The Ones We Trust (22 page)

“So,” I begin, “now that we’re on the same page, I have something to say.”

His eyes are nuclear, and his chest heaves with fury. “Stop wasting my time with these games of yours, and just spit it out.”

I push to a stand and stuff my hands in my front coat pockets. “Take responsibility for the mess you made of Zach,
all
of it, and guard that family’s secret with your life. If word about Nick gets out from anyone other than the Armstrongs, if my father has to shoulder one more day of blame for something he had no hand in, then your little video will be my comeback story.”

And this is the point where my plan could backfire. If the police have a copy of these tapes, if they’ve already questioned Chris about his naked appearance on one of them, then he’ll already feel the breath of discovery hot on his neck, and the possibility scares me more than a little. A man backed into a corner has nothing to lose.

But it’s been a week, and I’m counting on the fact that they haven’t. Maria’s memory stick was filled with wealthy and influential men with everything to lose. Maybe one of them, maybe even Uncle Chris, cleared her house of evidence before the police could get there. I have no real proof of this, of course, other than the silence from the police department and my gut telling me that it’s true.

After forever, Chris’s chin dips in a nod, and considering the context, I try not to gloat too much.

Still. I can’t help one last little jab. “Tell Aunt Susan I said hi, and I’ll see her Thursday at lunch.”

And with that, I turn and walk away.

30

And then, suddenly, it’s November 21. The anniversary of Zach’s death. Three hundred and sixty-five days. The day blooms with an epic thunderstorm, low-hanging clouds that dump rain from the skies in thick sheets, battering the roof and swallowing up all light and sound. It’s like a greater power is marking the day with the gravity it deserves. Dark. Wet. Depressing.

I wake up early, far too early to start the day, and lie there for an eternity, listening to the steady downpour batter the roof’s shingles above my bedroom ceiling. Today marks both an end and a beginning for Gabe and his family, and I wonder which is harder for them: closing the book on Zach’s first year gone, or facing a new blank page without him on it.

I linger in bed until my bladder can’t wait another second, and then I trudge down the hallway, freshen up in my brand-new bathroom. I’m brushing my teeth when I hear it, my doorbell, followed by a heavy pounding on the door that spikes my heart. I fling my toothbrush in the sink and hurry down the stairs.

It’s Gabe, clean-shaven and bleary-eyed in his favorite jeans and a black puffy coat. He takes in my bare feet and rumpled pajamas, my bed-head hair, the sheet marks slashing up a cheek. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was brushing my teeth,” I say rather inanely, though I’m happy to hear my voice sounds halfway normal. The sight of Gabe’s familiar figure after all this time has wound a rope around my chest and pulled it tight, and I’m surprised I can talk at all.

Gabe nods as if he knows, and I’m confused for a moment until he reaches up, brushing something off the corner of my mouth. Toothpaste. He wipes it on his jeans. “I don’t know if you heard, but we dropped the charges.”

“I saw the press conference.”

“It was the right thing to do. Mom needed closure.
I
needed closure. It’s better this way.”

“Good. I’m happy for you.” I mean it, too. If dropping the charges gave him the closure he needed, then I
am
happy for him.

Vaguely, I’m aware of a car idling on the street, of the rain beating down in sheets, of the tips of my bare toes tingling in the freezing November air. It’s a strange feeling, standing so close to him again, and I think back to the first time he stood on my doormat, the night he came over to apologize. I didn’t let him in then, either, though for totally different reasons. I’m dying to reach out and touch him, to wrap myself around him and not let go, and I can’t be one hundred percent sure I won’t try the minute he steps across my threshold.

“It’s cold as balls out here,” he says with a little smile, resurrecting the same words he used that night, and I know he’s remembering it, too.

Still. I don’t step back.

He gives a resigned nod, doesn’t push it any further. “Mom still has no idea about Nick. Though...I don’t know how we can keep it a secret forever. My therapist tells me Nick will have to tell her in order to fully heal.” He draws a deep breath, blows it out. “I don’t see how that can go well.”

“She’s already lost one son. I can’t imagine she would push another one away because of a tragic accident. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but he’ll need her forgiveness in order to forgive himself.”

“You sound just like my therapist.” His smile, sincere and warm, makes my chest ache.

I drop my head, and we fall silent for an awkward moment. As interested as I am in his family, I can’t help but wonder what brought him to my doorstep this morning, today of all days, but I don’t know how to ask without coming across as unsympathetic or, even worse, hopeful. So I ask the question that’s been piling up on my tongue since I opened my door a few minutes ago.

“How are
you
, Gabe?”

“A mess, obviously.” He swipes a palm across the back of his neck. “I’m sure you know what today is.”

I nod, the words sticking in my throat. Of
course
I know.

“I meant what I said at the press conference. Zach would have hated the investigation. No, that’s not right. He would have been
furious
at me for taking on the country he died serving. He would have said it made his death pointless and took my scope off the people who needed me most. Mom. Nick. You.” He pauses to shake his head ruefully. “Not that you ever needed me, but, Jesus, Abigail, I need you. I can’t breathe I need you so bad.”

And I can’t breathe with him standing here. Because no matter how either of us feels, the fact remains that he didn’t believe in me. He doesn’t. Is this it? Is this how we end? With Gabe’s admission that he needs me but not enough to believe I won’t hurt him in the worst possible way? The idea of it breaks my heart, and I feel myself start to crumble.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I hate myself for letting you drive away from me like that at Nick’s. I wish I’d stopped you and said—” he takes a deep breath, blows it out “—well, pretty much anything other than the words I did say. I wish I’d told you I knew you weren’t writing a story, that I knew you wouldn’t.”

“But then you would have been lying.”

He starts to shake his head, and then he freezes, gives me the tiniest of shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe I would have been lying. But just so you know, I
wanted
to believe in you, but every single thing that’s happened this past year has taught me not to. It’s taught me to think the worst of everyone. That’s not an excuse, only an explanation for why I’ve become such an ass-hat. I didn’t used to be.”

His face is so open, his expression so boyishly repentant, that I forgive him pretty much immediately. After everything that happened between me and Dad, how could I not? I thought the worst of my own father, and what’s my excuse? Gabe was only trying to protect his family, while I was willing to betray mine.

“It’s fine. I get it. I didn’t exactly give you reason to trust me.”

“It’s
not
fine. It wasn’t fair to you, especially after everything you did for me and my family.” He looks at me, struggling for words. “I think... I think... I don’t know, I think I was so traumatized I
couldn’t
think. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but my terror that Nick would hurt himself, that Mom would find out, that I would lose another person I loved. Please, tell me I didn’t lose you, too.”

“I can’t be with someone who doesn’t believe in me, Gabe.” It’s not an accusation, simply a statement. I know I could fall into his arms and feel better for an hour or two, but the relief would only be temporary. He would still resent me, and I would hate myself later for it. I choose long-term self-respect over short-lived pleasure.

“If Zach were here, he’d tell me action over words. Show over tell. He’d say go for the grand gesture, Hollywood style.” He spreads his arms wide, more a resigned gesture than a come-and-get-me one. “But I’m not Zach. I don’t do Hollywood style, and I have nothing to offer but me. Just...me.” His mouth twitches in a teasing grin, and his hands fall to his sides. “Honestly, if I were you, I wouldn’t take it. It’s a pretty shitty deal. I’m damaged goods.”

“You’re not.” I bite down on a smile. “You’re a work in progress.”

“I am. And part of what I’m working on is putting myself out there again. Learning to let go and to trust. Which brings me to why I’m here. To ask you—no, to beg you to please come with me.” He steps forward, takes both of my hands in his freezing ones. “Mom and I are spending the day with Nick. She’s waiting for us in the car.”

I close my eyes, savoring the moment, feeling it puff and inflate in my chest. Gabe wants me to spend this day—this most momentous, private, heartbreaking day—with him and his family. He didn’t fall to his knees or fill my house with flowers or write his request across the sky, he just asked, without bargains or contracts or terms.

“Abigail, please,” he whispers, and I open my eyes to watch his face contort into an openly repentant expression that’s completely unnecessary. I’ve already forgiven him, and I’ve already made up my mind. “Please, come.”

I think about my father, who left the career he loved out of principle, on account of a family he had never really met. About Zach, who walked away from millions of dollars to do the right thing for his country, only to make the ultimate sacrifice. And about Gabe, whose proffered sacrifice is no less significant: his family’s vulnerability for our future together.

I gesture to my pajamas, to my bare feet poking out of the bottom, but I’m smiling. “I’m not dressed.”

“I’ll wait.”

“What about your mom?”

“She’ll wait, too.”

“No, I mean...what do you want me to say to her?”

The corners of his mouth lift in my favorite Gabe smile. “You’ll think of something.”

31

“Let’s sit over there, shall we?”

Jean points us to a bench under a giant cherry tree, its limbs heavy with clouds of pink blooms, and the two of us pick our way across the lawn. Behind us, the brick buildings of the Salem VA Medical Center campus glitter under a brand-new April sky that seems to stretch for forever. I push up my sleeves and welcome the sun’s warmth on my skin after the coldest, wettest, longest, most miserable winter on record.

And I’m not just talking about the weather.

Nick’s official diagnosis of PTSD didn’t come as a surprise to anyone, and all those horrifying statistics linking the disorder with suicide are true in his case. Including the attempt I witnessed at the cabin, Nick has tried to take his life three times now—and those are just the times we know about. The phone call from my father came at exactly the right time. Gabe drove him straight here, to one of the best inpatient programs in the state. Lord knows Nick needs the very best help available.

Gabe, too. After learning the truth about Zach and caring for Nick, he has his own post-traumatic stress issues to deal with.

The three of us make the four-hour trek every Thursday—Gabe and Jean for therapy and to visit with Nick, me to lend emotional support wherever I can. I haven’t seen Nick in months, not since the anniversary of Zach’s death, but Gabe thinks his brother will be ready to see me again one day soon. I assure Gabe I’m in no hurry. I’m not going anywhere.

“I wanted to thank you,” Jean says as we’re settling onto the sunny end of the bench. “For everything you’ve done for my boys. Both of them.”

I smile, indicating she’s more than welcome. “I’d do anything for Gabe. You know that.”

“I do.” She winds an arm through mine, resting a palm on my forearm. Jean Armstrong is a toucher, a trait that, considering her three burly sons, amused me to no end until I saw how Gabe responded. With quiet reverence, as if each touch from her is a precious, priceless gift. Sometime in the past few months I’ve found myself doing the same.

We look at each other for a long moment as a breeze whips up around us, sending leaves and petals skittering across the grass. There’s still a knife-edge of springtime cold in the wind, but even that will be warming up soon.

“A mother’s not supposed to have favorites, you know,” she says, her voice quiet but clear, her tone unapologetic. “And I love all three of my boys with every ounce of everything inside of me, but Nick has always been the fragile one. He’s always needed me the most. And the kind of love a mother has for her most fragile child is special. More intense.” She sighs. “Filled with worry.”

I give her a sad smile. An amount of worry I can’t even imagine.

“So when it comes time for him to tell me who shot Zach, I’ll find a way to forgive him.”

Every muscle in my body stiffens, and I suddenly can’t breathe. Did I hear her correctly? Did Jean just say she’d forgive Nick for Zach?

And then I look into her eyes, ruined and haunted and positively destroyed, and I’m certain. Jean knows. She knows
everything
.

And now, suddenly, her easy willingness to let go of her desire to write Zach’s story makes sense. It puts everything into clear, sharp focus. The way she smiled at me through tears when I told her I couldn’t do it, the way she pulled me into a tight hug and thanked me for giving her back her son. I didn’t know what she meant at the time—I thought she was referring to Zach, or maybe even Nick—but now I understand. She was thanking me for giving her back Gabe, for making him smile again.

But that’s not to say I’m not writing something. I meant what I told Mandy that afternoon over lattes. My words weren’t gone, they only needed the right inspiration. They were waiting for the right story. Turns out that all along, the right story was fiction. Children’s fiction. My agent is currently shopping around
Ginger the Wonder Dog
, a fanciful tale about a princess named Rose, a village of evil blowups and a dog that saves the day.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Jean says to me now. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to accept what happened, but I will not, will
not
lose another son. I stand by my initial statement. I’m surviving for Nick and Gabe. They need me. And more than anything, Nick needs my forgiveness.”

No wonder the media painted this woman as ferocious. The love she has for her sons—
all
of them—is fierce and savage and wild and magnificent, and far more ferocious than the media ever understood.

I cover her hand with mine, wishing I had Jean’s healing gift of touch, wishing I had words that could ease her pain. I tell her the only ones I can think of: “You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

Just then Gabe pushes through the double doors of the hospital, squinting in the bright sunshine, and something squeezes, warm and sweet, in my chest. We watch him walk across the lawn to us, his build and gait and everything about him so much like his famous brother that I wonder how Jean can stand to look at him without bursting into tears.

Instead, she gives him a spectacular smile. “Hey, baby. How’d it go?”

“Okay.” He blows out a breath, and his eyes find mine. “Better now.”

I scoot over to make room, and he sinks onto the bench between us. The three of us sit there for a long while, enjoying the sun and dreaming, I imagine, of two brothers on a battlefield.

From the west another breeze kicks up, shaking the branches above our heads and showering us with a million tiny pink blooms. I let my head drop back onto Gabe’s chest and watch them drift down from the sky. The petals tickle my cheeks and forehead like butterflies across my skin, promising a better season.

Somewhere out there, the seed of Nick’s secret is buried. How deep is anybody’s guess. I don’t know how long before the truth about who killed Zach pushes through the murk, only that at some point it will. Maybe it will be Nick who breathes life into it, maybe someone else. Not my father or Chris, definitely not me or Gabe, but too many others know for the secret to stay buried forever. And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that the truth always comes out eventually.

I have no idea how this story ends, and that frightens me, more than a little. The future is magnificently, terrifyingly uncertain, but as I sit here pressed up against Gabe’s big body, it occurs to me that for all my fixation on the answers, the finales, the
endings
, maybe it’s not where we land that counts. Maybe what’s more important is how we get there, and with whom.

“You are going to get through this,” I whisper to Gabe, but just as much to his mighty mother. “All of you.”

“And so will you,” Jean says.

Gabe drops a kiss on my temple. “And so will we.”

Words can be deadly, yes, but they can also heal.

* * * * *