After the Ending (36 page)

“Lean closer,” I told him, lifting the chain over my head
and holding it out. Jason bowed his head toward me, and I secured the chain
around his neck, trying to ignore the electric tingle that shot through my
fingertips when they brushed his smooth skin. “I have no clue what it’s for…”

Examining the old-fashioned iron key, Jason said, “I do.”

We rode on in silence for long minutes—Jason lost in
thought as he stared at the key, me lost in wonder as I watched him.

“It opens a box,” he finally said.

“A box? What’s in it?” Based on his reaction, I figured
it must be something important.

With a bitter laugh, he explained, “My dad…he never let
us look in it. He always wore this around his neck, but even that wasn’t enough
security for him. He’d hide the box…changing the location if he suspected we’d
found it. By the time I was old enough to unlock it without the key, I’d come
to understand that he deserved his privacy and secrets, so I stopped looking.
Zoe, on the other hand…”

“What?” I asked, curious.

With a small, genuine smile curving his lips, he shook
his head. “I bet she looked for the damn thing every time she visited. She was
obsessed.”

I felt like I’d been skewered in the chest with dull
rapier. “She never told me about it.”

Tucking the key underneath his clothes, Jason laughed
softly, but just for a second. “She was probably ashamed. A grown
woman…searching through her dad’s underwear drawer…”

“Oh…right…”

Jason looked at me curiously. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I lied.
Why
wouldn’t she tell me about the box?

Fortunately, unlike Chris, Jason left unsaid words and
hurt feelings alone. I was grateful—I didn’t want to talk about my simmering
emotions. I didn’t want to cry in front of Jason again. I’d thought Zoe and I
told each other everything, but his revelation made me question that. The
willingness to confide our deepest secrets—our darkest fears—was the foundation
of our friendship. Yet, she hadn’t told me about her obsession with her
father’s mysterious box. Had I hidden things from her too?
I don’t think so…

“Too late, old man,” Jason whispered, breaking me from my
mental tailspin. He was studying the back of the picture, reading and rereading
the words written by his father. I’d read it so many times that I’d memorized
it, though I didn’t completely understand the meaning behind Tom’s words.

Zoe—Be strong. Your mom and I
love you and your brother, never doubt that. And remember, every scar is a
memory. Jason—I didn’t listen to the wood—I should have. I’m sorry. I’m so
proud of you.

“What?” I asked softly.

Jason began speaking, his words floating ahead of him in
the morning fog. “We fought all the time…I’m sure you overheard. He’d wanted me
to make certain choices. He forbade me from joining the Army, but I did it
anyway. We didn’t talk for nearly a year after that.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

His jaw muscles tensed, and he nodded. “But things were
getting better. We didn’t fight as much when I visited, and we even talked on
the phone…just to catch up. But he always sounded disappointed when I talked
about my career. He used to say, ‘Every piece of wood has a story. If you
listen to the wood, the carving will come to life.’”

“So…in this case, you’re the wood?”

Jason looked at me sideways, a deliciously crooked grin
tilting his lips, and my cheeks heated. “You know what I mean!” I told him, a
little shrill.

After a throaty chuckle, he resumed his gaze ahead. As we
passed the empty, overgrown lot where Zoe and I had built a girls-only fort, I
knew we were almost to his house. Jason seemed to be searching the increasingly
dense fog for its outline—or maybe, for his father.

“Yeah…so he finally accepted me. Accepted my choice. And
now he’s gone.”

“I’m sorry, Jason.”

“Me too.”

His familiar house slowly took shape in the mist,
steely-blue and boxy, seeming to beckon us forward. We dismounted in the
driveway and fenced the horses in the backyard with Jack.

“Let me know if you hear or see anyone,”
I told my
dog, receiving a bark in acknowledgement.

As we entered the house through the back door, I recalled
the thousands of times I’d walked, danced, and ran up and down its halls. My
memories were divided into two eras: Jason, and post-Jason. After he’d left for
the Army, the walls had always felt a little thinner, the air a little less
substantial. And, in not one of my memories of the house was I ever alone with
him. Suddenly, the walls felt wild and alive.

I followed Jason as we passed the rooms I was most
familiar with—the kitchen, living room, and Zoe’s upstairs bedroom. Something
about the way Jason moved, the easy set of his shoulders, spoke to the magic of
home. He was relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen him for years.

“Wherever he hides it, it’s always in his room,” Jason
said. He led me down the second-floor hallway to the furthest bedroom.

I wanted to help Jason search but simply felt too awkward
rummaging through my best friend’s father’s things. It seemed an unforgivable
violation.

“I’m going back to
Zo’s
room,”
I told Jason. “To see if there’s anything she’d want me to bring to her.”

Jason shot to his feet and purposefully strode out of the
room with me close on his heels. He didn’t stop until he reached Zoe’s bedroom.
He entered, took a quick peek around, said, “Go ahead,” and then left me alone
in the comforting space.

As I soaked up the familiar plum and apple-green décor, I
was transported back to my teen years. Practically every other night had been
spent giggling with Zoe under the fluffy comforter, gushing about boys and
sharing dreams. We’d been so happy…so carefree.
Will we ever feel like that
again?

I wandered across the room to the bulletin board hanging
over the desk. It was covered with a hodgepodge of pins, photos, notes,
sketches, and tiny trinkets from throughout Zoe’s life. She’d been collecting
memories on that board since before we became friends in fourth grade, and only
her favorites stayed up for long. I was staring at a mini museum of my best
friend’s life.
My best friend who didn’t tell me about the thing she was
most obsessed with.

Reaching out, I unpinned one of the sketches—an exact
match of the tattoo on the inside of my wrist. It was the drawing we’d taken to
the tattoo parlor where we’d had identical Celtic knots inked on our skin,
proclaiming our eternal sisterhood. I had no doubt that Zoe would want it.

I set the sketch on the top of Zoe’s dresser, exchanging
it for a framed photo, and sat on the bed, lost in thought. In the picture, we
were perched on the edge of a deck, our backs to the camera. My hand was raised
to Zoe’s ear, shielding my words as I whispered some
extremely
important
secret to her. Considering we were juniors in high school, it was probably
about my latest crush or some juicy gossip. I’d always loved the photo,
thinking it captured the essence of our friendship so well—always whispering
secrets into each other’s ears. But at the moment, it seemed to shout that I
was the one whispering while Zoe kept her secrets inside. Hidden.

“Found it,” Jason said, frowning when I looked up. “Are
y—”

“I’m fine,” I interrupted, wiping a lone tear from my
cheek.

“Okay…I’m heading into my room. Feel free to join me when
you’re done in here.” His eyes lingered on my face for a few seconds before he turned
and crossed the hall to his old bedroom.

I wasn’t about to miss the once in a lifetime opportunity
to explore Jason’s personal space, so I pulled my unraveling emotions together,
tucked the picture frame and sketch into my backpack, and joined him.

Crossing the threshold into forbidden territory felt like
pushing through a force field. Tom Cartwright hadn’t redecorated his kids’
bedrooms into impersonal guest rooms like empty-nesters tended to do. He’d kept
the spaces exactly as they had been, waiting to welcome Zoe and Jason home at
any time. In Zoe’s case, the drawers and closet had been emptied long ago,
leaving behind the shell of the girl who had lived there. With Jason, however,
it appeared as though he’d still been occupying the bedroom for the past twelve
years.

The walls were nearly bare, with only a few pieces of
sports memorabilia pinned to their steel-blue surfaces. A faded, masculine
scent clung to the air, making me think of the many nights Jason had spent in
the room while I’d been hunkered down with Zoe across the hall. I wondered if
he’d been alone…or if my middle school mind hadn’t realized he was sneaking
girlfriend after girlfriend into his room…into his bed. Or maybe he’d just
climbed down the tree outside of his window and met up with them elsewhere. His
epic reputation by the time I’d entered high school—the year after Jason had
graduated—suggested at least one, if not both, was true.

On the wall opposite Jason’s bed, a long shelf displayed
several dozen wooden figurines and a few endearing framed photos of his dad and
sister. While Jason knelt on the floor, digging through a trunk in his closet,
I picked up a miniature carved cat, curled in sleep. It was exquisite.

“Did your dad make these?”

“Huh?” Looking over his shoulder, Jason saw what I was
holding and frowned. “Ah…some.” His head disappeared into the closet again as
he clarified, “I actually made most of ‘
em
.”

I lost myself in examining the little pieces of art. The
cat looked so realistic, like it might uncurl its tiny body and arch its back
right there on my palm. I was starting to understand what Tom meant about
listening to the wood.

“That’s the last one I ever made,” Jason said quietly.

I jumped, my fingers reflexively closing around the
carved cat. I’d been so entranced by the intricate feline figuring in my hand
that I hadn’t noticed Jason approach. He was right behind me.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you heard me.” He reached
over my shoulder and plucked a simple, slightly disproportionate fish off of
the shelf. It was about the size of his thumb. “This was my first.”

“They’re beautiful. I didn’t know your dad taught you to
carve,” I told him, opening my hand to reveal the sleeping cat.

Jason laughed bitterly and gave a small shake of his
head. “He wanted me to follow in his footsteps—take over the family business.”

The carvings seemed to unsettle him so much that I felt
guilty when I asked, “Can I…I mean, would you mind if I…you know…kept this?” I
raised my hand a few inches, showing him the tiny feline.

Without hesitation, he said, “Keep it. Keep any of ‘
em
.”

Jason returned to the closet as I examined each carving
carefully, wishing I could take them all. I settled on the sleeping cat, the
lopsided fish, and a remarkably detailed seagull in flight.

Jason finally emerged from his closet with a few items—a
rolled-up canvas kit of some kind, an incredibly worn leather journal, and an
equally worn, earth-brown leather jacket—and stuffed them into his backpack,
along with the pictures from the shelf and a carved bear standing on its hind
legs. That one, he said, had been carved by his dad. He also gave me a few old
t-shirts to wrap my priceless treasures in—I was worried they would get
damaged.

Before we left, we scavenged some peanut butter,
crackers, fruit snacks, and an unopened bottle of apple juice from Tom’s pantry
for lunch. We settled at the kitchen table with our non-perishable feast and
ate in companionable silence.

When I rose and carried our empty plates to the sink,
Jason asked, “What’re you doing?”

“The dishes?”

“Why?”

“Because…huh.” I dropped the dirty plates into the sink.
“I don’t know. It just felt right. Being here makes it seem like things
are…normal.”

Standing, Jason finished off the apple juice, drinking it
straight out of the bottle, and said, “I know what you mean. I keep expecting
my dad to walk in and lecture me about responsibility and ‘carrying the family
torch’.” He raised his backpack onto the chair and unzipped it. “It feels
normal…except for one thing.”

“What’s that?” I cocked my head and leaned my lower back
against the counter.

“We’re here together—just us.” He looked at me, his
electric blue eyes seeming to really see me for the first time. “The world’s
not normal. Everything’s different…
we’re
different.”

I nodded, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his
stare.

“Aren’t you gonna open it?” I asked, motioning to the
intricately carved box he’d just placed on the table. About the size of a cigar
box, it was fashioned from cedar and had delicate iron hinges. It had, without
a doubt, been crafted by the talented hands of Tom Cartwright.

Jason’s eyes shifted to the box, mercifully releasing
their relentless hold on me. “Not yet…
Zoe’d
kill me.”

“Oh.”
Right…’cause
she’s obsessed with it and all…

“We’re done here,” he said. He was watching my face
closely. “Let’s head out.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to hold steady if I
spoke. My chin tried to quiver, but I stilled it by clenching my teeth.

Jason quickly wrapped the box in a terrycloth dish towel
and loaded it into his pack. Dozens of words were perched on the tip of my
tongue, anxiously waiting for my mouth to open so they could fly to Jason’s
ears. But I clutched onto them desperately, instead settling for comfortable
silence. As we rode to Grams’s house, I basked in the silence, but once we
walked through the front door, it turned expectant and tense. It was almost
palpable, growing and pulsing in the air around us.

Ignoring the tension, we started searching for keepsakes
in Grams’s bedroom. Jason sat on the end of her bed, watching me as I wandered
around her room. I’d always thought of her possessions as flowery and
old-fashioned, nothing I would ever want for myself, but they suddenly held
incalculable value to me.