by Rachel Hauck
Lexa made her way around a row of hay bales and peered at the faded words highlighted by Jett’s phone flashlight.
I hate my mom.
“I carved it over the summer with fantasies she’d come visit, walk out here, and see it.”
Lexa fingered the gray, deep engraving. “Did you carve something like this about me too?”
His attention snapped to her. “I think I’ve matured some since I was twelve. But no, I didn’t. I loved you.”
“And I walked out.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Of course. You weren’t my mother.”
“I was your wife. I made a vow and pledge to you.”
“She gave me life. How does a woman walk out on her own kids?” He peeled away a dried piece of splintered wood. “After I heard all of your homecoming and Carnie story I understood a bit more why you left. Not entirely. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Not sure I knew what to say. Telling the story opened up some insight for me too.” She smiled at him. “Here we are, thirty years old and just now dealing with childhood wounds.”
“Here’s a truth.” Jett brushed his hand over her shoulder. “Lex, I didn’t reject you. I wanted you.”
“You had a funny way of showing it.”
“Maybe you couldn’t see because of your fears.”
“Maybe you couldn’t tell me because of yours.”
“Hey, you two.” They turned to see Oz making his way toward them, a tall beer in his hand. “The party’s out here. We just cut the cake. What’s going on?”
“Just telling stories,” Jett said. “Cut the cake? I missed it. Lex, you want a piece?” He offered her his arm to barricade Ox from seeing the etching on the wall.
“Is this it?” Ox walked right past them. “Where you hacked out that you hated your mom?”
Jett lowered his arm. “You know?”
Oz lifted his beer. “Your mom told me about a year ago.”
Jett swore under his breath. Oz smacked him on the back. “Don’t worry. She understands.” The outdoorsman headed back down the aisle. “The memorial starts in ten minutes.”
As Oz left, silence filled his wake. Neither Jett nor Lexa moved.
“She never said a word.” Jett crushed his hand to his chest.
“Maybe she’s not the evil woman you believed.” She squeezed his hand and dipped her head to see his face. “But that doesn’t take away your pain. Everything you just said here is real, but you can’t keep brushing over it. I know. I’m the pot calling the kettle black. I-I need to do more myself. But Jett, you’ll pop if you hold all this bitterness in too long.”
“What’s the point? Won’t change how lonely this place was after she left, how nothing was ever the same.” The blue in his eyes swam in unhindered tears. “I cried the night you left.” He laughed low. “How’s that for an admission? The apartment was so hollow without your presence. Everything echoed. At one point I stood in the center of the living room and repeated over and over, ‘Lex, I love you. I love you.’”
Regret and relief collided, and she wobbled a little as her fortitude drained. He’d cried?
“Jett, I had no idea. I thought you didn’t care at all. I’m sorry—”
“Water under the bridge.” Tears glistened in his eyes. “Let’s get some cake, maybe move the party toward the memorial.” He pulled notecards from his breast pocket. “Mom made Dad and me write down something meaningful to say.”
“Jett, you do realize everyone can see your emotions. We know when you’re upset or bothered. But you don’t speak up. You avoid the hard conversation.” She squeezed his arm. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
“That’s some pretty good therapy. I didn’t realize you knew me quite so well. Come on, counselor. My hour is up and they are serving cake.”
“I have one more question.” She held onto him. “Being as it is Storm’s memorial—What happened up on that mountain, Jett?”
Suddenly every emotion was reeled in and locked behind a steel door. “Leave it alone, Lex.”
“Why? Jett, let it go. Whatever it is. Wouldn’t it be nice if tonight, at your mother’s wedding and your brother’s memorial, you released all the pain that haunts you?” She gripped his lapel. “Don’t let another shovelful of dirt cover this, this thing that haunts you. I think it’s why you cut me out so drastically when Storm died.”
“I’m ready for cake.” He released her hands from his jacket. “Come on.”
“It was the final straw for me, Jett. I lost you to grad school, but I figured that would end. But when I lost you to grief, I thought I’d never find you.”
“What does it matter what happened on the mountain, Lexa? He’s gone.”
“It matters because you’ve let it bury you. Even more than your parents’ divorce. You’ve let the guy who loves twentieth-century classic literature and cries at the end of a rom-com because true love triumphs hide behind a wall no one can really see or conquer.
“One day when you’re like forty or fifty, you’ll look back on your life and wonder what happened to the Jett Wilder who hoped, who dreamed. You’ll be completely unaware that your shallow, lonely existence was carved out by a faded, twisted memory of a morning on a mountaintop. That you’re haunted by the ghost of your dead brother.”
“That won’t happen. What you just said.”
“In some ways it already has, Jett. Between you and me.”
“Don’t put the demise of our marriage squarely on me or Storm’s death. You played a part.”
She stepped back. “You’re right. I buried myself in work for fear of rejection. But ever since I told my story at the society meeting, I feel relief. I see what I’ve been doing. Now I wish I’d gone to homecoming with Dad and walked in with my head high, ready to twist the night away. Twelve years later, Dad and I could reminisce about how much fun we had. I don’t even know where Carnie is now. And there’s a good chance we’d have broken up by Christmas, or on the ski trip. We were never meant to be. Yet I let his rejection and the opinions of others, all my experiences of moving and trying to fit in, taint me.” She raised her chin. “Well, no more. I’m sick of it. I’m commanding my life.”
“What if Zane comes crawling back?”
“Depends, but I think my time at ZB is over. I really do. As soon as I get another job, I’ll resign.” Her confidence came from a real, deep place.
“He always gets to you, Lexa. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Watch me.” Lexa marched for the wide barn doors, praying, hoping he’d follow her. Because out there was the real world, the one where she’d have to walk the walk of the talk she just talked. “As for you, Jett Wilder, don’t you dare stay on that mountain with Storm, or stuck in this barn reading your books, worshipping dead authors who lied. You were born for more.”
Chapter 27
Jett
Bothered and wrestling with the heat of Lexa’s confrontation and his own confessions, he made his way toward the lit area by the lake’s shore.
Just to the left of the wedding reception stood a row of thirty flickering tiki torches. One for each year of Storm’s life.
An old high school friend, Bobby, clapped Jett on the back and passed over a beer. “I still miss him.”
“Me too.”
Dave, another friend, had been Storm’s high school best friend. Jett clinked his long bottle neck with Dave’s and raised it to his lips. One sip and he set it down.
The last time he drank a beer or two at a wedding, he ended up in jail. He felt imprisoned enough with the aggravating revelation that Lexa was right about the pain he retained. Like an old friend. Like the chains he’d earned.
Bobby joined Dave, and Jett excused himself, walking over to where Lexa shivered in the cold.
“Here.” He draped his tux jacket around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry.” But she didn’t look up. “I overstepped. You’re not my husband anymore, so y
our emotional state is not my concern.”
“But you’re my friend.”
She smiled. “Better than enemies. Look, Jett, I am sorry. For everything. I look back and wonder, ‘What was I thinking?’ I’d like to think I’ve gained some perspective the past two years.”
“Me too.”
The reverend who had officiated the wedding gathered the guests.
“Miranda and Oz, along with Bear, chose this night to say a final goodbye to their son Storm. As you all know, Storm Wilder, a wingsuit pilot, died on Eiger Mountain at the age of thirty. He was born Samuel Brian Wilder, son of Brian “Bear” and Miranda Wilder, brother to John Alexander Wilder. Born in Chappaqua . . .”
Jett drifted from his big brother’s eulogy through his memories, seeing shadowy images of the past. The two of them racing across the yard to the lake, running down the dock, and jumping in with a wahoo!
A soft, slender hand slipped into his. Lexa.
“Come on,” he whispered, pulling her away. He wanted a moment alone with his memories, a moment with Lexa.
They walked over to the lake and the end of the dock. The moonlight cut a swath over the calm, glassy surface where, in due course, Storm’s remains would rest.
“Tell me a Storm story,” Lexa said. “A good one.”
“Can’t tell just one. With Storm all the stories are connected.” Another reason that day on the mountain was so strange and raw, gut wrenching. Brother confronting brother, discovering a truth that ripped them apart.
“Then your favorite.”
“Storm Ball.” When he looked down at her, the lake breeze brushed her hair across her face. She was so very lovely.
“The first time I visited, we played.”
“Thanksgiving.” Their marriage had collapsed so fast he struggled to remember the good days. But there was one. He placed it on the open shelf of his heart.
“What were the rules again?”
“Whatever Storm wanted.” He laughed. “But it was a cross between rugby, football, and basketball. And I know what you’re doing, Lex.”
“Is it working?”
“A little. Why didn’t you ever tell me about Carnie and all the implications?”
“And let my hunky new boyfriend know I was a high school reject? Besides, by the time I met you, I was over it, didn’t think it mattered. Then you started shutting me out. The first time you didn’t come home, but stayed out all night with your classmates, I was so scared. So scared. But Carnie was just the cream on the top of all the times we moved and I didn’t feel accepted.”
He grabbed her to himself, careful of her new upper arm cast. “I’m sorry, Lex. I am. For what it’s worth.” He pressed his kiss against her forehead. “I love you.”
She shoved out of his arms. “What?”
Those three little words were not casual. They contained a power surge that electrified the air between them.
“I mean, I . . .” He coughed. Cleared. Turned away.
“Jett!” Dave called to him from the shore. “They’re looking for you.”
They walked back in silence, Lexa’s hand swinging free, his tucked into his tux pocket.
He joined Mom, Oz, and Dad, the sheen of Mom’s wedding dress catching the glow of the lights.
Dad clapped him with a hug as he faced the crowd and retrieved his notes. I love you. How did he let that slip? Because it was bubbling in his heart, that’s why.
Jett scanned the wedding guests turned mourners for Lexa as Dad stepped up to the table where Storm’s open urn rested.
“Storm,” Dad said. “You were a force to be reckoned with from the time you came screaming into this world until the day you died. Both with your eyes wide open. It’s been two years but feels like yesterday.” He gripped a fistful of his son’s ashes, walked to the water’s edge, and released them, twisting and drifting, into the wind. “You were my firstborn, my business partner, my friend. I miss you every day. Rest in peace.”
The ashes drifted from Dad’s open hand. When he returned to his place beside Jett, tears wet his tanned, lined cheeks.
Mom stepped forward.
“When Storm was in first grade he couldn’t sit still. His teacher called me in for a meeting and asked me to change his name.” A light laugh wrestled through the mourners. “I told her I couldn’t change his name any more than I could change his eye color. Storm was Storm. His given name was Samuel, but the moment Bear nicknamed him Storm, we knew we’d captured his true identity. He challenged us and excited us and, now, grieves us. Storm was worth all the aggravation and testing. I am grateful to have been his mother. Lucky, really. He was a good man, a friend, a dreamer, a risk taker.” She raised a handful of ashes to the sunset. “May a piece of his adventurous spirit land on us all. I carry you with me every day, son, and every cell in my body misses you.”
Jett watched the remains of a man, his brother, float through the light toward the dark water.
An eeriness swept through him. To a stranger, Storm’s ashes would be no different from the wood ashes from the firepit. It was as if he had never been flesh and bone, as if he’d never possessed a beating heart or breath in his lungs.
“Jett?” Mom moved aside, dabbing her eyes. “Tell us a Storm story. He has so many, everyone. Our bookworm, our writer.” She patted him on the shoulder and he resisted the urge to shrug her off.
Staring at his notes, he started to speak, then frogged out. Clearing his throat, he tried again.
“Storm, you were my brother and my first friend.” As he dug into the polished urn, his emotions swelled. The moment he touched his brother’s soft dust, Storm’s heartbeat pounded in Jett’s chest.
He hung his head as his tears splattered on the black ink scribbled over white notecards.
When he looked up, he didn’t bother to wipe his cheeks. But he tucked his notes away. He didn’t need a script to remember his brother.
“When they recovered Storm from the base of the mountain, every bone in his body was broken. And now, watching his ashes scatter away on the wind, we can’t distinguish between the ashes of a man from those piling up in the firepit. Ashes to ashes . . .” He patted the urn. “Hard to image this stone container contains the body of a man who was larger than life. That the ashes inside used to form bone and skin of a man who loved to fly off mountainsides, swim icy rivers, and create nonsensical games with the wackiest rules.” A respectful hoot came from the cluster of boyhood friends. “Storm’s heart was as large as his courage. He loved hard. He loved deep. He loved in secret. Mom said to tell a story. Well, Storm is the story.” A flash of grief clipped his breath. “At six-four, though he claimed to be six-five, my lean-muscled but fiercely strong brother was a force to be reckoned with. I’m not sure he ever knew fear. Except once . . . once.
“He led me down many a dark path of adventure knowing we’d probably get a whupping if Dad found out. But he didn’t care. I did and followed him anyway.” The laughter from the group was healing to Jett. “He was my hero.” When he looked at faces, his gaze mingled with Lexa’s. “It’s odd how some things have to be broken before their value and worth can be discovered.” He hadn’t valued his brother the day he died. In fact, he almost hated him. “Storm’s broken but free, soaring higher and farther than any man ever could in a wingsuit.
“He loved to make our parents proud. He was his father’s son and his mother’s rock.”
Dad came alongside him with a firm clap on the shoulder.
“I envied Storm’s boldness and courage. How he could hang off the side of a mountain for hours just to get the right publicity shot.” Jett laughed through his tears. “I was jealous, a little, that he fit in to Dad’s life better than I.” Dad squeezed his shoulder as he cleared his throat. “Storm left this life the way he lived. Testing gravity. He’d mock us if he were here tonight, giving him tribute, wondering why we weren’t throwing a party, causing trouble, playing Storm Ball.” A shout arose from the mourners. “He was in constant motion, and now tha
t he’s gone, our hearts are still. We miss you, Storm.”
Another word and he’d burst into tears. He might show his emotions, as Lexa pointed out, but he’d rather not bawl like a baby in front of so many.
Nevertheless he gathered himself for a final word.
“Let me say this, then I’ll shut up.” Jett wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Storm was a flawed man, a jealous brother, proud and stubborn—”
“You can say that again,” Mom said through a weepy laugh.
“But he gave his heart freely, something I haven’t learned to do yet.” Jett dipped his hand into the urn. “To my big brother, Storm. I will endeavor to live with more courage, make more noise, and above all, bring back the Thanksgiving Storm Ball tournament.” He released his grip of ashes into the small, passing current. “Fly, Storm, fly.”
Eyes closed, Jett tried to envision the brother of his childhood, the brother who stood next to him at his wedding, the brother who popped into their apartment unannounced, turning everything inside out, overstaying his welcome, but leaving a void when he finally packed his bags.
For a moment, he heard their laughter, saw their stories. Then it was all gone, clouded by his anger and frustration, tainted by walking away that day on the mountain just before Storm teetered on the edge of his mortality.
As he stepped back between Mom and Oz, and Dad, Mom bent toward his ear. “He’d be proud, Jett. Well done.”
He peered at her and drew a long breath. “Can I talk to you before you leave with Oz? It’s important.”
She hesitated, then nodded once. “So the day has finally come.”
Just then a song rose from the middle of the guests as a deep bass started “Auld Lang Syne.” One by one, every voice joined in.
“Should old acquaintance be forgot—”
* * *
Chuck
Best decision he ever made was knocking on Wanda’s door. How she talked Trudy into letting him attend the twins’ parties was a bona fide miracle.