Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Hailey
At first, I was worried that spending the day with Jason might be awkward. Given that the only thing really tying us together is Hunter, I wasn’t sure what we’d talk about.
But he’s funny. Goofy. Grins when I bust his balls, and dishes it out as good as he can take it.
He insists we go to the gift shop after we spend ages looking at all the animals, reading the little placards outside each enclosure, and making sure we go to all the Critter Connections we can to learn more about the animals from the zookeepers.
“Pick something,” he leans in and whispers in my ear, and his breath on the back of my neck raises goosebumps. And when his hand brushes my arm, there’s a zing, almost like static electricity, but not quite.
What is that? Why is that happening? It also happened last night when I touched him to reassure him that it wasn’t his job to look after me.
I give him a quizzical look. “I’m not five,” I protest. “I don’t need a zoo shot glass or a postcard to remember today.”
He just grins. “Pick out something else, then. Seriously. My treat.”
Part of me thinks I should protest more.
I shouldn’t let him spend so much money on me.
I’m sure it’s largely motivated by some kind of guilt.
But … he said he can afford it. And I looked him up last night.
He signed a seven million dollar per year contract last year, so yeah, I’d say he can.
It’s just … why do I deserve to be the beneficiary of his generosity?
Wouldn’t it be put to better use being donated to a charity? Even the fund here?
He rolls his eyes at me like he can hear my thoughts. “Seriously, Hailey. This place doesn’t even charge admission. The least we can do is spend some money at the gift shop to support their mission.”
When he puts it that way … “Fine,” I huff, crossing my arms like I’m so annoyed to have to pick something from the gift shop. But really, I’m delighted. I don’t get that many treats these days, and today is just one treat after another.
I take my time browsing the offerings, debating between an enameled pin with a polar bear on it or one of the small artist prints.
I could put the pin on my gig bag … or I could hang the print in my room.
All the stuff hanging on my walls is carefully curated from my actual experiences—framed photos I took, postcards sent by friends or that I bought myself, and a few art prints like this.
My mom’s into embroidery, and she embroidered a violin for me for Christmas one year that I have up too—one of the few things I appreciate that my mom’s given me.
Of course, she made it before Hunter died, so there’s that.
Still, another print would be nice, though I think I might have to rearrange a few things.
“Dude, those are both like ten dollars. Get them both. Or, do you want one of the bigger prints? Like this one?” He picks up the same image I’m looking at, but twice the size. Then he peers more closely at the one in my hand. “That one’s not even a normal print. It’s a card. Here. Get this one.”
“Are you sure?”
With a sigh, he gives me a look like I’m being ridiculous. “Can we just take it as a given that I mean anything that I say? Especially when it’s something like this.”
Chewing the inside of my lip, I look from him to the print and back to the pin in my hand. “Okay. Thank you.”
He follows me when I go to put the pin back, then sighs dramatically when I hang it back in its spot, reaches past me, and plucks it back off the display. “Did I not say to get both?” he nearly growls in my ear.
I hold up my hands, an automatic gesture of surrender and apology all rolled into one. “That was before you said you’d get the larger print!”
“I never said that meant you couldn’t have the pin, too.” He holds it up and inspects it. “Besides, it’s cute. You should have it.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, not quite sure how to respond. He just smirks, turns, and heads for the counter, setting the pin and the print on the counter. I watch, still more stunned than anything that I’m here with Jason, and he’s buying me souvenirs.
A few days ago, I was living my life, delivering food, hustling for gigs, trying to plan out how to refill my teaching studio.
And now, my car’s in the shop, I’m spending time with my big brother’s childhood best friend, and he’s footing the bill for my car and my souvenirs at the zoo.
The sudden and unexpected change is enough to give me whiplash.
After Jason pays for my pin and art print, plus a shot glass and a crystal growing kit that he grabbed at the last second at the checkout, he hands me a bag containing my items, a wide smile on his face. “You hungry? Want to grab some food? Or a coffee?”
I shouldn’t be giving him the suspicious look that I know is on my face. “Coffee sounds really good, actually, but …” I roll my lips between my teeth at his annoyed expression as we leave the gift shop and head for the parking lot.
“But what?” he prompts.
I shrug, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and waiting for him to stop and face me.
I want to gauge his reaction, and I can’t do that when we’re walking.
“But …” Sucking in a deep breath, I look around, then throw up my hands.
“But what’s the deal here? Is this like when you took me out for ice cream when I was thirteen?
Or …? What are you getting out of this?”
Confusion furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”
With the bag still hooked in my fingers, I plant my hands on my hips and stare him down. “This feels an awful lot like a date.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise, and his eyes flash with something I can’t quite name.
Clearing his throat, he looks away, scratching his cheek with one finger.
“I just …” Sighing, he faces me again and crosses his arms, his own bag now dangling beneath his elbow, staring me down in return.
“I made your brother a promise. I haven’t been good about keeping it. I’m making up for lost time.”
We stand there in some kind of weird staring contest, my throat suddenly thick, making it hard to swallow.
“You …” My voice is barely a whisper. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help much.
“You made my brother a promise? What kind of promise?” For some reason, I didn’t expect him to invoke my brother.
I guess because most people in my life now don’t even know I had a brother.
My closest friends do—or did, when I had closer friends—but since I don’t talk about him often, they never brought him up either.
It’s the code of silence that began the minute he died.
Even though I don’t live with my parents anymore, that habit has continued.
Having Jason so casually mention Hunter is a shock.
Yes, Hunter’s been on my mind more since bumping into Jason. And maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised that he’d mention him—he has already several times. But the whole time at the zoo, it was just Jason and me. Hunter’s ghost hasn’t been haunting us.
Until now.
Jason sighs again, drops his arms, and jerks his head in the direction of his car. I fall in step beside him. But I look at him when he draws in a shaky breath, slowing.
He makes a dismissive gesture, both telling me to ignore his breathing and keep moving.
“At the end—” he starts, but he cuts himself off, his voice thick, and I realize he’s not as unaffected as he seemed at first. He clears his throat, then picks up the pace.
I have to jog a few steps to catch up to him.
I have fairly long legs, but I’m not as tall as Hunter, and he easily outpaces me.
He seems to realize it when we get to the row of cars, checking behind him and slowing a little so I can catch up, though he maintains a faster walking speed than we’ve been going all day.
Professional athlete, I remind myself. This is probably nothing for him.
Whereas I tend to spend a lot of my day sitting or standing—in my car, in my studio, in rehearsal.
I’m up and down while I’m teaching, but unless I make a special effort to exercise—which I try to do, especially when the weather’s nice—I’m pretty sedentary.
He opens my door for me when we get to the car, and I glance up at his face. He’s regained control of himself, though, and his expression is closed and hard.
Swallowing the lump still in my own throat, I press my lips together in what’s supposed to be a smile and climb into the passenger seat.
When he gets into the driver’s side, he doesn’t start the car right away. Then he seems to realize it’s stifling in here, starts the engine, and turns the air conditioning on full blast.
But when he starts to speak, it’s difficult to hear him over the noise, so I reach over and press the button to turn down the air.
He gives me an almost grateful look, but keeps his gaze pointed out the front window.
“When he was in the hospital the last time,” he says, voice choked and gravelly, “I went to visit him. Your parents weren’t there.
I don’t know if they were in the cafeteria for a snack or what exactly, but he and I had a few minutes to ourselves.
He told me—” His voice cracks, and he looks down, his shoulders and chest rising as he pauses to take a few deep breaths and clear his throat.
Shaking his head, he glances at me then looks out the front again.
“Sorry. I haven’t talked about this with anyone … ever.”
The urge to reach out and touch him takes hold of me. I resist for a moment, but I don’t know why I shouldn’t offer him the tiny comfort of at least a hand to hold while he relives one of the worst memories of his life.
I slip my hand over his where it rests on his leg, and his hand seems to almost spasm, though I’m guessing it’s from surprise because he didn’t expect me to touch him.
Then he flips his hand over and clutches mine, his grip almost painful.
I ease a little closer so it’s easier to stay this way, and he flashes me a grateful smile.
“He told me that he was dying,” he says after another moment when he clears his throat a few times.
“That the reason it was the last surgery was because if it didn’t work, there was nothing else to be done.
That the treatments had failed, the tumor was too aggressive, and it was just a matter of preparing for the end at that point.
And he”—another long pause while he clears his throat again—“he asked me to promise to look out for you.” His voice is hoarse and clogged with unshed tears that bring answering tears to my eyes.
His eyes are shiny when he looks at me. “I told him I’d do that, but …” He shakes his head, his lips pressed together. “I didn’t. Not like I should’ve. I didn’t know—”
“It’s not your fault,” I cut in. “None of it. Hunter. His tumors. Me. My life. I’m not your responsibility.”
“You are, though,” he counters. “I promised him. That’s why I’ve stayed in touch all these years.
I thought … I thought you’d know that you could come to me if you needed anything.
I thought he would’ve told you that.” The last is a whisper, and his fingers squeeze mine before finally relaxing a fraction.
I squeeze his hand back, thinking back to the whirlwind of the end. I know I spent some time with Hunter. Did he tell me that I should ask Jason for help if I needed it?
Maybe …
That time is such a blur. I don’t remember a lot of the details.
“He might’ve,” I say at last. “But I was twelve. I thought that meant like, help with my homework or if kids were mean to me at school. And then …” I sniff, struggling to keep from bawling, looking out my window.
“Then you were gone too. Yeah, you came to visit sometimes. But Mom and Dad were always mad when you stopped by. Even if I thought you could help with anything, I knew it would make things worse more than better if I asked, so …”
“God, Hailey.” The words sound so tortured. “I wish … I wish I’d known. I wish I could’ve—”
“Stop, Jason. Stop.” I turn to face him and find him looking at me. “You don’t owe me anything. This, what you’re doing now, is more than anyone would have any right to expect of you. Even Hunter would think this was too much.”
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “No, Hailey. There you’re wrong. Hunter would expect exactly this much. Paying for your car, taking you out for coffee—I can easily afford all of that. It’s the bare minimum, especially after abandoning you for the last ten years.”
I snort. “I’d hardly call it abandonment.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And what would you call it?”
Throwing up my hands, I shake my head. “You growing up! Living your life. You’re not responsible for me, Jason. You never were. Promise or no promise. It’s never been your job to look out for me.”
After staring at me for a beat, he grunts and looks away, muttering something that sounds a lot like, “Agree to disagree.” He reaches for his seatbelt, and I take the cue to reach for mine as well. “So,” he says, then clears his throat, doing his best to sound normal again. “Coffee?”