by Jordan Grant
Smiling after his final win of the season, sophomore year.
At the beach, running full-speed ahead into the surf, his arms wide-open like he would gather the ocean in his hands.
Next to me, him laughing as I smiled at the camera, my violin in my hand and his piano standing behind us.
The photographs are beautiful, still shots of good memories, but they don’t do him justice.
Chairs line the edge of the cliff in long rows, and nearly every seat is full. A knot clogs my throat at the sight. Friends, family, his teammates, they are all here, even after all these months, even two weeks before Christmas.
Ian gives my hand a squeeze before he takes his reserved seat in the front row. I walk to stand at my mother’s side. My father stands beside her and my mother’s parents beside him. My father’s parents passed when we were in seventh grade, otherwise, I know they would be here too, tall and unfailing beside us.
The crowd goes quiet as my father steps in front of a lone microphone.
“This was my son’s favorite place on earth, though he only first visited this spring,” my father says, his voice soft and somber. “Today, we lay him to rest where I think he would’ve liked to be.” He looks to the sky, tears pooling in his eyes and spilling over. “You were taken from us too soon, William. I never imagined I would be here, without you, my boy.” He breaks off, sobbing quietly. My mother wraps her hands around his arm and squeezes him tight.
The knot inside my throat grows larger. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes and fall.
After a moment, my granddad steps forward. He looks like he’s aged twenty years since I last saw him. His skin seems fragile, like papier-mâché stretched too tight. His big voice booms out over the crowd.
“Lois and I can’t thank you enough for being here. It would’ve meant the world to our grandson. We invite all of you to tell your favorite stories of William this evening, repeat his favorite jokes, and eat his favorite foods. We are not here to mourn his death, but to celebrate his life. At this time, we would ask his teammates from the Clinton County Cavaliers to join our granddaughter in sending our boy home.”
I step forward away from my family and walk toward my brother’s urn, which sits on a pedestal in front of the crowd. William’s coach stands from his seat, dressed in a faded black suit that looks freshly pressed. My hands glide over the stone, white marble with veins of pastel blue, a perfect match for William’s team colors.
For a fleeting moment as I pickup my brother’s urn and carry it away from the crowd toward the rocky cliffside, I really think it should be Blaze, not William’s coach, about to throw a final pitch in honor of my brother, but I haven’t seen Blaze in what feels like ages. Instead, Coach Bryant, a big guy with a round belly and a long beard, takes his place a few feet away from me as a member of William’s team stands from his seat, a bat in hand and takes his place in front of the crowd. Coach Bryant looks at me, tears glistening in his bright blue eyes, and nods.
I face the cliffs.
In my mind, I’m no longer there. I travel back to the spring, when William and I watched the waves crash into the rocky shore and stood there, doing absolutely nothing.
I can still feel the warmth of the sun heating my face, and the flick of William’s finger into my shoulder blade.
“Harlow,” he had said with a grin. “We can have epic parties at this place.”
I wrinkled my nose at him and laughed. “Can you ever take anything seriously?” I asked.
“You mean like talking about our feelings and stuff?”
I rolled my eyes. “You always were the dense twin.”
William chortled. “More like the fun one.”
I stared out at the water. “This place is beautiful,” I said.
“It’s all right.” William sat down on the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest and stared right along with me. “Fine, I’ll admit it. It might be the best view ever.”
I would catch him sometimes, early mornings or late at night after a run, standing in this same spot, and I knew what he said was true.
Back in the present, I look back over my shoulder to Coach Bryant and tip my head. He throws the ball, and with the crack of the bat, I remove the top of my brother’s urn and scatter his ashes, watching as they are carried away by the briny wind and the rolling waves.
My mom cries beside me, and before I realize it, I am crying too.
My grandfather steps forward, addresses the crowd once more, but I don’t hear his words. My attention is now on the stage, and the videos that play there against a theater screen.
There’s William laughing. He’s five years old, wearing a bucket on his head, and calling himself, “bucket boy.”
He’s winning the county spelling bee in seventh grade.
He’s next to me at the talent show he roped me into freshman year, dancing like a lunatic while I butcher my way through Can’t Touch This by MC Hammer.
I float among the memories.
I lose count of the number of hugs I give.
I smile and laugh and cry and do it all over again.
Through it all, Ian is there beside me. He never says it’ll be all right, and I think it’s because he knows it can never be all right again.
I stand away from the mingling crowd, munching on a bowl of Froot Loops bathed in chocolate milk, one of William’s favorites. One of mine too. Ian returns from having been dragged off somewhere with my grandfather.
“How are you holding up, sweetness?” He brushes a kiss across my shoulder and dips his head against the side of mine.
My gaze lands on him. “Thank you for coming.”
“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.”
“Memorial services aren’t really new relationship things.”
He takes my bowl and sets it on the table. He grabs my hands, which are swallowed by his own.
“I don’t give a fuck what societal standards tell me are normal,” he says. “I care what feels right, and it feels right being here with you.” He kisses the top of my head. I want to crawl into his arms and curl up there. “I was stupid, and I lost you once. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
There are so many words I want to say, but the knot lodged at the back of my throat stops them all.
Ian looks down at me, “Your grandfather asked that we do something for William.” He looks to the stage and nods at my grandfather. The videos of William stop, and the screen retracts. Behind it, there’s William’s piano and my barstool and a violin.
“Will you join me on stage?”
I nod. He guides me to the stage, and by the time we arrive, tears pool in my eyes and threaten to spill over. My hand runs over the violin. It’s a darker stain than the one Grandma and Granddad got me, and when I look closer, I see that dark roses have been painted on the wood and shine underneath the gloss.
“I can’t bring it back,” he says, “but hopefully I can give you another.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. People are starting to look at the stage, the hum of the crowd going soft.
“I understand,” Ian says, “there’s a song you and William played at a certain birthday party.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Sounds like it was a good time.”
“It was the best of times,” I agree with a grin.
“Will you play it with me?” he asks.
I nod. His lips graze the top of my forehead and he waves off-stage. There’s a tall guy I recognize from my old school and another with a lip ring William used to hang out with who’s holding an electric guitar. He hooks it up to the amp, and the speakers hum.
“Go get ‘em,” Ian whispers in my ear, and I realize that my family isn’t going to save me. I step close to the microphone, and when I hear myself breathing through the speakers, I take a big step back.
“Hey,” I say to the crowd, clutching my violin tight in one hand and my bow in my other. “We’re going to play a song for you that my brother loved. This is for him.”
Not the bes
t introduction, I think, but William wouldn’t have cared.
Ian sits at the piano, watching me as I take my seat at the front of the stage. The guy on the drums raises his drumsticks above his head and clicks out a beat. Ian begins on the piano, joined by William’s friend on the electric guitar. I take a moment to skim the music. It looks written for us, written for a quartet.
Just before I raise my bow, I see my dad looking at the stage, smiling broadly. William’s friends from the baseball team, crowded around tables in a far corner, cheer.
I join in with what was originally written for a guitar. One of William’s friends shouts “WHOO! Metallica!” from the back, and laughter ripples through the crowd.
I’m trying to not laugh as I play. I’m trying to hold my violin straight and hit the notes, but then William’s teammates begin a tone-deaf rendition of Enter Sandman at the top of their lungs.
When the guitar takes over, I look out into the crowd for a brief moment and catch a glimpse of my great aunt shaking her head in horror, my mom laughing next to my dad as she points out William’s teammates, who now stand, their arms wrapped around each other as they belt out the lyrics. Even Grandma’s into it, tapping her foot to the beat as she smiles up at the stage.
My gaze returns to the sheet of music in front of me, and I am lost in the energy of it all, swirling around me and sucking me under. William would have loved this. He was obsessed with old-school rock and wasn’t afraid to bust a move, not even in front of strangers.
His friends and our family do just that, some headbang, others dance wildly, except for my grandfather, who’s now leading my grandmother in a waltz between the tables. I’m laughing so hard I can barely see the notes.
The crowd cheers and claps as I strum my final note. I turn to see Ian, still crouched over the keys. He looks up at me and smiles.
My bones turn to Jell-O. My knees go weak.
This is beautiful.
This is happy.
This is everything William would’ve wanted.
41
Ian
Two Weeks Later
“Harlow,” I say, running my hand across her bare shoulder. Fuck me. Her skin is always so soft. “It’s time to wake up.”
She rolls over, away from my interruption, mumbling curses only God could understand. I barely stifle my laugh.
“You can’t sleep in on Christmas Day,” I murmur, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. “It’s practically sacrilegious. "
She doesn’t stir.
Doesn’t say a thing.
Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence.
I know something that’ll wake her up. Down, boy.
I adjust my ever-tightening pants, which does absolutely shit to help my impatient cock.
I eye her ass, half exposed from beneath the comforter. She’s wearing a pair of tiny boy shorts I want to rip away with my teeth.
I bury the urge, raise my hand, and slap her ass—hard. She shoots up in bed, kneeling on all fours like an animal, looking for the perpetrator.
Her wide-eyed glare finds me. I can’t help it. I smirk.
“You spanked me!” she hisses.
I laugh, the sound low and soft in the dark of her room.
“You just fulfilled a personal fantasy of mine, Weathersby. Congratulations.”
She looks so angry, I think she might actually hit me. That could be fun. I sort of want her to try.
Shit. We don’t have time for this.
“Careful,” I warn her, letting my thumb caress her beautiful bottom lip. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you are about to be a very naughty girl.”
God. This is torture. My cock is going to take a vote and impeach me soon. Or it’ll skip that shit and stage a damn coup.
My gaze flits to her mouth. “Do you know what naughty girls get for Christmas, Harlow?”
“A spanking?” she breathes.
Aww. How cute...and how wrong. I am really starting to enjoy this.
“And?” I ask, leaning in close and letting my breath fan across her cool skin as I memorize everything, the freckles that scatter like leaves in the wind across her bare shoulders, the way her eyes twinkle in the darkness, the soft bursts of her breath.
She doesn’t answer my question. She just gulps, like, audibly.
“The things I’m going to do to you,” I say before my peripheral catches the clock on her nightstand. I frown. Four in the morning. Fuck. “But we don’t have time right now, unfortunately. Get dressed. We’re running late.”
“We’re going somewhere?” she squeaks, sitting back down on her heels.
I nod. “Now, get your sweet ass out of bed. I promised your mom I’d have you home for, quote, Cinnamonas.”
I raise an eyebrow at the made-up word.
“What? You don’t have Cinnamonas at your house?” she teases, slow to remove herself from the bed. “You’re missing out, Beckett. It’s like Christmas but dedicated to all things cinnamon. Cinnamon rolls, coffee cake, snickerdoodles, churros. It’s soooo good.” She walks over to her chest of drawers and fishes out a pair of jeans.
“Makes a lot more sense now,” I say, the words drier than I intended, but I am distracted. What she’s doing has got to be illegal, a violation of the Geneva Convention, maybe even a freakin’ war crime.
She’s shimmying out of her pajama shorts, thrusting her ass and her tits out as she does it, and sliding on jeans over her panties, the barely there, lacy variety I can almost see through.
She walks over to her closet and disappears for a moment, returning with her jacket.
“You may want a bathing suit,” I tell her.
She laughs. “It’s like ten degrees outside.”
I don’t laugh. I am 100% serious. I stare at her as I sit on the edge of her bed.
I shrug. “Nudity is preferred.”
“Wait,” she says, her eyes going wide as I stand, ready to head to the door. “Where are we going?”
Maybe she thinks I’m flying her to the Bahamas or the Virgin Islands, maybe even Turks and Caicos, and she’s probably wondering how I would do that and get her back in time for Cinnamonas.
I look at my watch. “Harlow, you have two minutes to finish getting ready, or I will carry you out of here myself, with or without a bathing suit.”
She takes a moment. She’s probably debating if I am being serious. She should know better. I am (almost) always serious.
She bolts into her closet, and I hear rummaging and see things being thrown before she reappears with a bathing suit in hand. Then she darts into the bathroom. I stand and follow her, finding her brushing her teeth.
“Ready?” I ask when she’s done.
I’m just being polite because it’s insanely early, and Harlow is not a morning person. I meant what I said though. I can and will drag her from this house.
She nods, and hand-in-hand, we head downstairs and outside.
My Lamborghini is already running, and I hit a button on the key-fob so the door slides up for her. I have us both buckled in and leaving her parents’ home in under a minute flat.
The car hugs the road, the engine rumbling beneath us. She’s so quiet, I wonder if she fell asleep, but we are maybe five minutes away from the airstrip when I catch her smiling.
“What are you smiling about?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she quips, biting her lip to stifle her smile.
“Careful,” I say. “If you keep it up, I will stop this car, and we’ll never make it to your Christmas present.”
“What?” she asks like she has no idea what I’m implying.
All right, I’ll play. But she’s going to do more than blush when I’m done. She’s going to light up the inside of this car like the Empire State Building on New Year’s Eve.
“You’re biting your lip,” I say, beginning the count with my index finger. “You’re thrusting your boobs out, which is a miracle given the harness.” Another finger. “Now, you are smiling.” Third and final finger. “If
I wasn’t driving at the moment, sweetness, we’d already be fucking.”
Queue the blush seen around the world.
“Ian!” I love the way she says my name. “Could you not make it sound so...so...animalistic?”
I snort because—one—we both know she loves my dirty talk and—two—she’s conveniently forgotten how we got down and dirty in a ski lodge upstate yesterday, and trust me, there was nothing civilized about what we did to each other.
I’m willing to play the game though and keep up the charade of modesty.
“What can I say, sweetness?” I reply. “Everything with you is animalistic. You bring out my baser instincts.”
I turn the curve onto the private drive. Two minutes later, we arrive at the waiting helicopter. It’s not a two-seater either or even a four-seater. This thing is a monster, seating up to twelve and with a top speed in excess of 160 miles per hour.
I did my homework. Plus, we don’t have all day. There’s Cinnamonas we have to be back for.
“Ian,” she breathes, staring at the helicopter.
“Harlow,” I say in the same breathless tone.
I hop out of the car and help her out, waving to my father’s pilot who starts the engines. Her hair is wild from the wind being generated by the rotors, flying around her face and swinging into her eyes.
“Join me,” I shout over the whir of the blades as I offer my hand.
Her eyes are so wide, I can see the whites around her irises, and for a moment, I actually don’t know if she’ll accept, but then she does. We climb into the helicopter, and I buckle both of us in. She’s staring out the window as we start to rise, but she blindly finds my hand.
Ow.
She’s white-knuckling my fingers, squeezing so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t break my bones.
“Harlow,” I say.
No response. Just a nuclear-level grip on my hand.
“Harlow,” I repeat, softly.
She looks to me slowly. She’s practically hyperventilating.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I promise you’re safe. We’ll be there in under an hour.”
She goes limp, her shoulders relaxing and her grip loosening. For the entire ride, I never let go of her hand, not even when my fingers fall asleep and the tingles begin to creep up my wrist.
