Clearing my throat again, I rub the back of my neck and decide to just give in to the stream of consciousness style of narration. “I bumped into Hailey the other night. I know I promised I’d look out for her, and I tried.” Guilt twists my guts, turning the burger I ate a while ago into a ball of lead. “Kinda.” I blow out a breath. “I didn’t really know how to do that after you were gone. I wanted to. I swear. And I did the best I could at the time. But it was hard, you know? Your parents didn’t want me around. I think I reminded them too much of you, of who and what you were supposed to be, and they couldn’t handle it. They tried to keep me away from Hailey, and even though I fought them, she was just a kid, and then I was in Canada. So I never did manage to get her to play catch with me like you asked. It’s probably for the best, though.” I force a soft chuckle. “You always said I sucked at throwing a football. Compared to you, I did, though.”
Sniffing, I blink away the moisture gathering in my eyes. “You’re the one who should’ve been playing catch with her. You coulda showed her all the tricks. I offered to take her out on the ice once, but she just wrinkled her nose and shook her head, saying she didn’t want to risk breaking her wrist. Violin, y’know?
“You’d be proud of her. She’s still playing. Went to college for it. Plays with an orchestra, and I’m taking her to a gig tomorrow. ‘Course, I shoulda known all of that before yesterday. I texted her, but she didn’t really text back much. I guess I didn’t really text that much, either, if I’m being honest. And if I’m out here spilling my guts to you—or what’s left of you, anyway—I might as well be totally honest. What’re you gonna do, haunt me?”
Sniffing again, I dash my hand across my eye. “Fuck. I haven’t cried in years. Probably not since right after you died. Nothing was the same after that. I wasn’t. Hailey wasn’t. Yourparents sure as fuck weren’t. And I kinda knew that at the time, but I didn’t realize until yesterday how much that fucked up your sister. She’s tough, though. Tougher than you’d want her to need to be, but you’d be proud of her for that, too.”
I ramble on a while longer about the last couple of days. “I don’t know how much she’ll let me help. She needs a lot, though. I can. I want to. But she’s stubborn. Like you.” A smile drifts across my face, but it’s gone as quick as it appears. “I don’t want to leave her behind again,” I whisper, as much to myself as to Hunter’s grave.
If I could convince her to go with me, I could solve most of her problems all at once. She could live with me, use my car … that doesn’t solve the teaching or work or insurance problems. Is there a way I could get her on my insurance?
Pulling out my phone, I text Sylvia, the lady in the front office who handles all the HR type issues, asking if siblings can be added to insurance. She might not get back to me today, but …
My phone vibrates in my hand, a faster response than I expected.
Sylvia
Only spouses and children can be added to insurance plans
I blink at the text, reading it a few times, my mind whirring.
Spouses and children …
Could we …?
No. That’s insane. Right?
Definitely.
But …
It would solve all of her problems. And ease my guilty conscience. And it wouldn’t have to be forever …
Once she’s on her feet and self-supporting, we can have a quickie divorce and go about our separate lives.
The real question is, how do I get her to agree with me that it’s the best solution to her problems?
“Hunter, man, I think I’m gonna marry your sister.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hailey
Jason letsout a wolf-whistle when I come out of my front door in my summer wedding gig clothes—a black knee-length, fit-and-flare sleeveless dress and strappy flats. This is a solo gig, so I don’t have to match with anyone else, but this is what I usually wear for quartet gigs too. Since we’re rarely on an elevated stage for weddings, a knee-length skirt works fine. And today I’ll be standing, so it’s a non-issue.
I have my violin case slung over my shoulder and my gig bag with my binder of music and collapsible music stand in my hand. Nothing about the picture I present is at all sexy, but I blush at Jason’s whistle anyway.
It’s silly. He’s just being playful or … I’m not sure. It’s not like he’s actually flirting with me, in any case.
“Where do you want to stash your stuff?” he asks as I approach the car. He’s dressed up a little today, wearing tan slacks and a bright blue button-down shirt that makes his eyes look even more brilliant. He’s left the collar open and cuffed the sleeves at the elbow. If anyone deserves a wolf-whistle, it’s him.Not that I’m going to do that. For one thing, I can’t. I’ve never managed to whistle like that. And even if I could, I wouldn’t embarrass myself like that.
It’s one thing for him to play-flirt with me. Me doing it back would just be … awkward. Either he’d think it’s real, and that would be bad. Or he’d think I was just a goofy little kid with a crush, which would be equally mortifying.
“Oh, just the back seat is fine,” I say, tearing my eyes away from him and reaching for the door handle.
He beats me to it, though, and my hand lands on top of his, that zing that happens every time we touch thrilling up my arm.
What is with that anyway? Is he constantly carrying a static charge? I know people’s personalities are sometimes described as electric, but I always assumed that was metaphorical.
