The girl I had been with was screaming my name and so were her parents, but they didn’t follow. No one followed.
The smoke was thick, and I hunched over in a fit of coughs. The urge was to go up, into the heart of the fire, to drag out the people who meant the most to me in life, but then I heard the small voices of my brothers, and I realized in that moment that I loved them more.
My head drops, and a single tear falls down my face. I loved them more.
“You did exactly what your mother would have wanted. She loved you boys more than her own life.”
“Got all that from two phone calls a year?” I attempt to shut the emotion down, but the rough sound of my voice confirms we’re past that point.
“There are some things in life that you can know about a person in thirty seconds. She loved you, Noah. With all her heart, all her soul and all her mind.”
“I didn’t go after her or my dad,” I admit, and I slam my eyes shut. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been four years since my last confession. “I didn’t fight hard enough.”
“There was nothing you could have done. Saving your brothers was an extraordinary feat.”
The sight of my mother bowing her head during service sweeps into my mind as she reverently mumbled the prayer—that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do...
I failed in saving them. “I handed Jacob and Tyler off to neighbors. The police were there, and the firefighters just pulled up and I turned back for the door, but this guy—” it’s difficult to breathe “—this guy stepped in my way.”
Bigger than me, but not badder than me. I had never been in a fight. Had never thrown a punch, and the thought never crossed my mind. I never dreamed of laying out the man preventing me from rescuing my parents. A mistake, I swore after the fact, that would never happen again.
Echo’s expression the day I shoved that asshole into the building and the words I said to her later replay in my mind... No one fucks with you, Echo. I’m protecting her the only way I know how. In ways that I was too weak to do for my parents.
“And when I tried to run past, another guy stepped in, and I let them stop me. I let them keep me from going back in.”
“Your parents were already dead. They died of smoke inhalation. Not of burns. They probably drifted away in their sleep. The fire detectors weren’t working. There was no warning for any of them. You saved the only people who could be saved. It’s time for you to let this guilt go. It’s time for you to start moving forward. Just like your mother would have wanted.”
With my head in my hands, I rock in the seat, unable to keep the explosion of emotions from killing me. “I should have fought harder for her. I should have tried!”
“She would have wanted you to fight for yourself. To fight for your own life. You saved the parts of her soul that meant the world to her. You honored your mother and your father that night. You honored them with the devotion to your brothers. You honor them by sitting here, searching for people who you honestly shouldn’t be searching for.
“Your mother named you Noah because you had already done what you are so desperately worried you failed at...you saved her...you gave her a second chance.”
I blink, trying to understand.
“The story, son. I know your mother would have told you the Bible story.”
God told Noah a flood was coming to destroy the earth and He promised to save Noah, his family and all the other creatures of the earth if Noah obeyed and built an ark.
“God gave Noah and his family a second chance,” he continues. “Your father’s love rescued your mother, but you, you were her first glimpse at her new world.”
I lean back in the seat and let the wall handle my burden, handle my weight, because I’m too weak to shoulder it alone anymore. Echo and Beth and Isaiah. Each of us cursed with weight too heavy for anyone to carry. Troubles no one should have to face.
“If you allow me to be a priest instead of your uncle for a minute...”
When I say nothing, he goes on, “God sifts us like wheat. He refines us like flour. He works through the good in our lives and through the bad. He’s preparing us to become who He wants us to be. You can look at what’s happened in your young life as a burden, or you can see it for what it is—God refined you early. Made you a man before most. You have two options—you can deny it or you can embrace it. Your mother chose to embrace it. My prayer for you is that you do the same.”
Run, or stand my ground and be a man.
Last night, even though I thought my intentions were correct, I ran, and I hurt Echo. I’m done running. It’s time to be a man. “This doesn’t mean I believe in God.”
He chuckles. “Your mother was also stubborn. Stubborn as a damn mule.”
I laugh, and he laughs along with me. “Dad used to say the same thing, and Mom would wear this look that said that she knew he was right, but she was too stubborn to admit it.”
“I know that look,” he says. “I can see it now.”
The laughter fades, and I inhale deeply, strangely noticing that I sit straighter and that my insides are lighter. I guess confession is good for the soul.
“And Noah—don’t think I didn’t notice the cross tattooed on your arm. Deep inside, where it counts, you believe.”
“Did they know?” I ask, ignoring his statement. “Mom’s parents—your parents—did they know that I wasn’t adopted out?”
“They knew. I discovered a few days ago that they were attempting to contact you. Right before you showed. I was in the process of trying to warn everyone I could to help keep you from getting dragged into this, but you worked faster than me. My parents got it in their heads that you’d come into money when you turned eighteen.”
“There’s no money,” I say.
“I know, but my parents never were the type to think straight. If you want to meet them, they’ll be back next week, but as your uncle I’m advising against it. I can definitely say this isn’t something your mother would have wanted.”
“So Mom ran, and you became a priest?”
“We both chose the paths we were meant to be on.”
“Did you stay because they’re worth forgiving?”
There’s a long pause. “God shows all of us unmeasurable grace. As a priest, I should be able to somehow love like my God does. I tell people that I returned to my hometown and serve and live in the church across from my parents because I forgave them, but in truth, I came home to contain them. Evil like that needs to be boxed in and never let out. It’s my job to make sure they never hurt anyone like they hurt me and your mother again.”
In a short amount of time, my uncle gains a lot of respect.
“I couldn’t protect your mother when I was younger,” he says. “But I can protect others now.”
I swallow. This question has to be asked or I’ll regret it. “Why didn’t you take me in?”
A creak of the floorboards and a long sigh. “Because that would have meant bringing you back here, and I couldn’t make peace with the idea. Maybe it was a bad choice, and I don’t blame you if you hate me for it. No one, including priests, is perfect.”
Fair enough. I came to Vail for answers and now that I’ve received them, it’s time I take care of the parts of my life worth saving. “Thanks. For telling me the truth.”
“I wouldn’t mind a phone call or two. Christmas and Easter. The house has been lonely for the past three years without that ring.”
I nod, though he can’t see it. “I can do that.”
Without another word, I walk out of the darkness of the confessional, out of the shadows of the church, and into the sunlight.
Echo
Hunter’s eyes bulge out of his head. “What did you say your last name is?
”
I’m the daughter of the great Cassie Emerson. The daughter of one of the women he admires most when it pertains to painting. His eyes wander to the scars on my arms, and it’s as if his mind audibly clicks. The rumors are true: I’m the daughter that the great Cassie Emerson tried to kill.
“Emerson,” I repeat.
“As in Cassie Emerson.”
I nod.
“You’re her daughter.”
I nod again.
His face flushes red. “You didn’t think it was important to tell me that?”
“No.” In fact, it was more important that he not know.
“No?” Hunter’s fingers spread as he begins to raise his palms, then lowers them. “Get out. Take your painting and get out.”
I jolt as if I had been hit by a semi. “What?”
“You heard me. Get out.” Hunter turns his back to me, and it takes a moment for the shock to wear off before my feet start after him.
“What difference does it make that I’m her daughter?”
“A lot.” Hunter stops at his desk in the corner and flips through a stack of invoices as if he didn’t ram a spike into my dreams.
“Why? I’m totally separate from her.”
“I wanted raw. I wanted an opportunity to take someone who had never been trained and say I helped create them. You’re not new. You’ve had an advantage since birth. You learned how to write your ABCs from one of the best artistic minds. I didn’t create you. Your mother did.”
But my mother didn’t teach me how to write. My father did. And my mother wasn’t the first to teach me how to draw. My brother did. Yeah, Mom painted and when she was around she encouraged me, but she didn’t teach me. Nothing beyond basics. Nothing that wouldn’t make me as new as anyone else here. That would have required her to have been consistent and a stable force.
I never knew I could be so near something and watch it all slip through my fingers the moment I tried to close my fist. It’s like an out-of-body experience. All the people who had sat at my feet before are now drawn back into their own worlds, pretending I don’t exist.
Six months ago, I would have cowered. I would have looked at the scars and felt like I was below the scum of the earth. Instead, I return to my easel, pick up the canvas, stalk back over and slam it onto Hunter’s desk. His coffee tips over and spills.
A smirk stretches across my face when the majority of it splashes onto the crotch of his pants.
Stealing a thin paint brush out of the hand of the guy working next to me, I dip it in white paint and sign my name at the right bottom corner of the painting. I flick the paintbrush at Hunter, causing little white dots to stain his crisp blue button-down shirt. “You can keep the painting because in five years, it’s going to be worth more than your tired, pathetic career.”
Hunter wipes at the coffee pooled on his pants. “Echo—”
“I’m not done.” I cut him off and bang both of my hands on his desk, leaning forward so he knows this conversation belongs to me. “For your info, my mom never taught me to paint or to draw or much of anything. Not in the way you’re thinking. So tip number one, stop making assumptions regarding me or anyone else. Tip number two, my boyfriend can and will kick your butt so don’t you dare come near me again. And tip number three, most of your paintings really do suck.”
The jerk actually grins as he rolls back in his seat. “I guess you’ve put me in my place.”
Is he laughing at me? “Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Do you mean what you said about my paintings?”
I wish I could scream yes, but the answer is, “No, but you’re still a jerk.”
“Calm down, Echo. I knew you were Cassie Emerson’s daughter the day I looked at your sketchbook. Your last name was all over it. I was playing you just now. I wanted to see how you’d react when people gave you hell about your mom and, believe me, I took the nice route. Entering the art world with the rumors and stories surrounding the two of you, it’s not going to be easy. So take a deep breath, rein it in and put the painting back on the easel. I’m not kicking you out.”
I straighten, and people begin to laugh and talk among themselves. They’re not laughing at me. I can feel that. It’s supposed to be with me. It’s supposed to be that relieved breath once everyone understands that this intense moment was never serious.
Hunter chuckles at something someone said as he unbuttons his shirt and grabs a new one out of the closet behind him.
“Did she fail?” someone shouts from across the room.
“No,” Hunter answers with a wide, white smile. “I like girls who have fire.” But then he lands his gaze on me. “I do suggest a more subtle reaction if we are in public. Some people don’t find outbursts as amusing as me.”
I rake a hand through my curls and stare at the man in front of me. “You know what happened with my mother?” And me?
He shrugs off the question. “I know what most people do—the rumors, but those scars are going to confirm what people think they know. But don’t worry, none of it bothers me.”
“Well, that’s nice,” I say absently. This was my dream. These were my goals. Hunter knows the rumors, and he made it into a show.
“Before you get angry, know that I did it to prepare you.”
It’s like I’m walking in a fog. “Prepare me?”
“What happened between you and your mom in my opinion is between you and your mom, but those scars will open you up to more speculation. Consider this my first lesson to you about life in general. People don’t care what really happened—the truth—they care about what makes them feel better, what puts them higher on the scorecard than someone else—even if it’s a lie. So I’m preparing you, because your mother is scheduled to show at and attend the Denver festival. The same festival you’ll be attending and showing at.”
I stumble back as if I’ve been struck by a wave. Hunter has angled away from me and doesn’t notice how I’m drowning in the currents. Flashes of different emotions jerk me around like a riptide. Each time I try to kick up, another thought, another volley of feelings, yanks me back down into the depths.
My mother is coming.
Hunter has put me in the show, so that means that I’m good enough. For art. For someone...I matter. The people in Denver—they’ll be watching, they’ll be judging—they’ll be waiting for the confrontation between me and my mother.
“Long story short,” Hunter continues. “While your scars don’t bother me or anyone here and you don’t owe me any explanations about how you got them, you’re going to run into plenty of people who will be bothered. There will be people who feel like you owe them every secret in your mind. If you don’t want to deal with that at the showing, I suggest you wear long sleeves. Attending the festival with your mom around and your skin exposed will be a brave move. While you’ve got fire inside you, I’ll be honest, I don’t see you as that type of a risk-taker.”
Not brave.
Not a risk-taker.
Long sleeves.
My eyes jump to his as my entire body stings like a slap to the face.
Hunter has opened his mouth again, and words of some sort are coming out, but I’ve settled into this numb. I like numb. I like losing the ability to hear or understand or comprehend what others are saying.
Numb is safe.
Numb doesn’t contain pain.
Numb helps me walk out the door.
Noah
For the second time in my life, I purchase a dozen roses in the hotel lobby, but this time they’re pink instead of red. The roses made Echo melt last time, and I’m hoping for the same reaction now, or at least a half smile.
Echo can zone when she paints, and part of becoming the man she needs is to learn to give her the space she requires, even if she’s asked for a year. But that d
oesn’t mean I can’t woo the shit out of her when she returns.
I’ve got a hell of a hole to dig myself out of. Echo told me last night—this morning—she wanted more. I thought she wanted more as in the guy with the money, the guy with the job. What I didn’t get was that she was no longer interested in a boy; she desired a man.
Taking care of myself, throwing a punch—it’s what I thought being a man was, but what Echo craves is the guy who has the balls to walk toward her, talk out our crap and stick when it gets tough.
Not the guy who accepted dating advice from a messed-up girl with motives of her own. Not the guy who freaks each time another guy peeks in Echo’s direction. She deserves the man who will not just stand by her on the easy calls—the sitting in hospital rooms, the attending of gallery showings—she deserves the man who will stand by her when it hurts like hell to do it.
The moments when I have to suck up my pride. The moments when I have to push past my feelings and think about hers. The moment when I let her tear out my heart for one year because that’s what’s going to make her happy.
Isaiah emerges from the hallway leading to the rooms, and his eyes narrow when he sees me. “What’s going on?”
The gift shop clerk hands me back my change, and I shake the roses at Isaiah. “Groveling.”
“Then you must be doing a pathetic job. Echo just busted ass out of your hotel room.”
My hand freezes in my pocket as I had been shoving the money back in. “Echo’s back?”
“Fuck, man. She left after you came back this morning? I was hoping she’d at least hear you out.”
Not allowing Echo enough of a head start to stop to explain to Isaiah, I race for the exit. “Busted ass as in leaving the hotel?”
“Yeah. I called her name, but she kept going like she was on a mission. Said something about how she can take a risk and that she’d see me soon.”
Take a risk? I tear past the front doors and into the parking lot. My muscles turn to stone when I notice the empty spot where I left Echo’s car five minutes ago. We barely missed each other.