by Jessi Kirby
Advance praise for In Honor
“A beautiful, engaging journey with heart, humor, and just a pinch of Texas sass. Hands down my favorite contemporary of the year.”
—Sarah Ockler, bestselling author of Twenty Boy Summer, Fixing Delilah, and Bittersweet
“An amazing novel about first kisses, last good-byes, and what it means to finally let go. I absolutely loved it.”
—Lauren Barnholdt, author of Two-way Street
Praise for Jessi Kirby’s
MOONGLASS
“I couldn’t put this book down. Kirby’s voice is fresh and wise, all at once. An incredible first novel.”
—Sarah Dessen, New York Times bestselling author of What Happened to Goodbye
“Like sea glass, this smooth, radiant debut, reminiscent of Sarah Dessen, sets authentic and sympathetic characters working through a life-changing transformation against the backdrop of a steamy summer romance. Great for beach time—or anytime.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Kirby is an author to watch.”
—Booklist
“Well written, with clearly drawn, sympathetic characters.”
—VOYA
Three days after learning of her brother Finn’s death, Honor receives his last letter from Iraq. Devastated, she interprets his note as a final request and spontaneously sets off to California to fulfill it. At the last minute she’s joined by Rusty, Finn’s former best friend.
Rusty is the last person Honor wants to be with—he’s cocky and obnoxious, just like Honor remembers, and she hasn’t forgiven him for turning his back on Finn when Finn enlisted. But their road trip ends up revealing more than the desert landscape. While they cover the dusty miles in Finn’s beloved 1967 Chevy Impala, long-held resentments begin to fade, and Honor and Rusty struggle to come to terms with the loss they share.
As their memories of Finn merge to create a new portrait, Honor’s eyes are opened to a side of her brother she never knew—a side that shows her the true meaning of love and sacrifice.
Jessi Kirby lives in a historic cottage on the beach in Orange County, California, with her husband and two children. She has also written the novel Moonglass, and is a former middle school librarian. You can visit her at jessikirby.com.
Jacket design by Krista Vossen
Front jacket photograph copyright © 2012 by
Jessica Peterson/Rubberball/Getty Images;
back jacket photograph copyright © 2012 by
Fancy Photography/Corbis
Simon & Schuster • New York
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ALSO BY JESSI KIRBY
Moonglass
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Jessi Kirby
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Book design by Krista Vossen
The text for this book is set in Bembo.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kirby, Jessi.
In honor / Jessi Kirby. — 1st ed. p. cm.
Summary: Three days after she learns that her brother, Finn, died serving in Iraq, Honor receives a letter from him asking her to drive his car from Texas to California for a concert, and when his estranged best friend shows up suddenly and offers to accompany her, they set off on a road trip that reveals much about all three of them.
ISBN 978-1-4424-1697-0 (hardcover)
[1. Grief—Fiction. 2. Automobile travel—Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters—Fiction.
4. Orphans—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K633522In 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011030542
ISBN 978-1-4424-1699-4 (eBook)
For Schuyler.
This book is truly as much yours
as it is mine.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
1
The snap of the first shot breaks open the afternoon. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the second one, ears strained against the silence. Seven rifles have come together as one, in salute of Finn. With the second crack, I open my eyes and focus on the youngest of the riflemen, who stands on the end. His gloved hands had trembled as he’d lifted his rifle, but now they are steady, firm. A third shot. Rifles are brought back to the shoulders of their bearers, and the general bends, fingers brushing the grass, and picks up three of the gleaming spent shells. I stand there, stiff as the troopers, while my aunt cries softly beside me.
The bugler steps forward and licks his lips before he lifts his trumpet. It occurs to me that I’ve never actually heard taps played in real life. As the first notes emerge, I try to be present in the moment, try to press into my mind what this moment means. My brother is dead. And this . . . this song means it’s real. He’s playing for Finn.
The bugler is dressed like the rest of the soldiers, but his face is softer somehow, gentler. Maybe because he holds an instrument instead of a gun. He keeps his eyes open as he plays, and he looks at the flag-draped casket the entire time, playing for my brother. And I want to tell him about Finn because, even though I can feel the emotion behind his song, I’m sure he never knew him.
Aunt Gina squeezes my hand so hard it hurts while she tries to muffle her sobs. I press my lips together, gulp back my own. One of us should. Finn would be proud of that. He always told me to look strong, even if I didn’t feel it, because sometimes that’s all you can do.
The troopers let the last notes of the song drift off and settle into the distance before they step forward for the flag. They lift it gingerly off the casket and fold it once, twice, before the general tucks the shells within the waves of red and white. Then eleven more folds, until all that’s left is a rigid triangle of white stars on blue. The young trooper, probably my brother’s age, hands it to the general for inspection.
The general is a somber man in his forties, dark hair peppered with gray. He takes the flag and steps forward, looking from my aunt to me. But his gaze settles on me when he walks across the damp grass, and now my knees weaken. I don’t know if Gina has arranged this or if it’s because I’m listed as Finn’s only next of kin, but the general stops in front of me. His eyes speak of sorrow, and as he stands there, I wonder how many t
imes he’s had to do this in his career.
He recites words I hear but don’t really listen to: “On behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandment of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s service to Country and Corps.”
As he talks, I am grateful that my parents never had to stand here and bury their son, but I mourn the fact a million times over that I’m here to do it alone. As soon as the flag leaves the general’s hands and is in my own, I clutch it to my chest like it’s Finn himself, and now I can’t look strong. I didn’t think I had it in me to cry more than I have in the last two weeks, but the tears flow immediately, and when they do, the general seems to step out from behind his uniform to grieve with me. We stand there, me locked within the circle of his brass and patches, and he means it as a comfort, but it’s all rigid corners and stiff fabric.
I whisper “thank you,” then pull back, and he squeezes my shoulders before letting go. Aunt Gina steps forward and puts her arms around me, and the general and his troopers fall away. Faces of people—my friends and Finn’s, his teachers, coaches, classmates, our whole town—stream by, puffy-eyed and heartbroken, offering their condolences. When it’s Lilah’s turn, she doesn’t say anything, but she hugs me hard and that says everything. More people come by us to pay their respects, and we stand there for what feels like an eternity, nodding, thanking them for coming, until they’ve all gone.
Aunt Gina excuses herself to talk with the funeral director, and I have a moment to myself. I don’t want to look at the casket waiting to be lowered into the ground next to our parents, so I walk over to our bench, the one Finn and I would sit on when we came to visit, and I sit down, still hugging the flag to my chest. And that’s when I see a silhouette I recognize, standing off some distance—one I didn’t realize was missing from the stream of faces until now.
Rusty stands there looking like a grown man. He’s in a proper suit and tie, his hair combed back, and he would look perfectly respectable if not for the paper-wrapped bottle dangling from his hand. I wonder who told him. I hadn’t even thought of calling him, but then, I wouldn’t have known how to get ahold of him anyway. He and Finn hadn’t spoken since Finn enlisted, and it wasn’t like we were friends anymore.
Still.
He’d come, and that meant something. Even if he watched from a distance. I want to walk over and tell him that him being there would’ve meant more to Finn than anyone else. That whatever differences they’d had were long forgotten. But when I get up, he raises the bottle to his lips for a long pull, then turns and walks away. Just like he did over a year ago.
2
I was alone.
After the last car had pulled out of the parking lot and Aunt Gina had wrapped a weary arm around my shoulders, I’d told her I wanted to stay at the cemetery awhile longer. She didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything. Just pulled me in for a hug that was so drenched in sadness, I thought I might drown right there on the still-warm asphalt, even though there was no water around for miles. I’d untangled myself as delicately as I could and told her I just needed to say my good-byes, which was nowhere near true.
How could I? Doing that would mean I’d have to give up my thin thread of hope that there was still a chance I could wake up the next morning and find Finn sitting on the couch watching SportsCenter, pouring bowl after bowl of Golden Grahams into the same sweet, lukewarm milk. It would mean I’d have to face the stillness of his bedroom, knowing that the clothes hanging in the closet would never be worn again, the football on his dresser never tossed absently between his hands while he pretended to listen to me talk.
So I didn’t say any good-byes. I just sat there on our bench, like we’d done together so many times before, until the first stars twinkled in the dusky purple sky. But there by myself, in the unfolding coolness of the evening, those times with Finn seemed impossibly far away. I stayed anyway, watching star after star blink distant and impassive like nothing had changed, and I tried to tell myself the same thing Finn had told me on the nights I missed our parents the most. He’d bring me to this bench, where we could see their headstones, and tell me that looking up at the stars was a way to look right back into the past—back to when our mom tucked us in each night and our dad chased away bad dreams and we all ate biscuits and gravy for breakfast every Sunday.
He’d say it was true because by the time the light from those stars twinkled all the way down to us, it was years and years old. He figured that when we sat side by side watching the night sky stretch endless and sparkling above us, our parents were there with us too, because it was the same light that had shone down on them their whole lives. Back then, I’d believed it with everything in me.
But not tonight. Tonight I was sitting there alone, watching the stars blur in and out of focus, trying to feel something besides the crushing loneliness of the cemetery. He couldn’t be gone. I needed him too much. I needed him for all the little ways he’d make me feel better whenever I was sad or upset or lost.
He hated when I cried, and so he’d do his best to distract me however he could. When we were little, that meant riding me on his handlebars down to the Stop-N-Go for candy. As we got older, it meant taking me out to the garage with a Coke, so he could work on his car while I leaned against it, handing him tools and telling him how so and so gave me a dirty look or how sure I was that no boy was ever gonna like me. If it was really bad, he’d let me tag along with him and Rusty for burgers or give me and Lilah the car for the night so we could go see a movie. They were all small things, really. But I knew I’d always have him to tell me what to say or how to do something or which direction to go in. He was my constant and my guide. Without him, I was beyond lost.
By the time I got home, Aunt Gina was asleep on the couch, still in her funeral clothes, and the house was silent. In the kitchen, I opened the fridge, though I had no intention of eating. Inside, it was bursting with the foil-covered casseroles and lasagnas people had brought over because that’s what you do when someone dies. Which was a nice gesture, but I hadn’t felt much like eating since the notification officer and chaplain had knocked on our door to inform us that Finn had been killed in action, that they were deeply sorry, and that arrangements were being made to fly his remains home.
His remains. You’d think they’d be trained to say something different.
I shut the fridge and stood in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the clock tick away the seconds. The answering machine blinked one new message, and I knew it would be Lilah, calling to see if she could come over one last time before she left for school. She’d put off leaving for her college orientation as soon as I got news about Finn, and she’d taken up her post as my best friend and caretaker since then.
If I wanted company, she came over and we watched stupid movies or flipped through endless issues of Us Weekly and People until I could fall asleep. If she could tell I needed a little time, she dropped by with dinner her mom had made, enough for Aunt Gina and me, then came back the next day, ready for whatever mood I was in. A few times she just sat on my bed and cried with me, but really I knew she was crying for me. She had a certain kind of empathy not many people possess. She’d done the same when we were four years old and I had just lost my parents. She felt my pains like they were her own, and I did the same for her.
I had no way to tell her how much all of this meant and how much I was gonna miss her when we headed in opposite directions on the map. And I couldn’t tell her how leaving for Austin and my dream college suddenly felt as meaningless as the days that stretched out in front of me, empty and full at the same time with Finn’s death. He’d been the one to show me UTA in the first place when I tagged along on one of his football recruiting trips. I had no idea I’d fall head over heels for it, but I did. I didn’t even bother to apply anywhere else, because I was so sure that school was where I belonged. Only now, I wasn’t sure of anything. How was I supposed to go off to college and
start a new life when my brother’s had just ended so abruptly? It seemed wrong.
But I couldn’t tell Lilah any of this, because you’re supposed to be happy when you go off to college—excited, elated, all of those words that mean you’re about to do something big and amazing. And I wanted her to be, at least. It was finally time for us to get out of town and go start our lives for real, and she deserved to be happy about it. I couldn’t talk to her tonight, before she left. I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. She knew me well enough to know how much I cared about her, and I knew her well enough to know she’d understand. I promised myself that when I was ready and she was gone and settled into school, I’d sit down and write her a good, long letter and tell her everything.
A letter.
I glanced over at the little round table in the corner of the kitchen, and it was still there, untouched, which was no miracle since it was only me and Aunt Gina.
Three days after the knock on our door, I’d come in from a walk with Lilah, actually laughing over a story about Finn, and then in an instant, all the air whooshed right out of me. Sitting on the kitchen table was an envelope, addressed to me, in his handwriting. I stared at it. Lilah put her hand on my shoulder, tentative.
“Oh, Honor . . . ,” she started. “He must’ve sent it before . . . and probably no one knew. . . .”
