Forever Starts Tonight (Wilder Family #4)

Chapter 10

Jax

Three months later

“This is stupid. Do I have to do this?”

My table companion was remarkably unfazed. She sipped her coffee, eyes trailing over the courtyard thick with tourists. Some, like us, had finished their pilgrimage and had the unkempt look to prove it.

“You do,” she said calmly, her English accent familiar and kind. “You turn your mobile on yet?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I already told you, not until I land Stateside.”

Margot eyed me over the rim of her cup of coffee. “How the bloody hell does your boss let you do things like this and not sacked you yet?”

Steadily, I held her gaze.

She blew a raspberry. “Now he stops talking,” she muttered. “You’re full of secrets, young man, and it’s not nice to keep secrets from your nosy friends.”

I’d done so much of this trip alone, but in the past few weeks, I’d linked up with her and her husband, there to complete their own journey after losing their son. We walked together for twenty-four days, taking two rest days in a small town with open rooms, taking turns washing our socks, resting our legs and stopping to listen to choirs singing in beautiful old church buildings. Cobbled pathways and bridges and mile after mile at the end went much easier with their steady companionship.

In front of me was a piece of paper she’d conjured from her backpack, stacked on top of the certificate saying I’d completed the arduous trek. Never in my life had I felt the twinge of every single muscle in my body like I had in the past few months.

It wasn’t even pushing past the physical discomfort. It was the feeling of being completely disconnected from anything familiar. And through that tiredness, through the isolation, I was craving home for the first time in my life. Craving familiar.

The pen in my hand felt like an anchor though, and I pressed the tip down onto the paper, then yanked it back. “I don’t … I don’t know what to say.”

Margot made a small humming noise, waving at two little girls playing in front of our table. They raced in circles around their parents, giggling at the birds as they chased them. Behind them, the spires of the Santiago Cathedral stretched tall, the blue sky behind them a stark backdrop for the age-blackened edges.

“Robby wrote a letter to himself,” she said, nodding her head to where her husband was wandering in front of the church, camera against his face and aimed at the peak of the impressive building. “A reminder of how he felt being at the end of this.”

I sighed, watching her face as she talked. They were in their sixties, and kept impressive pace along the walk for their age. Some days, she was the one who kept me moving on target, if I was being honest.

“And yours?” I asked .

She smiled, her eyes misting over slightly. “I wrote a letter to our son. Telling him about our trip. What he would’ve liked. How I wish it could’ve been him accomplishing this marvelous thing like he’d always planned.” Margot blinked rapidly, the tears disappearing like they’d never been there, then she patted my hand absently. “Write what’s on your heart, dear. If you want to remember what you feel like right now. Or maybe something you know needs to be said, even if that person might never see it.”

Just like it had every day I woke with the sun on this trip—every single day—her name was the thing that materialized in my head. Just a whisper. A reminder.

What did I feel right now?

I felt haunted.

Felt like I couldn’t tear her from my chest even though the thought of seeing her again sent a dizzying sort of anxiety racing down my spine. Years of avoiding Poppy, years of lying to myself that she was nothing, and I had to face the truth that I couldn’t escape her. Going halfway across the world and pushing myself to every physical and mental limit in existence, and she was still there—locked deep in a corner of my ribs that I couldn’t pry open.

If I pinched my eyes shut, I’d see her wrapped in a blanket, playing checkers, choking on her whiskey, and the soft, patient look in her eye when she kissed me on the cheek and walked out the door.

I wanted to tear her loose. I wanted this feeling gone. Because no matter what I felt right now, I still knew I wasn’t built to make someone like her happy.

“That girl,” Margot continued quietly, eyes still on her husband. “The one you told us about. You could write to her.”

“I still can’t fucking believe I told you about her,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand along my jaw, now fully covered with a beard. “I swear, you put something in that sangria. ”

She laughed loudly. “Oh, my boy, you had those words locked and loaded. You had one drink before you were spilling your guts, and there’s no point in lying about it.”

I grimaced, which made her smile.

She wasn’t wrong, unfortunately. Maybe it was the days, weeks, and months of hardly conversing with anyone beyond a hello on the path, ordering food in a café when I stopped, or getting a room when I took a break. When Margot and Robby came alongside me on that last stretch, I felt like a shaken-up bottle of champagne, and they knocked the cork loose with their warmth and kindness.

“What would I say?” I said, voice hardly more than a rough whisper.

Margot took another sip of coffee. “Oh that’s an easy one. Tell her how you feel. That you walked hundreds of miles, and she was with you every step of the way.”

Elbows braced on the table, I sank my head in my hands and stared down at that blank piece of paper. “And what if how I feel is a giant, fucking tangled mess? I’m not cut out for serious relationships, Margot. I’ve spent my entire life avoiding them, watching the absolute fucking misery that comes from chasing and chasing some idea of perfect that I don’t even know if it exists.” I lifted my head and gave her a look. “How many kids do you know that felt like that? That being in love or trying to make someone else happy was a fucking death sentence to any sort of freedom or independence. Do I want to subject her to that? That’s rooted just as deep inside me as anything else. Cynics don’t make for very romantic partners.”

“Bollocks,” she tossed back. “What do you think I am? Robby’s the one always making us stop to look at the beautiful views, wasn’t he? The one chatting with you that first day because he thought you looked lonely. It wasn’t me, was it?”

My eyebrows arched. “Not at first, no.”

“Trusting people isn’t just about letting them see what’s inside you,” she said, leaning forward to settle one of her wrinkled hands on top of mine. “Sometimes you have to trust that they can show you a different view of the world than the one you thought to be true. A different view of love and friendship and life. Do you think she’s one of those people?”

My hand tightened on the pen, my chest heavy and my brain racing.

Could I do this?

I closed my eyes.

I could never regret you, Jax.

Soft lips and sweet smile, and the noiseless sound of my aching heart getting ripped from my chest to follow her when she left. And she didn’t even know.

“Yeah, she is,” I answered immediately.

“Well then,” she said with a satisfied smirk. Margot tapped the paper. “Get to writing, young man. That way if you die on the way home, they have something to bring her a little bit of comfort.”

I gave her a long, steady look. “That’s fucked up, Margot.”

She laughed. “We’ve all got a bit of darkness in us, Jax. No point in trying to hide it.”

Picking up her coffee, Margot took a moment to squeeze my shoulder, then go off in search of her husband. Pen in hand, I watched them trade a quick kiss, then Robby showed her some of the pictures on his camera. The little girls darted past the table again, chasing pigeons in search of their next meal.

The busyness around me—people and sound and smells—felt a bit like the inside of my brain. Too much to filter through. But if I took a step back and pushed past the defiant stubbornness circling my feelings for her, I found some clarity.

My lips inch up in a small smile, thinking of her standing in my kitchen with wet hair and big eyes. I took a deep breath and started writing.