And that will have to be enough.
I bend and brush the softest of kisses on his brow and slip from the room.
I know Jacey isn’t back yet, so I quickly grab my things from her room, stuffing them in my bag. I’m quietly walking through the kitchen when the back door opens and Jacey steps in.
She’s startled to see me and she starts to say hello, but then her eyes take in the bag in my hand and widen.
“Are you… you’re leaving.”
I swallow hard, then nod. The movement hurts, like a scalpel or a sword.
“And Brand doesn’t know.”
Jacey’s voice is limp.
I stare at her, not answering.
She stares back, confused, pissed.
I take a step around her and she grabs my elbow.
“I don’t know if this matters to you, but I haven’t seen Brand this happy in a long time. Actually, I’ve never seen him this happy. This will kill him. I can’t imagine why you’d leave him.”
I stare at her, directly in the eyes.
“You left him.”
“But he and I were never together,” she points out. “You… I … never mind. It’s not my business.”
She turns her back and starts to walk away.
“Jacey?”
She turns around silently, because words aren’t needed. Her icy glare says everything.
“Sometimes things aren’t what they seem. Can you.. just… take care of him.”
Jacey nods curtly, one time, and I do the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do in my life.
I drive away from Brand Killien.
I sob the entire way to the airport.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brand
When I wake, the bed is empty. It takes a minute to realize that Nora has already gotten up. I stretch and wait for her to come back, but after a long while passes, I realize she’s not going to.
She must be out talking with Jacey.
I shake my head as I climb from bed. What a fucked up situation. But what an amazing night.
As I reach for my shorts, I see the paper.
Folded over, with my name scrawled on it, propped up on the desk. My stomach drops like a piece of lead, into my feet, into the floor.
This can’t be good.
I don’t want to open it, but at the same time, I know I have to.
My body goes numb as I read her words.
Brand,
This was more than I bargained for. I’m sorry. I hope you find what you’re looking for.
Nora
She doesn’t mean it.
She can’t possibly.
Yet, she’s gone. And this letter is here in her place.
I ball the paper up and throw it in the trashcan and then before I can control my anger, I smash my fist into the wall. It breaks through the drywall with a crash, and little pieces of it fall to the floor.
It doesn’t take Jacey long to come running.
“Jesus,” she breathes, taking in my bloody knuckles and the hole in the wall. “I’ll get a washcloth.”
She disappears and comes back within a minute, forcing me to sit on the bed and pressing the wet cloth around my hand. “I’ll pay for the repairs,” I mumble.
“I don’t care about the wall,” she tells me. “I care about you. Are you going to be ok?”
I growl and look away. “Of course. This isn’t the first time I haven’t been good enough for someone.”
Jacey sucks in a breath and looks at me, her eyes wide and blue and hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just…fuck.”
Jacey rubs my back, her head on my shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, Brand.”
“This is bullshit,” I tell her as I stand up. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
But it makes all kinds of sense.
No one stays with me. For as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve never been fucking good enough. It doesn’t matter how good I am, how strong I get, how good a job I do… it’s never enough.
Not for anyone.
“Fuck this.”
I stride from the room, intent on going somewhere, anywhere… to get this shit out of my head.
Everything is swirling through my thoughts… my father who beat me, my mother who hates me, Jacey who didn’t want me… and now Nora. It all bleeds together and I can’t tell the emotions apart.
I’m simply not good enough.
As I walk through the living room, my eyes fall on that fucking wooden box and I pick it up, gripping it tight. It just symbolizes one more failure.
Jacey trails behind me and stares at it. “What’s that?”
“I wasn’t good enough to save my little sister,” I tell her, my voice sharp, the words painful. “Did you know that?”
Jacey shakes her head, her eyes wide. “I didn’t know you had a sister,” she answers softly.
I nod. “Yeah. I did. She drowned when I was six and I wasn’t good enough to stop it. At least, that’s what my old man always told me… when he was beating the shit out of me every night. Those bruises I had when I was a kid? That’s why I got them. Because I wasn’t fucking good enough.”
Jacey is still, completely frozen. “My grandma called social services, you know,” she tells me. “They came and investigated your father, but they couldn’t find enough evidence to take you away.”
Of course not. I vaguely remember that, too. One summer, when I was twelve or so, I’d come home for a change of clothes and there were people at the house, strange people in pant suits who asked a lot of questions. My father had stared meaningfully at me, and I’d answered them all like I know he’d want me to.
Kids are loyal to the end.
Well guess what? It’s the end.
I grip the box hard, staring at it’s intricate design, at the way it so cleverly conceals it’s contents. Hard and fast, I throw it across the room. It shatters against the wall, splintering into pieces on the floor.
I don’t make a move to walk to it, to see what’s inside.
Jacey stares first at it, then at me.
“I don’t know what happened to your sister,” she says softly. “But I do know that whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault.”
I can’t help it. It all wells up in me and I sink to the floor and sit limply, and all of it comes out. All of it.
My sister sleepwalking. The way we had to keep her locked in for her own safety. How my mother had found her washed up on the shore and how her screams had shaken the house. How my father had beat me every night when he came home from the bar. Ring the bell, Brand. How he had swung at me when I graduated high school and how then it was my turn to beat him. How I’d punched him and punched him until my mother pulled me off and called the police. How the judge had suspended my sentence when he heard I’d been accepted to West Point, but only if I’d agree to enter the military afterward. How that was okay with me, because it’s had been my plan anyway. And how my mother hates me now.
All of it comes out.
All of it.
Jacey holds my hand and tears stream down her face as she listens to me rail and vent and swear. Years of disgust and bitterness flow out of me, all of it.
All.
Of.
It.
Even the parts that are directed at her.
“You used me for years,” I tell her angrily. “And I let you. That’s on me. Because I always thought I wasn’t good enough.. it’s something that’s embedded deep down--- so I always felt like that’s what I deserved. To take and take and take. Well you know what? Fuck that. I don’t deserve that.”
Jacey grips my hand tighter.
“No, you don’t deserve that, Brand. And you were always good enough. Always. I was the one who wasn’t good enough for you. Your dad was asshole. Your mother is just as bad. They fucked you up, but you’re stronger than they are. You are. You’re good and strong and loyal… and you were more of a man when you were six than your father
was ever. You have to know that, Brand. You have to.”
I’m finally done railing. I’m limp and tired and exhausted.
I nod. “Yeah. I do know that. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be good enough. I think it’s time that I just… that I just am.”
Jacey nods and holds me and I close my eyes for just a minute.
“I didn’t deserve for Nora to leave in the middle of the night without even a conversation. Fuck her.”
My eyes pop open and Jacey is watching me, her face pale.
“I’m going to shower,” I tell her as I get up. And I walk away.
A minute later, though, Jacey calls me.
I hesitate at my bedroom door.
“Yes?” I call back.
“I looked in the box.”
Her words are simple, her tone calm.
Suddenly, I want to know. What the fuck did my father have to say? What could he possibly have to say to me?
I stride back to the living room and find Jacey standing over the shattered remains of the box. She turns to look at me, her face pale, her eyes huge.
There, dangling from her fingers, is the old sliding lock from my sister’s bedroom door.
The paint is peeling from it, it’s old and it’s rusty, but it’s as familiar to me as my own hand. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound it made when it slid into place every night before bed.
If I close my eyes, and imagine the sound, I also know something, something that I’ve purposely not thought about over the years, but something I’ve known since the night my sister died.
I didn’t hear the lock slide into place that night.
It’s something I’ve never told another living soul.
Jacey stares at me.
I stare at the lock.
“I knew my father didn’t lock Allison’s door that night,” I finally say. “I knew. I waited until he left for the bar, and I snuck downstairs for a snack, for some cookies. I meant to lock the door when I went back to bed, but I forgot. I walked right past and I forgot. I laid in bed that night, staring out my window, staring at what I thought was a silver ball floating away in the water.”
I pause, and the silence is pregnant as Jacey waits.
“It wasn’t a ball,” I say starkly. “It was my sister.”
Jacey’s eyes widen a bit more, but she remains silent.
“So all along, my parents were right. I guess that’s why I always felt like I deserved whatever my father gave me,” I admit, my words wooden. “I knew her door wasn’t locked and I forgot to do anything about it. She’s dead and it’s as much my fault as it is anyone’s.”
The guilt, the guilt that I’ve carried my entire life feels like a weight now, a heavy weight, an albatross of iron around my neck.
I glance at Jacey. “So now you know. Everyone has been right all along. I’m just not good enough.”
There are tears streaking down Jacey’s face now and she drops the lock. It makes a heavy thump as it hits the floor and Jacey rushes to me, burying her face in my chest as she cries. But she’s not seeking comfort for once. This time, she’s the one comforting me.
“Brand, you’re amazing. So, so amazing. You were six years old. There’s no way that you could’ve known that your sister would get up that night. It wasn’t your responsibility to make sure that door was locked. It was your parents. People suck because they have to always find someone to blame for bad shit… someone besides themselves. You’ve been carrying this guilt for too long… and it’s not yours to carry. It’s your father’s. And I think… maybe…this was his way of saying that.”
I look down at her and she wipes at her eyes.
“Look.” She points with a shaky hand at the inside of the wooden lid. Inscribed with perfect craftsmanship, the words stand out starkly.
It was me.
“I think he’s finally trying to set you free.”
The silence of the house is huge, reverent.
My father’s guilt is not my burden anymore.
***
Because it stands a hundred yards away from the house, my father’s woodshop was undamaged in the fire.
This morning, I stand in the doorway, assessing it. Distracting myself from the massive hole that Nora’s absence has left.
She’s gone.
I can’t believe it, and I feel it in every part of me. Every cell in my body is in shock, every molecule screams with the pain.
Fuck it.
I take a few steps inside, picking up half finished pieces of wood. She’s gone because I’m not enough for her. I’m not good enough.
The old feelings of inadequacy slam into me, again and again and I groan, slamming the wood in my hand into a table.
Fuck her.
I begin picking up all of my father’s half-finished projects and taking them across the room, stacking them neatly in a corner. I’ll discard them later. It takes a few loads because my father had tons of projects. But anything to keep my hands busy, anything to keep me from punching a million holes into the wall.
I pause and remember my father puttering around out here for hours on end. I used to hear the saws and be thankful… because it meant he probably wouldn’t go to the bar that night. And if he didn’t go to the bar and get trashed, then I was safe from his wrath. He only beat me when he was drunk.
As I reach for another handful of wood, I catch a glimpse of a red metal box sticking out from under the workbench. Bending, I pull it out, expecting to find tools. But no.
Inside the old toolbox, is a stack of papers. Newspapers, letters from West Point, clippings. All about me. The old man had been keeping tabs on me over the years. He knew I graduated from West Point, he knew I’d made the Rangers, he knew I’d been sent to Afghanistan. He even knew I’d earned a Purple Heart. He was too proud to contact me, but he cared enough to follow my life.
For a minute, my heart softens.
Life really isn’t black or white.
Fuck life. It’s a vengeful bitch.
I drop the box, stalk to the fridge in the corner and grab a beer. My father’s got at least two cases left, chilled and ready for me. On second thought, I turn and grab two more, and then head for the chair at his desk. I put my feet up on the desk and lean my chair back, popping the top of beer number one. The other two are lined up waiting for me.
Yes, it’s not even noon yet.
No, I don’t give a flying fuck.
It’s hot as hell in here, but I don’t care about that, either. I just stare out the window as I gulp the cold brew down.
I don’t care about my father’s stash of newspaper clippings. I don’t care about his fucking box or the way he finally took ownership of his own guilt.
All I care about is Nora.
Why in the name of all that’s holy did I put myself in this position? I knew from the beginning that Nora only wanted the summer. That she only wanted me to fulfill some stupid fucking high school fantasy. I knew that.
Yet I got sucked in anyway.
Because I’m a stupid fuck and everything about her made me feel good.
Well, fuck that. I’m not feeling too good right now.
I crush the can and toss it to the side, picking up beer number two.
I crack the top.
“You gonna sit out here and drink all day?”
Jacey’s voice comes from behind me. I take a gulp.
“That’s the plan.”
She walks softly around me, perching on the edge of the desk. She’s still wearing shorts and flip-flops.
“Didn’t you have a flight this morning?” I ask her, taking another long gulp.
She shakes her head. “I did. But I’m not going to leave you now.”
I stare at her. “Uh-uh. Get on that plane, Vincent. I’m fine.”
She shakes her head again. “Nope. You nursed me through five million break-ups. I can be here for one.”
I down the beer and reach for number three.
“Nope. I honestly don’t want y
ou here, Jace. I love you and all, but I think I need to be alone. I’m going to be an asshole for a few days. You don’t need to be here for that.”
She starts to protest, to tell me how she’s been a bitch around me before, yada, yada, yada, but I cut her short, leveling a gaze at her.
“Seriously, Jacey. I appreciate it. But go back to your husband. I need to be alone.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. She stares at me for the longest time, before finally nodding.
“I guess. If that’s what you want.” She takes a few steps toward the door, then turns. “Brand, one of the very best things about you is your heart. You could’ve turned out to be an asshole in life, because of all the shit you dealt with as a kid, but you didn’t. You turned out to be the absolute best man I know. Don’t let any of this change that. Please.”
I snort, lifting can number three to my lips.
“Whatever, Jace. Look where it got me. Nice guys finish last. Every. Fucking. Time.”
I turn my back on her, looking out the window as I gulp the brew down. At this rate, I very well might go through a case today. And that’s fine.
I hear Jacey behind me, lingering, trying to decide what to say. It annoys the fuck out of me.
“Just go, Jacey,” I tell her firmly. “Seriously. Have a safe flight.”
She flies back to me, throwing herself at me, hugging me tight. Her arms clamp around my throat and I have to pry them off so I can breathe.
“What the hell?”
She glances up at me, her eyes watery. “I’m sorry she hurt you, Brand. It sucks. I don’t know why she left, but you deserve to be happy.”
I look away. “Yeah. I do. But you know what they say…”
“What do they say?”
A voice comes from the doorway, a voice with a French accent.
Jesus. Do people not ever knock around here?
Camille Greene stands elegantly in the woodshop, as out of place among the dust and wood shavings as Maxwell had been on the porch.
She stares from Jacey to me, curiosity in her blue eyes, at the way Jacey is draped around my neck, but she doesn’t say anything else.
“It doesn’t matter what they say,” I mutter, and I gently push Jacey off my lap. I stare at her, my expression firm.
Until We Fly (The Beautifully Broken) Page 18
