Thyme (Naughty or Nice) (3 page)

He was glad Verne knew him well enough not to apologize. If he had to hear “I’m sorry for your loss” one more time today, he’d kick someone in the balls. None of these people had killed his papa, so they had nothing to apologize for, and empty apologies pissed him off.

There are three things you have to
mean
to say, and “I’m sorry” is one of them.

“Can you take him? Just for a little while? Please?”

Julien’s head jerked up and he stared at his momma with resigned distress. Ever since Monday, when the doctor had pronounced his papa dead, a robot had taken over her voice. Momma Verne told him it would change with time, and he just wished time would move more quickly.

“Of course,” Papa Verne replied. “We’ll take him for as long as you need us to.”

Tightening his grip on Verne, Julien exhaled loudly. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew they were talking about him. It hurt, that his momma didn’t want him around, but he’d always listened to her, and if she wanted him to stay with the Vernes for now… he could do that.

Nana had told him last night that his momma was sick with grief. When he asked if grief was like cancer, her eyes grew impossibly wide and her wrinkles got wrinkles. “It can be” wasn’t the answer he wanted, but the accompanying promise that his momma wouldn’t die of it calmed him somewhat. Nana never lied.

He pulled away from Verne and wiped his face on the sleeve of his suit. It ate the few tears he’d allowed to fall. After all the crying he’d done over the past few days, he was surprised his body had managed to produce any at all.

“Guess I’m going home with you,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, guess so.” Verne nodded and then rocked back on his heels. “Got a surprise for you at the house.” His eyes smiled, but his mouth was still solemn, so unlike himself that it scared Julien.

“Oh? What is it?” He couldn’t dredge up much excitement, even though he loved surprises. Everything seemed a little dull right now, old, boring, faded. It was all wrong, completely different from three months ago when his papa was fine. Sometimes he wondered if one of his cousins messed up a jinx and sucked all the color from the world.

“Are you boys ready?” Papa Verne asked.

Julien nodded and said, “Yes, Papa Verne.” He winced when his momma flinched, but he didn’t take the words back. Sighing, he kissed both his momma and nana. If Momma had to give him away for a while, at least she hadn’t sent him to Aunt Gabrielle; her six daughters were Evil with a capital e.

Verne opened the back door of the blue Ford and slid across the seat so Julien could sit on “his side” of the car. When they rode in the same car, Julien was always on the right and Verne was on the left. Their papas always sat on the left, to drive, and their mommas always sat on the right. Julien knew their seat choices amused their parents, but he hadn’t figured out why.

His own papa was the only one he hadn’t asked, and now it was too late…. Looked like he’d never get an answer. He turned his head and stared resolutely out the window, eyes unfocused as buildings flashed past. He knew they were close when they passed the best park in the city. It had a tire swing and slides that curved… not that he liked such things anymore.

He was thirteen.

Julien
obviously
liked the park because it had a basketball court. He played with Verne all the time, even if he never won. It wasn’t his fault that Verne was a damn giant. His friend was already five foot ten, and he was only five foot seven!

A sharp pain pricked his leg as he wriggled on the seat, and he reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the keychain Nana had given him that morning. The moment his hand closed around it, a wave of calm flooded through him, pushing away the fear, anger, and pain for now. She’d called it a “healing talisman.” He figured that was witchdoctor speak for “alligator toe keychain.”

Whatever it was, it worked.

The car rumbled to a stop inside the Vernes’ garage. It was the complete opposite of his. It held an extra refrigerator and a large freezer, plus long tables instead of a workbench and power tools. He was supposed to build a new birdhouse for Mother’s Day with his papa’s help….

His breath caught in his throat, black and white spots ate at his vision, and he briefly wondered if he’d gone blind. But then Verne’s massive hand nudged his shoulder and he could see again. He hated the concerned look on Verne’s face, but he didn’t know how to make it go away. He couldn’t act like everything was fine, because everything wasn’t fine.

His papa was dead!

“Oh, Jules, honey.” Momma Verne got out of the car and then opened his door. She held her arms open, and he unbuckled his seatbelt as quickly as he could and launched himself at her. She was the same height as him, but he weighed more, and she stumbled backward. She kissed his forehead and rubbed circles on his back, and he crumpled against her.

Other women—hell, even Aunt Gabrielle—would spew nonsense about how he’d get over it, or forget, or that the pain would fade. He was glad Momma Verne wasn’t stupid like them. Letting the pain fade would mean forgetting, and he’d never willingly forget his papa. How could people want to forget someone they loved? He sincerely hoped it was something he’d never understand in his life.

The thought alone made him nauseous.

And she didn’t ask him any of those stupid questions, either. How do you feel? Are you all right? Do you want to talk about it?

Did he look all right? Did he look like he wanted to talk about it? Was everyone fucking blind?

He winced, feeling guilty for thinking such a dirty word in a lady’s presence. His papa had taught him better than that. Reluctantly, he pulled away. “So—” His voice cracked, shooting so high it was almost off the scale. He blushed and cleared his throat. “Verne mentioned a surprise?”

Julien briefly thought about trying to flash his familiar smile, wide and toothy, but he knew it would fall short, and he didn’t want to worry them more than he already was.

“Right this way, Jules,” Momma Verne said as she looped her arm about his waist and guided him into the house. He swore he only blinked once, but when he opened his eyes again he stood in front of the door next to Verne’s bedroom on the second floor.

“Go on, then. Open it,” Papa Verne urged.

Shrugging, Julien pushed the door to the computer room open. Only, it wasn’t a computer room now. The walls were a pale blue with a thick band of navy blue a few feet off the floor—which was the same, hardwood, just like the rest of the house. He’d seen those blues before, two weeks ago when Momma Verne had brought those bookmarks with colored squares to the hospital.

The furniture, obviously new, was dark brown, stained—not painted—he could tell the difference. He didn’t know what species it was, but it was familiar too. He’d seen it in one of the girly magazines in his papa’s room and mentioned to her that it’d look better without all the purple pillows and stuff. The blue and silver bedspread was far from purple and lace.

“Do you like it?” Verne asked.

Julien nodded dumbly. “It’s nice.”

“It yours,” Verne said.

He spun around to object, but Momma and Papa Verne were already gone. “Mine?” he asked his friend.

“Yeah.” Verne leaned against the doorway and then scuffed his shoes on the floor. They should’ve taken them off already; Momma Verne must be really distracted if she hadn’t yelled at them for wearing shoes in the house. Or sympathetic, his mind whispered. He nodded and then kicked his shoes off anyway. “I told her you could stay in my room, but she thought you’d want your own since you’re staying.”

“For
a while
,” Julien stressed immediately. His momma loved him; she hadn’t given him away.

“I know.”

The quiet whisper caused the ball of knotted anxiety in his chest to unravel. “So, want to come in?” he asked as he cocked his head toward his room.

Verne smiled with his lips for the first time that day. It made Julien’s stomach hurt in a good way, which made no sense whatsoever. “Okay.” He scampered over to the bed and jumped on it, bouncing twice before he settled.

For just a moment, Julien allowed himself to think of something other than the fact that his papa was dead and he hadn’t gotten to say goodbye today face-to-face. A small smile curved his lips and he raced forward, leaping to tackle Verne’s legs.

Only he didn’t crash into them; he skidded off the bed and slammed into the floor.

Wrong.

Dizzy and aching, he pushed himself up on his elbows and shook his head.

So wrong.

“Verne?” He didn’t get a reply, and it took him a moment to push himself to his feet.

All wrong.

His skin felt like it was on fire, and smoke surely clogged his throat, because he couldn’t breathe. The itching had never felt like this—like utter agony. It was worse than when he’d shattered his elbow falling out of the sycamore tree.

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

He turned around, and, lying on the bed in his new room was Verne—broken, bruised, bleeding, and legless.

Julien screamed.

H
IS
eyes shot open, and Julien struggled against the small blanket, feeling trapped. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it back down and prayed it would stay there. He finally untangled himself and threw the blanket to the floor.

Breathing into the bag suddenly seemed like a good idea, so he did. That way if he lost control of his stomach and threw up, something would be there to catch the mess. Shivers racked his body as the end of the nightmare replayed before his eyes.

It hadn’t ended like that in real life. Fifteen years ago, he hadn’t skidded off the bed and onto the floor. He’d fallen asleep with Verne on the bed, and woken up with Verne curled around him. It’d happened a lot that summer; he should have appreciated the simple comfort more while he had it.

Julien groaned softly, not unaware that the cabin lights had been turned down. He must have slept for hours. The thought was worrisome, because he never felt comfortable sleeping somewhere unsafe, and a plane trip to visit almost-dead Verne couldn’t be safe. Not emotionally or mentally anyway.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and walked down the aisle toward the bathroom. The chance to stretch his legs was something he couldn’t pass up. After he finished and splashed water on his face, he braced his hands against the door and sighed.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Six years ago, both he and Verne applied for passports. They’d planned a European tour to celebrate their Bachelor’s Degrees. But those plans fell to ruin after Christmas Eve. Verne had gone on to leave the country, but Julien never had. The knowledge that his first trip to Europe came about because of a landmine shattered the barest remnants of a lingering dream.

“We will land at Frankfurt International Airport in forty-three minutes. At this time, please remain in your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened,” a man said, the pilot, perhaps.

Julien blinked slowly. Forty-three minutes? That meant he’d slept over ten hours! He scrubbed a hand down his face, wincing as the stubble abraded his smooth palm. He was closer to Verne than he’d been in months, but that thought wasn’t particularly comforting. Not under these circumstances.

“You can handle this,” he whispered before leaving the bathroom and heading back to his seat.

“Feeling better, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.” He wasn’t, but it wasn’t the flight attendant’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his. And unless a miracle happened, nothing could make this living nightmare any different. He was just grateful Verne survived, despite the doctors’ fears. He always had been a stubborn bastard.

Julien settled into his seat and fastened the belt. If nothing else, at least he’d get to tell Verne how he really felt. Waiting any longer would be beyond stupid.

H
E
ACCEPTED
the train ticket from the lady in the terminal, after escaping the clutches of the customs officials, and followed her directions. The plane had landed over half an hour ago, and his world still wasn’t stable. The time difference didn’t help matters much. Frankfurt was seven hours ahead of Dallas, and he felt like he’d gone back a few hours before the phone call instead of forward almost an entire day. He was just lucky most of the employees spoke English, because he’d picked French in school, having grown up speaking it. An easy A was not something to pass up with his course load.

A glance through the massive windows revealed snow. The sight made him stop in his tracks, because it didn’t fit with this scenario at all. Snow and Verne equaled fun, and then regret. Never hospitalization.

Deep, quavering breaths helped him focus and push the memories of falling into snow aside. He needed to focus right now. Six year old memories clambered for his attention, but he ignored them as best he could. He had to remain here, in the present, if he was going to function.

The train station loomed ahead of him, and he followed the lady’s directions precisely. The last thing he needed was to end up in France because he took the wrong one. He double-checked, then checked again. Finally satisfied, he boarded his train and took a seat.

He’d always figured a trip to Europe would be fun—a blast—and under other circumstances it might have been. He’d wanted to sample the cuisine, and sightsee. So far he’d had two cold sandwiches the blonde flight attendant saved him on the plane, and that was it. Once Verne felt better… maybe they could go on a dinner date?

Julien flinched at the thought, and barely resisted the urge to smack himself. Something he’d avoided thinking about since the call surfaced in his mind. A Marine who’d stepped on a landmine could never return to active service, not if he’d…. Verne would receive an honorable discharge and various medals, most likely. And if he wasn’t a Marine, there couldn’t be a court martial.

“You’re a sick asshole,” he muttered, hands fisting in his backpack. He unzipped it long enough to remove his leather jacket and pull it on. It wasn’t cold yet, but he was still inside; he didn’t doubt the temperature would drop drastically once he departed.