I ran. That's all I fucking do. I run. I'm a fucking coward. I'm—”
She grabbed my arm and gave it a harsh jerk. “Will you stop ?”
I finally turned to face her, and although the room had been swallowed in midnight darkness, I could make out the affection and heart-shaking sympathy in the tip of her eyebrows and the tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Jesus, Charlie! He wanted to murder you for something you hadn’t even done. Do you not understand that?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then, why the hell are you acting like you murdered him in cold blood?”
“I killed him, Stormy.” I enunciated every word, every painful syllable. “Do you not understand that ? His blood was literally on my hands. His mother's last son was ripped from this world because of—”
“Don't you dare say because of you,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Don't you fucking dare say that.”
“Haven't you been listening to me?” I asked, exasperated.
“Yes! And we must've been hearing two different versions of this story because what I heard was, this fucking psycho came to murder you. And you”—her hand slid down my arm to grab mine so, so, so tightly—“were the fucking unbelievably brave badass who fought back. You're not a coward , Charlie. You fought back .”
I wasn't hearing her. I couldn't. “No. I—”
“And I'm so glad that you did because if you hadn't, I wouldn't have met you. Nobody would've stopped that piece of shit outside of the hotel. Maybe he would've murdered me , but he didn't. Because you were there, and you were there because you hadn’t died. Think about that for a second, okay? Think about that before you say anything else.”
I looked away and breathed out a quivering breath, raking a hand over my face and beard. She was right—but I was right too. Mrs. Wheeler had buried both of her sons because my brother and I had killed them. I hadn't killed Tommy intentionally, but it didn't erase the fact that it'd happened.
“Whatever happened with their mom?” she asked in a whisper.
I shrugged helplessly. “There wasn't any question about whether it'd been in self-defense or not. The 911 call had been recorded, of course, so there wasn’t any kind of investigation. Very cut and dry, the cops said, so …” I shrugged again. “Anyway, I never heard from Mrs. Wheeler again. Honestly, she'd moved on a couple of years after Ritchie died, but Tommy didn't. He just … couldn't let it go.”
“It's sad,” Stormy said, her hand pulsing around mine.
“Yes, it is.”
“But I mean it, Charlie. Stop blaming yourself.”
I returned my gaze to hers, this time without the need to defend myself. A rock formed in my throat, and emotion pricked the backs of my eyes. “He didn't deserve it, Stormy. He just missed his brother.”
“I know.”
“I tried to talk sense into him.”
“I believe you.”
“He wouldn't listen .”
She brought my hand to her lips, kissing my knuckles. “His mind was already made up.”
An unexpected sob forced itself past the lump in my throat. “I see him when I sleep. I-I think … I think he's haunting me. I can't get him out of my head. I hate myself. Goddammit, I hate myself so fucking much.”
Stormy dropped my hand and knelt before me. She cradled my sodden face in her hands and found my eyes in the darkness.
“Let it go, Charlie,” she whispered, touching her forehead to mine. “And until you do, I'll love you enough for both of us.”
***
When I woke to sunlight and a new day, I could hardly believe I'd fallen asleep at all after emptying my soul and crying until my eyes were swollen and my face was sticky. But by some miracle, I climbed out of bed with a lighter heart, and for just a few minutes, I thought I could look at my hands without seeing Tommy's blood all over them.
I knew trauma took longer than an overnight to scab over. But Stormy's acceptance and affection had proven to be a pretty decent Band-Aid, and I imagined that I might see a day where I hardly thought about that night at all. Maybe I could even learn to forgive myself.
I hoped so.
***
We had a nice, light lunch at a local restaurant with Stormy's family. Soldier sat beside me and asked if I felt better after telling her my deepest, darkest secret, and I turned to him, taken aback because how could he tell?
But he only smiled, nudged his inked knuckles to mine, and said, “I know relief when I see it. Lean into it, man. You're gonna be okay.”
For once, I actually allowed myself to believe it.
After we ate, Soldier and Ray took their boys back home, two hours away in a town called River Canyon. And at the point where we watched them drive away, I found I was looking forward to seeing them again later in the weekend. Soldier no longer freaked me out, no longer reminded me of the bullies of my past, and I hoped he had another story or two about Luke to tell. I wanted to hear them. I wanted to hear everything.
Stormy and I headed back to her parents' house for a brief respite before we were due at Ivan's wedding. He had claimed we could wear what we wanted, likely as another incentive to get me to show up. But Stormy had twisted my arm and convinced me to wear a suit, insisting that the best man was strictly prohibited from wearing beat-up jeans and scuffed combat boots. So, for her, I listened, and while she was getting ready in the bathroom, I dressed in the bedroom where we'd slept the last two nights.
I was just buttoning my sleeve cuffs when she opened the door. She walked inside with a downcast gaze, shyly unable to meet my eye as I took in the swing of her long-sleeved, floor-length dress, as black as her raven-colored hair. It was modest and simple, the squared neck hardly revealing, save for the smallest glimpse of cleavage, nearly hidden behind an oval onyx pendant. Her fingers smoothed down the delicate lace overlay, fussing with the material before her hands flew to her hair, piled high in her trademark knot of chaos. Random strands had been left out haphazardly, as per usual, to frame her face, and she always—at least as long as I'd known her—wore the look with confidence. Today though, she seemed unsure and self-conscious as she turned from my wandering eyes to hurry for the mirror above the dresser.
“My mom's hair straightener isn't working, so I had to just wing it, but, fuck, man, I look like I stuck my tongue in a freakin' outlet. I can't go to a wedding, looking like this. Maybe I should braid—”
I stepped behind her and took her hands in mine, putting a stop to her fussing. Then, my eyes met hers in the mirror's reflection and said, “Did you know that spiders make different webs depending on their species? A lot of people don't realize this. They're taught that all webs look uniform, often symmetrical. You know, like paper Halloween decorations or cartoons.”
I lowered one of her hands to hang at her side, then held the other up, palm facing us. With the tip of my finger, I drew a circle in the center. “Orb weavers make webs like that, and they're beautiful, damn near perfect. They're the type of webs many people would use in art. I guess because they find them more visually appealing, the way some people might find someone conventionally beautiful to be more suitable for modeling.
“But the webs I like—the ones in my drawings and the ones on my body—are made by the black widow. Less uniform, uncontrolled, and untamed.”
Now, I drew haphazard lines against her soft flesh. She flinched at the featherlight touch and laughed airily as I intertwined our fingers and held her hand tight.
“To me, I see them as a more accurate depiction of life. Messy. Unpredictable. Yet, somehow, it all makes sense. Every strand is put there for a reason, and as wild as it might be, it's still just as beautiful.”
I lifted my other hand to touch the ends of her hair. “The black widow changes for nobody, and neither should you.”
Stormy swallowed, her face flushed and heated. “When you talk like that, I have a hard time believing I deserve someone like you.”
A brusque, humorless chuckle made its way up my throat as I diverted my reflected gaze from hers. “You act like I'm perfect, and I'm far from it.”
“No, and neither am I. But I think, together, we make something that's pretty fucking close.”
***
We showed up at the wedding venue ten minutes before the ceremony. Traffic hadn't been on our side, and I had spent the last twenty minutes of the drive stressed that we would be the reason for things not going according to plan. But as it turned out, there hadn't been much of a plan to begin with. No instructions, no rehearsal.
“Life isn't orchestrated, Chuck, and that's not how I want to start my marriage to the love of my life,” Ivan said, leading the way to the head of the aisle after I questioned what I was expected to do. “Just hand me the rings when the judge asks for them.”
“Wait, what rings?” I asked, already panicking. “You didn't give me—”
“Oh, I knew I was forgetting something!” He dug his hand into his breast pocket and dug out two matching gold bands. They were dropped into my open palm as he said, “The judge will ask to have the rings, and you just hand ‘em over, Chuck. Easy-peasy.”
“Sure. Got it.”
I glanced into the small crowd of seated guests and searched for Stormy. She was easy to spot, sitting toward the back at the end of a row of chairs. My little black cloud in a flood of spirited color. She lifted her hand in a slight wave, the corner of her lips curving into a smile. I waved back, glad I wasn't there alone with too many strangers. I was also glad she had talked me into coming because from the looks of it, Ivan didn't have a whole lot of people there on his side.
That's how your wedding will be.
My eyes held Stormy's as I thought about the wedding day I knew we'd eventually have. How empty my side of the guest list would look. Did it matter? Her friends could become mine. Her family would become mine. They would all be ours . But the thought that I had nobody to offer to the mix—apart from Ivan and his newfound lady love, of course—hurt in a way I'd never expected.
Maybe Luke could get a pass. Maybe he could come. He could be your best man, and then at least, you'd have one member of your family there. The only one left.
Tears pricked at my eyes as a violinist began to play an instrumental rendition of a song I vaguely recognized, but couldn't name. I sucked in a deep breath and ignored the constricting of my chest and the tightness in my throat. My attention reluctantly turned from Stormy to watch the end of the aisle, where a woman I didn't know by looks but by name emerged in a white gown that dusted the ground she walked upon.
“That's my Lyla,” Ivan said, sounding more thrilled than I'd ever heard him. “Isn't she the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?”
I couldn't say that she was when the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen was sitting at the end of a row, green eyes aimed at the bride while fussing hands brushed away strands of her wild hair. But Lyla was indeed beautiful, emanating a love for my friend, even from where she stood feet away. Proving there truly was someone for everyone.
“I'm happy for you, Ivan,” I said, laying my hand over his shoulder. “I really am.”
He tore his eyes from his bride long enough to look up at me for the briefest moment, surprise written plainly in his stare. “Thank you, Chuck,” he said with awe and sincerity. “But I'd argue that I am far, far happier for you. That Stormy has breathed a life into what was once an empty, hollow husk of a man, and I'm honored to have witnessed your rebirth. The kids would say to wife her up, and I sincerely hope that you do.”
I startled even myself by laughing, about to reply to my friend who was quite possibly even stranger than me. But Lyla arrived at the altar, and whatever I thought of saying left my mind as I listened intently to the vows and the official words, passing the rings to the judge when he asked and watching as Ivan and Lyla kissed for their first time as husband and wife.
They walked down the aisle in a hurry, holding hands and laughing in a way I could only describe as giddy. I strolled languorously behind, deep in thought with my hands buried in my pants pockets. When I came to stand beside Stormy moments later, she looped her arm through mine and reached up to pinch my chin between her thumb and forefinger.
“Whatcha thinkin' about, Spider?” she asked, using a name she hadn't referred to me as in what felt like an eternity, but … had it only been weeks?
It seemed impossible, yet I knew it was true, and why had time been passing so oddly since I’d met her?
“I've never been to a wedding before,” I confessed, sweeping my gaze around the emptying ceremony room.
“This was my second.”
“Which was the first?”
My gaze landed on the open doorway to watch as Ivan and Lyla greeted their small group of guests, stopping frequently to stare into each other's eyes with gleeful disbelief and elation.
I want that.
“My sister's,” Stormy replied, tightening her hold on my arm with hers. “Theirs was a lot like this. Soldier doesn't really have any family. Just us and his friend Harry. So, it was really small and informal, but it was nice.”
“I'd always assumed my first and last would be Luke's.”
I looked down at her in time to watch her head tilt and her brow furrow.
“Why your last?”
“Because”—I shrugged—“I didn't have friends and I wasn't sure I'd ever actually get married myself. I had a hard time imagining life progressing much outside of Luke and Melanie.”
A coalescence of affection, pity, and sympathy pooled in her eyes. “And you were content to be their third wheel?”
“Honestly?” I huffed a chuckle, seeing entirely why she'd feel sorry for that younger version than me. “Yeah, I was. They were home; they made me feel safe. At the time, that was all that really mattered.”
She nodded. “And now?”
Luke and Melanie and the dysfunctional, imperfect, but loving home that they had forged for us to live … it had been everything to me for what seemed like the longest part of my life even though I’d been without it now for longer than I'd had it. Yet losing it, losing her , had obliterated everything. The pieces of who we—Luke and I—were had scattered in a thousand directions. And although I couldn't say he'd ever found his happiness—I wasn't sure he'd even bothered to look—I knew, in the most bittersweet of ways, that I had found mine.
I’d just had to run away to do it.
“You,” I said, my voice splintered with a rush of emotion. “You're all that matters.”