HORIZON MC

by Clara Kendrick

  Cheyenne closed her eyes and took some deep breaths. When she looked at me again, her voice was much calmer. “Maybe you need some more time to try and sort all of that out.”

  “I had plenty of time to do that and it didn’t work. I thought I had been regaining some memories, but maybe I haven’t. You’re the only one I have now. You have to stay.”

  “I can’t. I can’t do this right now.”

  “Cheyenne…”

  She was already tossing some clothes in a backpack. Extricating herself from my mess. I was almost jealous that she could do it so easily. If there was a way for me to escape this, I would’ve done it a long time ago.

  “Where are you even going to go?” I asked her, plaintive.

  “I think I’m going to go back to Colorado for a while.” As simple as that. Maybe she’d had that plan all along – to pull out if it hurt too much, or if things got too complicated or difficult.

  “You can go wherever you want,” I said. “I don’t give a shit. Need directions? Colorado’s that way.” Obstinate, painfully aware that I was losing everything in that moment, I pointed north.

  “Thank you. I didn’t think I’d remember without your help.”

  “If that’s a jibe on my amnesia–”

  “It wasn’t. Goddammit. You’re just picking a fight at this point because your feelings are hurt.”

  “My feelings are hurt because you’re leaving me,” I said, my voice breaking with rage and fear. “You’re giving up on me. On this. On us.”

  “I’m not giving up. But I do need some distance.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re going. Just because of a stupid tattoo?”

  She looked at me like she was afraid of me, and my heart felt like it was slowing to a stop with dread.

  “The thing is, you remind me a lot more of James than of Jack,” she said, and walked out the door.

  The worst part was, only dimly registering the sound of my front door opening and shutting with something that felt like finality, that when Cheyenne had said “James,” something inside of me had jerked in recognition.

  Chapter 8

  I was putting gas in my motorcycle when my cell phone rumbled in my pocket. It was Brody.

  “What’s up?” I asked by way of greeting. “What’s wrong?”

  “I should be asking you that,” he said. “Aren’t we supposed to be doing kitchen stuff today?”

  I cursed. “I forgot about that.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to show up for it, Jack. I’m wondering where Cheyenne is.”

  My curse was more colorful this time. “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me it’s just a delay. Some kind of holdup brought on by amazing sex. I would forgive that.”

  “We had…” It wasn’t a fight. Was it? It was me trying desperately to hold on to the last good thing I had left and Cheyenne being scared out of her mind that my tattoo wasn’t what she remembered, or whatever. That I wasn’t living up to her memories of her boyfriend. That I disappointed her by who I had become in lieu of remembering who I was supposed to be.

  What was the deal with the tattoo anyway? Maybe I’d simply drawn her name in the eagle’s talons as a joke, way back when before the Army Rangers, a way to get on her good side, and she had taken it at face value. Or maybe it had something to do with the natural fading of the tattoo, if the name really had been inked into my skin. If the text was as small and intricate as she said, then it would make sense for it to muddy and grow blurry. Especially if it had been exposed to the elements. Or subjected to such trauma as the explosion I’d somehow survived. I didn’t have any scarring around it, though. Just my torso. I’d been too surprised to throw my arms up even in a last-ditch defensive measure when the ambush had happened. The point was, though, that nothing was permanent. Not even tattoos. Maybe there had been a fight Cheyenne wasn’t telling me about. Maybe I’d gotten some laser work done to remove the name. Maybe she had been leading me on this entire–

  “Jack? Did I lose you?”

  “I’m here,” I said with a heavy sigh.

  “And where, exactly, is that?”

  What the fuck was I even doing? Cheyenne had mentioned my cousin James, so I was on my way to my uncle’s house, looking to grasp at whatever threads I might find, follow them to wherever they might go. Really, I was lost without Cheyenne. In need of a distraction. Seeing my uncle fit that description.

  “Family business,” I said. “On my way out of town.”

  “I didn’t know you still visited family,” Brody said, clearly surprised. “That’s nice, that you have that kind of relationship.”

  I didn’t. Not really. But it was too much to explain over the phone, and as fond as I was of Brody, he wasn’t the person I would think to have that kind of conversation with.

  “My uncle,” I said, hoping that would satisfy his curiosity. He could prod Ace if he wanted any other details. Whether Ace would give them up was another thing.

  “So Cheyenne is going with you on this family business?”

  I frowned at the seat of my motorcycle. “Yes.”

  “Could I speak to her, then?”

  “What, do you want to fucking check that she’s really here?”

  There was a shocked pause on the other end of the line. “Why are you angry?”

  “Because you think I’m lying about her being with me.”

  “Jack, I just had a question about one of her recipes. The girls were trying it out. You know. For the test run today? She’s our head chef, and she’s not here. I understand that you’re handling family business, but if I could just talk to her for a second–”

  “I fucked up, Brody, okay?”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “You’ll have to do the test run without Cheyenne. Or name a new head chef. Or figure something else out. She’s not with me. We had a fight, or something. She went back to Colorado.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You’re sorry because of the fucking bar.”

  “Jack…”

  “I have to go.”

  “Be safe–”

  I ended the call before he could say anything else. The last thing I wanted right now was anyone’s pity. It had been my own fault for ruining things with Cheyenne. I was so focused on trying to get my memories back that I’d lost sight of the things she needed. I should’ve tried harder to simply act the way she remembered me. Then she would’ve stuck around. I wouldn’t have failed in one more iteration of my existence.

  What I owed her now was to try and get to the bottom of all of this. To give it my everything to figure out who I was. I felt like my memories were tantalizingly close, just beyond a door I didn’t have the key to quite yet. I didn’t care that the doctors had all told me that wasn’t how my amnesia worked, that it wouldn’t be a puzzle I could solve, a case where I could play detective. I refused to accept that I simply wouldn’t have access to my past. Acceptance was the same as giving up. And I wasn’t about to give up. I didn’t come all this way just to roll over and stop trying.

  If I had gone as far as I could with Cheyenne, then the next step was my uncle. He was my last living relative, and the closest link I had to the Army Rangers by way of my cousin James. I didn’t like to bother my uncle, though. Particularly not about his son. The handful of times I’d seen him over the last few years had been uncomfortable, to say the least. I just looked too much like my cousin for him to try and see past that. It rattled him, talking to me, because I’d been with James when he died. At least that’s what my uncle said, according to the limited information the Army had told him. The fact that I’d been on the same team as James. The only survivor of the incident that had robbed me of my memories.

  But desperate times called for desperate measures. I would try to be as surgical and professional as possible. Not ask anything too hard. Not stay for too long.

  I knocked on the door to my uncle’s house and realized that I didn’t even really know what to say or w
hat to ask. What the fuck was I doing here?

  I regretted coming here instantly, the moment the door opened, the old man’s face brightening and falling within the same breath. But even when my uncle’s sense of reasoning reasserted itself, telling him that his son wasn’t coming crawling out of the grave and back home, he still tried for it.

  “James?”

  I cleared my throat. “It’s Jack, Uncle Ryan.”

  “Jack? I knew that,” he said, gruff, almost angry. “I’m not a fool.”

  He was a fool who’d called me the name of his dead son, but I wasn’t about to point that out. “Is it okay if…are you busy right now?”

  “One thing they don’t tell you about old age is how time seems to slow down to a crawl,” he said, staring at me. “At least for people who’ve lost everything. People with their children, grown children who should be having children of their own, those are the ones time flies for. Not old sons of bitches like me. That’s what I get though. I should be suffering.” He lost steam, wherever that diatribe had been going, and sagged against the doorframe in such a way that I reached out for him, afraid he was about to collapse.

  “Uncle Ryan?”

  “Don’t mind me, Jack.” He straightened abruptly, shrugging off my hand. “I’m just a foolish old man. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk.”

  “Like I was saying. All I have is time. Come on in, son.” He flinched, catching his mistake. “I call everyone younger than me that.”

  “I do, too.” I didn’t. But I would’ve said anything to try and relieve a little bit of the tension roiling between us.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water? Let’s see. I might have some soda, if that’s more your speed. Or…do you imbibe?”

  “Imbibe?”

  “I have some whiskey.”

  “It’s a little early in the day for whiskey, Uncle Ryan.”

  He shrugged. “I’m an old man. It brings me comfort in my suffering.”

  “Are you not doing well?”

  “I’m as healthy as a horse, Jack. That’s not doing well, when everything you love is gone.”

  For fuck’s sake. I had sympathy for him, sure, but he was a miserable old man. He could’ve at least put on a brave face, even if my face was so similar to his deceased son’s that he could barely stand my presence.

  “You know, I will take that whiskey,” I said, feeling a little belligerent. “As long as you’re having one.”

  “Only to keep you company.”

  “Oh, we could play that game all day,” I said, laughing, following him into the kitchen. “And before you know it, we’ll both be falling-down drunk.”

  The whiskey was on top of the refrigerator, and I wondered how often the old man reached up there to retrieve it, how often he had troubles tough enough to drown in the liquor.

  “Ice?” he asked.

  “Neat.”

  My uncle nodded his approval, poured himself the same – nearly three fingers.

  “Good to see you, Jack,” he said, and we both took a solemn sip of the whiskey. “What would you like to talk about?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my cousin. James.” I didn’t have to say the name, and I shouldn’t have. It made my uncle flinch, and I regretted it immediately. I could’ve added that it was Cheyenne who was doing this to me, that I wasn’t actually thinking about him, that I was here only because I was desperate and confused and didn’t know where else to go.

  “Oh, yeah?” I hated the forced casualness of his tone. “What about him?”

  “We looked a lot alike, didn’t we?”

  “That’s right.” My uncle gestured to me and I followed him into the living room. I tried not to look too closely, but it was impossible not to see the triangular shape of the folded American flag in its glass display case, prominently displayed on the mantle of the fireplace. My uncle reached up past it and retrieved a picture frame. “Even from when you were kids, it was hard to tell the two of you apart. Caught you all switching clothes one time, trying to see if you could trick your father and me.”

  He offered me the picture frame and I took it, looked into the eyes of my cousin in full military dress. He did look like me. Eerily so, especially if I still had my hair short like that. I was grateful for small favors, especially the relative shagginess of my hair. But it made me understand what gave Cheyenne her misgivings, particularly if I wasn’t acting the way her Jack did.

  Of course, her Jack had an advantage. He’d had all his memories. He’d known who he was supposed to be. I was just floundering, feeling like I was drowning in self-doubt and questions. And referring to myself in the past in the third person. I was losing it.

  “Did we trick you?”

  My uncle shook his head. “Might’ve, if I hadn’t walked in on the process. Neither of you would tell on the other whose idea it was. You were close as kids. Drifted a little when you grew older, but the connection was there.”

  “Why did we drift apart?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No. Nothing… Not really.” I took a long sip of the whiskey – it was bottom shelf, not the good kind – and debated with myself how much to share with my uncle. Was he to be trusted? I didn’t have anyone else to talk to about this kind of stuff. Cheyenne was, for now, out of the picture. Maybe she’d choose never to reenter my life. She’d realize that this was all way too complicated. Easier if she forgot about me in the same way I’d forgotten about her. She could start a new life. Make some new friends. Find someone else to love. Someone without any nasty surprises and tangles.

  “Nothing?” my uncle asked, eyeing me. “Or something?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” I said. “I think I’ve been dreaming of him.”

  “Memories?”

  “I…don’t know. I hope not. Sometimes, they’re strange. Surreal. Violent.”

  My uncle didn’t have anything to say to that. What was there to say? I’d just told him I was having disturbing dreams about his dead son. What was wrong with me?

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m not even really sure why I’m here. It just felt like I should come here, and I did. This is stupid. I’m wasting your time.”

  “I told you before. All I have is time. You’re not wasting it.” He hesitated, weighing his words. “It’s good to have family, isn’t it? You can talk to me if…if you feel like you need to. Or want to. Or whatever. We weren’t very close when you were younger. Before. You were closer with James. With your own father. But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk. You know. If you’d like.”

  That was my uncle extending an olive branch. Or something. I didn’t like coming here, and I was pretty sure he didn’t like me coming here, but he was offering a relationship solely based on the fact that we were family. And maybe that was what family was for. Being there for you when no one else was.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m going through…a rough patch. I don’t know what else to call it. I just feel uncertain about everything. Maybe I was looking to ground myself by coming here. Searching for some roots.”

  “Don’t you think you should try and see your father’s old house?” my uncle asked. “You know where it is?”

  “I know,” I said. “But someone else lives there, now. I don’t want to disturb them.”

  “You’re a veteran. A hero, Jack. It wouldn’t be disturbing them. They’d welcome you with open arms, I’m sure.”

  “And what would I say?” I asked, embittered. “Something like, ‘oh, that’s where I used to play ball’ or some bullshit? I couldn’t even point out my old bedroom if I wanted to. I don’t remember. I’d look like a freak. Or pathetic. Or worse.”

  My uncle was staring at me. God, I hadn’t come here to have a breakdown in front of him. I really hadn’t. I just hadn’t had anywhere else to go.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “You just reminded me of my
son for a moment. He was sometimes very frustrated, and I never really saw you like that. Luck kind of seemed to always shine for you.”

  “I don’t feel very lucky anymore.”

  “You’re alive. That’s lucky.”

  “Sure. Maybe.”

  My uncle seemed to arrive at some sort of decision, nodding to himself. “Okay. I have something that might help you.”

  “You do?” Like an elixir that would heal my brain? The key to the door behind which my memories lay?

  “When you were a boy and you came to stay over, you’d always be in James’s room with him. You both always slept in sleeping bags on the floor, even if there was a perfectly good bed in there. It’s not your room. But at least you wouldn’t have to guess at it in a house full of strangers.”

  I drained the rest of my whiskey. “I’d like to see it, if you’d like to show it to me.”

  “More whiskey first?”

  “I think so. Yes, please.”

  Our glasses refilled, I followed my uncle down a hallway. He opened a door that creaked with age and disuse, and a mustiness perfumed the air, like no one had been in it for a long time. There was a bed in there, queen sized, and a thin film of dust covered every surface.

  “Sorry for the state of things,” my uncle told me. “For obvious reasons, I don’t come in here very often. Hasn’t changed much since James died, mainly because I would be the one changing it and I can’t bear to. I couldn’t just go through his things like that and throw them away. They’re all I have left of him, even if they give me pain. Tell you the truth, I don’t even really know what’s in here. James was a private sort of young man. Didn’t share much with me, though I never really gave him an opening, to be honest.”

  My uncle was trembling, whiskey sloshing in his glass.

  “You don’t have to stay in here with me,” I said. “Would you be okay with me being in here by myself?”

  “You did it often enough when you were little. Now is fine, too.”

  “Uncle Ryan?”

  He turned in the middle of fleeing and almost ran into the doorframe. “Yes, Jack?”