West

by Michele G Miller

  Jules’ hand goes to her face. Her eyes are wide. She looks terrified and frozen to the spot she’s standing in.

  Move away, I will her.

  She shakes her head as she answers the question. “No, I can’t. I got a concussion and have very little memory.”

  “You’ve lost your memory?” The female reporter gasps over dramatically. This woman sounds thrilled to have found Jules.

  She asks another animated question and Jules mumbles, her head falling, her face miserable now. I’ve heard enough. White hot anger pushes me forward to save her.

  “Well, Ms. Blacklin, who else was with you that night? Maybe they would like to talk to the cameras.”

  “I—”

  Slinging my arm around Jules’ shoulders as I reach her side, I pin the news team with a scowl full of disdain for their tactics. “She was with me, and no, I do not want to talk to the cameras. Excuse us.”

  Reining in the urge to go ‘caveman West’ on the woman, I tug Jules closer to my side and lead her away. Tucking her head down and into my chest, I steer her past the crowd forming around the news team and into a small clearing.

  Once we’re alone, I let her go. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine; I was ambushed, that’s all. How do the reporters know about the house?” she asks. I wondered the same thing when both Melody and the stoner mentioned it. Evidently people talk, and of course the news is everywhere. My answer is a shrug and Jules sighs in resignation.

  She looks at the unlit candle in her hands and her forehead creases as though she’s deep in thought. Her face is better tonight. The cuts and bruises are barely visible, or maybe the cloak of night and makeup help hide the truth.

  She lifts her half-melted candle into the space between us and I realize I dropped mine somewhere between Austin and Jeff. A surge of guilt runs through me.

  Her eyes move from the extinguished candle to my face. “Do you think this helped?”

  There’s such despair in her tone. “Here.” I hold out my hand, taking her candle and looking around for a way to light it. There’s a guy behind us holding a flame and I tap his shoulder, thanking him as his flame lights the wick. With a smile I bring the flame level with Jules’ face for a better look at her. The glow reveals the bluish stain of a bruise high on her right cheek and the dark circles of her tired and puffy eyes. The make-up couldn’t quite cover up the marks from our time spent together Friday night, but she’s beautiful regardless.

  We both watch the flame flicker between us before Jules asks, “What’s it supposed to do for us? The whole lighting-a-candle thing?”

  “Dad?” I ask as I walk into the game room late one night two weeks after Mom’s death. My father is sitting in the dark, except for one candle lit on the table next to his chair. He’s hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, with his hands deep in his hair. At the sound of my voice, he looks up, his face a picture of grief as shadows flicker across it.

  “Hey, champ. You can’t sleep either, huh?” he asks, rolling his shoulders back as he sits up and attempts a smile.

  I nod, not bothering to tell him how I’ve been sleeping in Mom’s chair. I point to the candle as I come closer; it’s a pink one with a floral scent Mom loved. “What are you doing?”

  I get the feeling he’s debating his answer. His eyes stare intently into the flame as though he’s looking for something within it. “Your mom loved candles.”

  “And fires,” I recall with a grin, and he nods.

  “Yes, fire. Remember how she used to challenge us to find things in the flames of the fire pit? She was mesmerized by the way fire moved and changed every time we built one.” Some people find shapes in clouds, my mother found them in the fire pit.

  “Yeah, I can still picture the dragon she pointed out when we went camping two years ago. The way those red hot coals made up his fiery eyes,” I chuckle. “I didn’t understand the game until I saw him. She was right; if you stare long enough, you can make out pictures.”

  “Exactly.” He smiles, tipping his head, and I get it. He’s seeing her, remembering her, in the flame.

  The memory provides me the perfect answer for Jules’ question. “I know there are a lot of religions that use candles to remember spirits of the dead, but I don’t really know why. For me, I think it’s a nice way to remember. I look at it as a metaphor of the light that a person once was. It kinda brings me strength.”

  “I don’t feel strong. I feel alone and empty, like I want to crawl into a dark space,” Jules says as she reaches across her body for the candle in my hand.

  I concentrate on the flame between us. “You’re not alone,” I tell her as I cover her fingers with my own when we touch. “I’ll be your strength, Jules.”

  “West?”

  We are magnets. Because the moment she says my name, I turn toward her voice. Toward her. Each second lasting and pivotal as my right hand touches her left one. As our shoulders brush. As my eyes meet hers. Until we are inches apart, face to face, with only a candle and flame separating us.

  I shift my feet and Jules’ eyes slide beyond me; something she sees causes her to jump almost imperceptibly, pulling her hand from mine. Her tiny flinch breaks the spell. I step back, blinking, and release the candle and her hand.

  “You know what? I need to run,” I tell her as the need to escape presses in on me. “I’ll see you around.” I brush her upper arm with the back of my hand because I can’t help myself, then I walk away.

  Eleven

  “Damn, I need a drink.” I throw myself on the couch upstairs once Austin and I return home from the vigil. The vulnerable look in Jules’ eyes is seared into my brain and her hesitant voice saying my name burns my ears.

  “Seeing how you’re underage, I think it’s unlikely,” Austin deadpans as he falls into the chair across from me. I hiss my displeasure and debate the wisdom of pulling a beer out of the refrigerator anyway.

  “Wanna tell me what happened back there?” Austin asks after a few minutes of quiet. “First you walk away without a word, then you return with a damn chip on your shoulder and force us to leave. Now you’re bitching about needing a drink?”

  He has got to be kidding me. I don’t respond to his line of questioning.

  “West—”

  “Shut it, Austin.”

  “I can still kick your ass, little brother,” he warns.

  When I remain quiet, he leans forward and slaps my shin, grabbing my attention.

  I shake my head; I’m completely dumbfounded by his attitude. “Are you serious? You’re giving me the tenth degree right now. Dude, you have no idea what I’ve been through.”

  He dips his head, working hard to maintain eye contact with me. “Then tell me.”

  “I can’t.” My fingers dig through my hair as I sit up, cupping the back of my head and releasing an angry grunt of frustration. “I can’t explain any of it because I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel or what’s going on.”

  “What’s up with Jules Blacklin?”

  My arms drop to my sides.

  “West, you’ve gotta tell me something. You’re not talking to Dad, and I know you won’t go to counseling again. So you’ve got me or you can call Car, but you’re not bottling it all up. Not this time.”

  Not this time. That’s the kicker. Austin gets me, he knows how I box shit in and let it fester.

  I give in. “What did Dad tell you about Friday night?”

  The tension leaves Austin’s body as he sinks deeper in his chair. “The basics.”

  I take a deep cleansing breath, blowing it out slowly as I replay Friday night in my mind. “When the sirens went off, there was this moment when everything stopped and the only thing I could think of was finding safety. I grabbed her hand and I ran. That was it.”

  “Her? As in Jules?” he verifies.

  “Yeah.” His eyes go wide, an unspoken urging to continue, so I ask, “Do you remember her?”

  “The Princess of Tyler?” he smirks. “Of
course I do, she was my pep girl Junior year. Plus, she was quite popular with the guys on the team.”

  “Anything in a skirt was popular with the guys,” I counter, and he doesn’t disagree. “How ridiculous is it for me to want her?”

  “Want her? Dude, is this the storm talking or something more?”

  “This is such a chick thing to talk about, Austin. I like her. I’ve liked her since seventh grade, before—”

  “Before Mom,” he finishes for me with a nod.

  Looking up at the ceiling, I admit the truth to him. “I can’t be with her. She’s with Stuart Daniels. She’s this perfect girl and I’m—I’m the screw up.”

  “What the hell?” A throw pillow skims across my face as it flies past me. “A screw up? What is wrong with you, man?”

  “No wonder I was the QB in the family,” I mock, grabbing the pillow from where it landed on the arm of the couch two feet away.

  “Enlighten me. What makes you a screw up?”

  I’m saved the need to answer by Dad walking into the game room carrying a couple bags of chips which he tosses our way from the end of the couch. “I just hung up with Coach Randall.”

  “Crap,” Austin groans, reaching for his cell in his back pocket. “Did I miss a call?”

  “You did, but you’re not in trouble. The team is heading down tomorrow to help with clean up at the school. They want to support the town and give back. He called to let you know and asked for my help clearing it with Coach Thompson and the town officials.”

  Another day of sifting through wreckage. I know it needs to be done and I’m lucky I’m alive, but looking at the faces of those who lost so much yesterday was hard as hell. Hopefully being at the school will be easier.

  Dad props his hip against the side of the couch. “What were you two talking about so heatedly?”

  I look at Austin, my eyes asking him to not say anything and he plays along. “Oh you know, I was ragging on him about how soft he’s become. You might not play ball anymore, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep in shape, bro.” He flexes his biceps, sending me a ridiculous smile.

  “And on that note,” I fake a yawn, jumping to my feet. “I’m going to call Jeff and let him know about tomorrow, and get some sleep. I’m wiped out.”

  Their eyes follow me out of the room. I don’t have to see them to know. I feel their silent judgment and worry drilling holes in my back with every step I take. It’s Mom’s death all over again. Everyone watching me, analyzing my decisions, playing want-to-be shrinks to get me to talk about my feelings. I resolve to handle myself better going forward. I don’t need them hassling me. They’ve got enough on their plates without worrying about the baby in the family. I’m fine.

  I’ll be fine.

  There’s something to be said about manual labor. Working a twelve-plus hour day—hauling junk, chopping wood, sifting through piles and piles of debris searching for salvageable items—these things wear me down on Monday. I don’t have time to think during the day and I’m too exhausted to do much more than have a quick bite for dinner and shift into a comfortable position before I’m sound asleep.

  While my body rests and recovers, my heart is tortured, and I wake up thinking of Jules. Her body pressed against mine, her raspy breaths warming my neck, the feel of her silky hair wrapped in my fingers. Her hand clasped in mine. I wish I could say my dreams of her were sexy, but they’re not. Instead, I relive the one from Saturday night where we’re trapped in a box and she begs me not to leave her.

  By the time I’m dressed the next morning and ready to attend the first funeral for one of the Hillsdale students killed in the storm, my body feels as though it’s been stretched tight on one of those medieval torture racks. Every muscle I have has been put to work between Saturday’s volunteering and yesterday’s cleanup work at the school.

  I’m beyond eager to see Jules, to speak to her and see how she’s doing. She has Stuart, I remind myself over and over. I replay the way she ran to him in her foyer when he showed up Saturday as we delivered the news about Tanya. I remember the way she pulled away from me at the vigil Sunday night and the strange look she gave me. God, everything warns me to get over it, over her. But I won’t heed the warnings. I debate skipping out on the grave site service, but Jeff insists and I give in—because I want to see Jules, and again the heart scores a point.

  Heart: 3 ~ Head: 0.

  “You cool, man?” Jeff asks when I arrive at his house so we can ride to the funeral together. Like my dad and Austin, he’s watching me, although he is less Dr. Phil about it.

  “Sure,” I tell him with a smile, and that’s that.

  We head to the funeral for junior Mary Lee O’Connor. An honor student, Mary Lee wasn’t in my circle of friends, but I saw her around. She was pretty with light hair, light skin, and light eyes—ethereal. The picture her family uses on the program is of a smiling girl in a white dress on the beach. She looks incredibly fresh and innocent, and I become angry looking at it. According to her eulogy, she had so much she wanted to do, to be, and now she’s gone. Such a waste.

  “There are the girls,” Jeff says, pointing out Katie standing toward the front of the crowd.

  “You go ahead; I’ll be there in a minute.” I know seeing Katie means seeing Jules, and as much as I need to see her, I don’t want to. The conflicting thoughts within me grow stronger each day, maybe my head is going to win one. Maybe I can resist the urge to be with her today.

  Stuart is out of town. I heard this news in passing while at the school doing clean up with the football team yesterday. According to Mark, he’s in Houston visiting his grandparents. Of course my first thought was of Jules. Who is comforting her if not her boyfriend? Jeff has spent all of his waking hours with Katie since the storm. He did come to the school for a few hours yesterday to help and to see the A&M players and staff since he’s committed to them for next season, but otherwise he’s with Katie. He says she’s a mess, crying constantly, worrying about some fight she had with Tanya recently, feeling guilty.

  I wonder if Jules is taking Tanya’s loss similarly. I remember having many of the same feelings when my mom passed away. I feel for her. Losing someone you love is brutal. One day they’re there and the next you’re left with this gaping hole. You can’t touch them or hear their voice. You’ll never smell their scent or have a long conversation with them again. I miss Mom’s laugh the most. And her hugs.

  Pushing those thoughts away, I steel myself and move forward within the crowd headed for Jeff’s head which sticks out above those standing around him. I weave around three sniffling girls linked arm-in-arm, I bump shoulders with a former teammate, nod to a friend, and side hug another before I find myself behind Jeff, Katie, Tommy, and Jules.

  Jules might be standing next to Katie, but she’s alone. So many of the girls I walked by are holding onto their friends, hands clasped or arms linked. Jules is standing by herself. Katie’s leaning into Jeff, her arms wrapped around his waist, and for a second I see red. Why isn’t Stuart here to support his girlfriend? Why isn’t Katie supporting her? Where are all of her other friends? Jules Blacklin, the “Princess of Tyler” as Austin called her. The popular girl everyone loves, and yet she’s standing here, dressed in a simple dark blue dress, looking as though she’s stranded alone on a deserted island.

  Her shoulders rise and fall as though she’s breathing deeply. I watch as her left hand moves, lifting and fisting her hair, scooping it up and away from her back before dropping it again. I inch closer, standing in the space directly behind and between Katie and Jules.

  Jeff catches my movement and his eyes slide my way. He bobs his head, acknowledging my presence before he returns his attention forward again. Katie doesn’t budge, and Jules, as close as we are, doesn’t either.

  The sun shines on Jules’ golden, reddish blonde head of hair in front and I simply stare at it. I’m ridiculous. I have no idea what’s going on at the grave site. I should feel bad, but I don’t, or I can’t. I cann
ot seem to feel anything except for this growing demand to touch Jules. So I do.

  I reach forward, my hand taking hold of hers and squeezing once. She doesn’t flinch or pull away—I suspect she thinks it’s Katie’s hand she’s holding, but when her head turns and she looks to her side, her eyes widen. Shining blue eyes follow the length of my arm up to my face and her mouth forms a silent ‘O’ before she wets her lips and gives me an unsteady grin. Every time our eyes meet I swear I see my soul. There’s magic in being with Jules Blacklin, magic and . . .

  Our moment is broken by soft wave of chuckles moving through the crowd, and Jules returns her gaze to the person speaking about Mary Lee. But her fingers remain in mine and we remain hand-in-hand in complete silence until the service ends. As the hush of the crowd breaks, I walk away without a word.

  Two hours later, at the second grave side service for another student, I repeat the gesture. This time I don’t last halfway through the service before I reach for her. Again, I try to stay away. I use my head and start in the back of the crowd, amongst some of the people I typically hang out with at school, but as the service progresses I find myself drifting forward.

  When my hand touches hers I’m content. Yep, magic and . . . something. I can’t pinpoint what else it is that I see and feel when I’m with her. My head tells me it’s danger, but I kick that word in the ass, sending it back to the dark recesses of my mind.

  Once the burial wraps up, I withdraw from her side and retreat to the back once more. I don’t stay and speak with her or any of the others standing around; I’m not sure why.

  Before Friday night, I rarely spoke to the guys from the football team at school. When I quit football, the summer before eighth grade, I quit a lot of my friendships too. I’d hang with them at parties occasionally and talk smack in classes, but we don’t hang out on our own—as friends—anymore. I found a whole new group of friends. It was easier to hang with the people who didn’t remind me of what I gave up.