The Son & His Hope Page 2

I’d already lost half my family. I wouldn’t be strong enough if I lost the other half too.

  My throat closed around pain and fury. My muscles spasmed in Mom’s hold.

  She looked at me under mascara and eye shadow. “Ignore them, Wild One. They don’t understand.” I matched her in height, and her blue eyes glowed with unshed tears. “I’m not sad because I have you, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

  I gritted my teeth until they crunched.

  Being her red carpet date was proving to be harder than I thought.

  I loved movies.

  I adored when we’d have burgers and fries and see the latest blockbuster.

  But this was different.

  I didn’t want to see this movie.

  Because the actor they’d cast to play Dad…he’d never beat the real thing. Whatever parts of the book Hollywood had chosen wouldn’t reveal a tenth of what Mom and Dad had gone through.

  But most of all?

  I was sick at the thought of the ending.

  The ending that the screenwriters had insisted on including.

  A scene where my mom died.

  Where she went to find my dad.

  Where I became an orphan all for disgusting ticket sales.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JACOB

  * * * * * *

  “THIS WAY, MRS Wild, Jacob.” A guy in a navy uniform motioned for us to follow him down the wide gold carpeted stairs toward the middle, where the row of velvet chairs had the most leg room.

  The cave-like blackness of the cinema ought to promise good things, but tonight, it was like stepping into a tomb. A tomb filled with ghosts and forest funerals.

  My fingers ached from curling into fists. My skin crawled with the urge to rip off my fancy new clothes and bolt.

  “Thanks.” Mom nodded politely, squeezing my arm and letting me go. “After you, Jacob.”

  I took the first step, my gaze locking onto the crowd already gathered below. The producer I couldn’t stand, the director I wanted to kill, and the cast of this monstrosity.

  My feet froze. My heart ordered me to run in the opposite direction.

  Mom tapped my shoulder, urging me forward. “Go on.”

  I wanted to refuse. I needed open fields and night sky.

  But what I wanted always came second best. Always had. Always would.

  My promise.

  My oath.

  Protect her.

  This movie wasn’t about me.

  Life, in general, wasn’t about me. It was about upholding my vow to a father who’d been my everything, then left me with way too much responsibility. Did he understand how hard it would be? Did he get that putting me in charge of my mother’s happiness was sometimes too much to bear?

  Some days, I wanted to run and never come back.

  Some nights, I did run, but by morning, I returned to my room before Mom noticed my absence.

  It didn’t help that I looked exactly like him.

  People often did a double take these days. I had dirty blond hair instead of dark, but my face was his, my voice was his, and my loner tendencies were his. Even my eyes were his.

  When Mom looked at me, I knew I caused her both comfort and grief. Sometimes, if I took out the trash without being asked or cranked up the diesel tractor to row the meadow, she’d suck in a breath as if she’d seen her husband and not her son.

  She often told me my habits were his habits. The way I moved. The phrases I chose. And just like I caused her comfort and grief, she caused me the same. Even though it comforted me to know how similar I was to a parent I’d never see again, it also grieved me to know I wasn’t truly my own person.

  I wasn’t me.

  I was a lacking replica who constantly reminded people of what they’d lost.

  I was living in his shadow, doing what I could to be him, but constantly aware I was only letting them down because I wasn’t him. I would never be him. I would never be as good.

  “Jacob,” Mom hissed under her breath, nudging me again. “Get down there.”

  She broke the thick wave of self-pity.

  And I was grateful.

  I didn’t know where such selfishness came from. I’d never let myself acknowledge the truth before. Never allowed the sensation of suffocating pressure knowing I would never be enough.

  Four years was a long time to uphold a promise.

  A lifetime was forever to live in memories.

  Flicking her a look over my shoulder, I hid my desire to run. “Sorry.”

  “You okay?” Mom’s face softened, her eyes searching mine, doing her best to extract my secrets when I’d become a master at hiding them.

  I grimaced. “Course.”

  For a second, her fear about seeing this movie was overcast by her worry for me. Something I couldn’t allow. She had enough hurt without me causing more.

  “Stop.” I smiled broader. “I’m good, Mom. Quit worrying.”

  Her lips pressed together, but she nodded reluctantly. “I don’t believe you but this isn’t a place to argue.” Tilting her chin at the awaiting crowd, she said softly, “Two hours of agony and then it’s done.”

  “Two and a half hours, actually.” I grinned wryly as if it were a laughing matter. “Long movie.”

  Before more pain shattered Mom’s heart, I turned around and followed the attendant down the stairs. With each step, my back straightened, gathering the strength to face the imposters who’d broken yet another piece of our life.

  As we drew closer, I made a promise to myself for a change. For the rest of the evening, I would do my best to behave.

  I was done arguing.

  “Hello again, Jacob. Della.” Graham Murphy’s signature half-smile slid over me to lock onto Mom. He had the audacity to gather her in a quick hug.

  I glanced away, uncomfortable. Whenever people who weren’t family touched my mother, my skin crawled.

  I felt guilty.

  Guilty for letting others touch her. Guilty that I didn’t stop them from sharing what once had been my father’s.

  Dad said he was always watching, listening, and protecting—even if we couldn’t see him. Well, what the hell would he think if he could see us laughing and hanging out with other people without him?

  It’d be a slap in his face, and I hated that Mom didn’t think about that as she patted Graham’s back and withdrew as quickly as possible.

  Then again, maybe she did. She certainly cringed when others touched her. “Hello, Graham. Nice to see you.”

  “You, too.” His half-smile widened a little. “I hope the limousine was on time collecting you.”

  “It was. Yes.” Mom nodded. “Very considerate to pick us up. We could’ve just driven—”

  “On opening night to your own movie?” Graham’s eyebrows shot into his brown hair. “No way.”

  He acted as if a limo could solve world hunger. Didn’t he get that Mom and I didn’t care about that sort of thing—glitz, money, possessions. It meant nothing in the scheme of things. Just stuff that didn’t make you happier.

  Awkwardness fell.

  Mom smiled, forcing past the discomfort. “Well, thanks again.”

  Graham reached out and touched her forearm, his eyes warm and worried. “Don’t do that. I know what tonight means to you guys and—”

  “You know, do you?” I snapped before I could stop myself.

  Mom stepped away from Graham’s touch as I sized him up. That touch was more than just politeness. It bordered on inappropriate. It reeked of a wannabe friend.

  “Jacob,” Mom said sternly. Glancing at Graham, she rolled her shoulders a little. “Sorry, it’s not easy for him being here.”

  “Not easy for you either.” I glowered.

  “That’s not the point, Wild One.” Her eyes met mine. “The point is none of what we’re feeling is anyone else’s fault. Don’t take it out on—”

  “So you’re saying it’s Dad’s fault?”

  What am I doing?

  What happened to m
y vow to behave?

  Her entire face shattered only for her gaze to fill with ice. Her temper I could handle—I was well acquainted with it. At least it stopped the sorrow. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  She stared as if she didn’t know me.

  And in a way, she didn’t. I didn’t know me. I’d promised to behave, yet for some reason, I grew angrier every minute.

  I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to see this. I didn’t want to hurt anymore.

  I broke eye contact, looking at the floor. “Sorry.”

  Before Mom could forgive me—which she would, she always did—Graham shifted on the spot and rubbed the back of his neck. “Eh, sorry if I caused any issues.”

  “You didn’t. It’s fine.” Mom shook her head, reaching out to squeeze my wrist to let me know she accepted my apology. “Just…you know how it is.”

  “Yeah.” Graham’s voice softened. “Actually, I do.” His smile was less perfect for the cameras and more honest with history. “When my wife died, it took two years for me to feel halfway normal.”

  He just played the dead-spouse sympathy card.

  Wow. Jackass.

  “I’m sorry, Graham,” Mom murmured. “It’s the hardest thing.”

  “It truly is.” Graham’s gaze lingered on hers. “Time helps, but it never truly heals. I’m here for you if you ever want to talk and…things.”

  The offer made me hate him ten-fold because it wasn’t a secret Graham felt something for my mother. He wanted liberties she’d never give him.

  I’d noticed it a couple of months into shooting. I’d told Mom my suspicions, but she was either blind or stupid. It wasn’t until a reporter asked if something was going on with her and Graham that she believed me.

  When Graham was asked the same question, instead of a sharp disbelieving laugh like Mom gave, he looked directly into the camera and said that playing Ren Wild had been the hardest of his career. Especially because spending time with Della on set meant the script became a little too real, and he developed off-screen feelings for her.

  It had caused even more buzz around the movie.

  People swooned at the thought of Mom finding a second chance at love with the guy who played her dead husband. Meanwhile, Graham Murphy was lucky he survived to the end of filming.

  I might be young, but I knew how to wield a knife. I knew how to take a life—thanks to Dad’s hunting lessons. I wasn’t squeamish, and I wasn’t exactly tolerant.

  While the internet had polls on whether Mom and Graham were an item, I had my own poll on which way I would murder him.

  The only thing that stopped me was Aunt Cassie.

  She said there could be a hundred men in love with my mother, but it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. No one could ever hope to compare to the ghost that haunted us.

  I liked Aunt Cassie.

  She didn’t hide things from me and treated me like an adult rather than a silly kid. She listened to me when Mom wouldn’t and didn’t pussyfoot around when talking about the past. If Dad was a part of whatever memory she shared, she’d tell me—the good, the bad, and the idiotic. Mom, on the other hand, would gauge me, assess me, make me feel as if I was this broken thing who needed protecting when really I was protecting her.

  Clearing his throat, Graham pointed beside him to the red velvet chairs with our names pinned to the top. “Your seats are next to mine.”

  Good job at pointing out the obvious.

  “I’m glad.” Graham gave Mom a sympathetic look. “It means I’m close if you want to discuss the movie while it’s playing.”

  My knife grew heavier to be used.

  Local magazines might call him a heart-throb, but I called him a cheap imposter. He was the same height as Dad with similar bronze-brown hair, but the similarities ended there.

  He’d had to wear contacts to change his green eyes to the correct dark shade, and his contract meant he bulked up for the first part of the movie—doing his best to convince an audience he was a natural born farmer—only to lose weight as the plot progressed.

  I’d stopped going on set when that happened.

  Actually, I’d stopped going when the coughing started.

  The tiny hint of what was to come.

  The awful curse that would come true.

  The first time he coughed, delivering a line to his co-star Carlyn Clark, my chest felt as if someone had punctured it with a pitchfork.

  The second time, laughing with the actor playing Grandpa John, I stumbled beneath pounding memories of what it was like to live with a dead man walking. A dead man who struggled to breathe and coughed to stay alive.

  The third time, as Graham buckled under a coughing fit in the stable, something had happened that I wasn’t proud of.

  Grief that I still hadn’t processed, stress that I still hadn’t let go of, and memories that I’d done my best to forget all flooded my brain and broke me.

  Tears came.

  Rage followed.

  And I’d bolted from the stable—running from fake stalls, fake hay, and even faker people—vanishing from the past and those who replicated it.

  I couldn’t stop hearing my dad coughing.

  A ringing in my ears.

  A barking in my mind.

  For years, I’d cringed every time Dad coughed. My reaction to his coughing steadily switched from a simple flinch to outright panic.

  Thanks to Graham, I remembered it far too well.

  I’d hidden from Mom for hours, only coming out of the forest because I’d made a promise, and that promise was more important than me.

  So what if I had an issue with coughing?

  Mom was alone.

  And it was up to me to make sure she didn’t feel lonely.

  When she saw me, she fussed and questioned, but I brushed off her concern. I argued that I was fine. I did what Dad expected and assured her everything was okay.

  But she didn’t believe me. Instead, she told me we all had triggers. Some more than others. A trigger from trauma ingrained in our psyche with the power to override everything else.

  Love was a trigger of mine—though I didn’t understand that until much later.

  And coughing was another.

  It didn’t matter if it was a stranger in a restaurant or a family member. If someone coughed, my heart galloped and palms sweated and all I could think about was death.

  Mom swallowed hard, wincing a little at the red velvet chairs waiting for us to occupy. “I think I’ll have my eyes closed through most of it. Doubt I’ll want to talk, I’m afraid.”

  Graham groaned under his breath. “Yes, of course. There I go again, saying things that make me sound heartless.”

  Mom didn’t reply, leaving Graham floundering for a new topic.

  Unfortunately, that new topic was me.

  He made eye contact, his green imposter gaze looking me up and down. “You’re very suave tonight, Jacob.”

  Mom relaxed, glad to no longer be centre of attention while I stiffened under the spotlight. Crossing my arms, I glanced quickly at my wardrobe. Black blazer and shirt, black jeans, stiff new cowboy boots and silver string tie.

  Mom had offered to buy me a tux.

  I’d refused.

  When I didn’t accept the compliment the way society said I should, Mom glanced at me in reproach and ran a hand nervously over her hip, smoothing the glittery copper of her dress.

  Her gaze begged me to put aside my inherited loathing of crowds and conformity and be normal—until we were back on the farm and away from people at least.

  Forcing myself not to roll my eyes, I said, “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.” Graham grinned, relieved.

  That damn awkwardness descended again. I actually wanted the movie to start so we could get this over with and leave.

  “Oh. My. God. What a night!” Blonde haired Carlyn Clark bowled into Graham, breaking apart our tense trio. “This is insane. Isn’t it, Graham? I mean, I
knew the media would be in a frenzy seeing as this is based on a true story and all, but wow!”

  Graham accepted his co-star’s air kisses, half glad to have someone easier to talk to and half annoyed at the interruption.

  “Oh, hi, Della.” Carlyn floated toward Mom and pressed against her in a weird Hollywood-type hug where no body part touched. “How are you? Aren’t those paparazzi questions prying? It’s madness, I tell you.” Without missing a breath, Carlyn blew me a kiss. “And Jakey! How fabulous that you came too. Get to see your parent’s love story. How romantic.” Her face melted as if it was the best thing in the world for me to watch my parents get together, have me, then be ripped apart forever.

  I gritted my teeth to keep from saying something I shouldn’t.

  Carlyn beamed as she sipped her champagne like some crazed hummingbird. “God, Graham, those reporters for You, Me, and Them are relentless. They want to know if I’m the secret mother of your daughter.” She giggled. “As if I’m old enough to have a ten-year-old.”

  Some magazine had crowned her prettiest actress last year, but her lipstick was too pink, her hair too bleached, and her legs too short. She might’ve played my mom in this god-awful movie, but she’d never compare to the real thing.

  Graham stiffened. “They know who Hope’s mother is. And they definitely know it isn’t you.”

  In terms of personalities—despite my dislike of Graham—he was tolerable, Carlyn on the other hand? She might play kind and supportive in the movie, but in real life…she was a self-obsessed nightmare.

  “I know, but they’re desperate for us to be in a real-world relationship after being in this movie together.” She wafted at herself as if she was the hottest thing in the theatre. “I mean, the amount of fan mail I receive saying we should get married and pretend a new version of Ren and Della lived happily ever after is insane. They’re all begging for us to fall madly in love and make a new ending, and the movie isn’t even out yet. It’s crazy!”

  Mom winced.

  My temper lashed out in protection. My ingrained promise to stop what was hurting her exploded. “Shut up. Just shut up.”

  Carlyn froze. “Did you…did you just growl at me?”

  “Just shut up.”

  Mom gripped my bunched forearm. “Wild One—”