Clara turned to face him fully, her expression careful. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks." Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching rain stream down the glass. Easier than looking at her. "He was driving home from work. Night shift at the hospital—he was a nurse. Storm came in fast, the kind where you can't see five feet in front of your car. He hydroplaned on the highway, went into the median. Truck coming the other way couldn't stop."
Lightning. Thunder. Barely a pause between them now.
"Were you close?"
"Yeah. I mean—" Jack scrubbed a hand through his hair. "He was my older brother. Five years older. When we were kids, he was like... I don't know. A hero, I guess. The kind of guy who'd let you tag along even when his friends said you were too young. Who taught you how to throw a football and covered for you when you broke Mom's favorite lamp."
"He sounds like a good brother."
"He was the best brother." Jack's throat tightened. "And I was supposed to be with him that night."
His chest ached. Not the panic-attack ache from earlier — something older. Deeper. The kind of ache you stopnoticing because it's been there so long it feels like it’s part of your skin.
Clara didn't say anything. Just sat with him in it, steady and still, and somehow that was better than any response she could've given.
"We'd made plans," Jack continued, the words coming easier now that he'd started. "Joel's shift ended at eleven. I was going to meet him at this diner we liked, the kind that's open all night and serves breakfast at 3 AM. But I was working on a job site, running late, and I texted him to order without me. Said I'd catch up."
Thunder shook the lighthouse. Clara's hand found his—just rested there, warm and solid, not squeezing or demanding anything. Just there.
"He never made it to the diner. I got the call around midnight. Mom, crying so hard I couldn't understand her at first. Josie had to take the phone and tell me." Jack's voice cracked. "If I'd been there. If I'd just?—"
"Don't." Clara's fingers tightened. "Don't do that to yourself."
"I was supposed to be there."
"You weren't driving the truck. You didn't cause the storm. You didn't make him hydroplane." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Sometimes terrible things just happen, and there's no one to blame. Not even yourself."
Jack wanted to believe her. Wanted to accept that Joel's death was just bad luck, bad timing, bad weather. But seven years of guilt didn't dissolve that easily.
"I bought the boat because of him," he said. "Joel always wanted to learn to sail. Had this whole plan—he was going to save up, buy a boat, spend his retirement sailing around the Caribbean like some kind of retired pirate. He had books about it. Charts. He'd mapped out routes he wanted to take. Hell, I used to tease him about it. I never actually believed he'd do it."
Clara's face had gone still. Not closed off — just steady. The face of someone who wasn't going to flinch from whatever came next.
"After he died, I found the books in his apartment. All the planning he'd done for a future he never got. And I thought—" Jack's laugh was bitter. "I thought I could do it for him. Live the life he wanted. Buy the boat, learn to sail, see the places he'd dreamed about. Like maybe if I did all the things he didn't get to do, it would mean something. Make his death less... pointless. But, life got in the way and I never got around to buying a boat like I said I was going to."
"Until…?"
He chuckled ruefully. "Until I got drunk one night at a bar and somehow ended up the owner of an old 14-foot fiberglass Sunfish sailboat that looked like it'd been dry-docked in someone's yard for half its life before it was dumped back in the port."
"Oh my God, you took a Sunfish into the open ocean? It's a miracle you're alive," she breathed, her eyes wide. "Did you have a death wish?"
"No, just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Too many beers and a dead brother's dream. Not a great combination for decision-making."
Clara whistled low under her breath, still shaking her head. "You've got to be the luckiest man alive."
"Maybe."
"So, is that why you travel?" Clara asked cautiously. "To honor your brother?"
He had to be honest, even if it didn't make him look great. "I wish it were that pure. If anything, travel helps me to forget how much it hurts that he's gone because if I'm always somewhere new, I don't have time to think about anything else."
"Hmm. My Gran used to say that no matter how fast you run, you can never outrun your problems. They'll always find you.Eventually."
Jack didn't answer right away. Because the honest response was:yeah, I know. And the deflection was:but I can give it the ol' college try. And somewhere between those two things was a truth he wasn't ready to look at directly.
"Your Gran sounds like she knew a thing or two," he said.
