Page 126 of Hurt

Willow was tapping along to the music, her fingers drumming perfectly to the beat of a song she had never heard before. Her inner musician could instinctively pick out patterns in any beat. It was a strange skill. One that always impressed Kurt.

He had been surprised when Willow showed up at Grant’s home in the sleek-looking sedan. Kurt had, rightfully, been concerned that she had stolen the car from the Weavers. Allegedly, Roland had given her free access to any vehicle he owned. Which turned out to be quite a few.

Because, of course, Roland was a car guy.

Kurt’s eyes almost got stuck in the back of his head with how hard he rolled them.

Willow had wanted to go back to The Sunspot and look around. She was bored and tired of being confined. Kurt had hesitated. He didn’t want to go back there. Grant’s home had become a sort of refuge for him, a safe space free from the stress and strain of the outside world. Healing was easy when there was no pressure.

But his hesitance had been the exact reason he forced himself to go. Kurt wanted to get better. He wanted to find out who he was. To do that, he would have to push. Returning to The Sunspot was a big step forward.

He didn’t tell Grant where they were going. The man was busy enough as it was. The Weavers had taken out five Vega drug dealers in the last week. While they had been victories, they were small. Tiny cracks in the Vega Cabals foundation. There were no real results to show for it, and the worry was keeping Grant up at night. Kurt woke up several times in the night to look down and see the tall man pacing around the couch. Sometimes he was muttering to himself, and others, he was staring placidly off into the distance. His normally fastidiously clean desk was cluttered with maps and papers.

Grant was worried. Not just because of their attacks but because of the Vegas lack of response. Nothing had happened. There was no retaliation on the Vegas part. That was worrisome. Wallace believed they were holding out in the Catacombs—locking themselves away until the heat died down. But Roland and Grant didn’t believe that for a moment. Wallace was operating under his knowledge of Gerard Vega. The Vega patriarch had not been seen outside his property in years—much like Wallace, he had retreated to a quiet life in his later years. Wallace didn’t know Ezra and Asher like his nephews did.

There was no way those cocky bastards would sit back and allow the Weavers to continue to attack them. Their pride would never permit it.

Of all the responses Grant had predicted, silence was not one of them. It made him uneasy. How was he supposed to respond when there was nothing to respond to? His worry was infectious. Even Kurt felt it. He hated feeling helpless. And he hated knowing that Grant was in a battle for the safety of his people, and he was busy worrying about him.

So, when Willow had suggested they go, he didn’t tell Grant. The man would needlessly worry. Kurt was fine. Nothing could happen on neutral ground. Besides, he had Willow now.

And he had things to do. Things only he could do. Things he had to do to prove to himself that he was worth this second chance.

The first being to apologize and thank Sid and his sister. They had done more for him than anyone knew. From their silent acceptance to giving him a life and home. They had asked for nothing from him. That kind of kindness was something Kurt didn’t expect or deserve. He had never thanked Molly before. That should change. Even if his words weren’t worth anything.

The second thing he had to do was talk to Noah. What he would say to the kid, he had no idea. Was an apology enough? No. He knew it wasn’t, and yet it was all he had. How could he explain to Noah that he did what he did for his benefit? That he thought it was the best thing for him?

To an eight-year-old, Kurt must have looked like such an adult. But the truth was, when Hazel died, Kurt was still a kid himself. He was barely eighteen when he was given custody of his nephew. He had never been responsible for anything but himself. Still a cocky little shit, he thought he could take on the world.

But now? Now he was looking back on that Kurt and wondering how he even survived this long.

When Noah was young, he loved to watch cartoons. Like every kid, he liked the over-the-top storylines with a moral tied in. Life lessons in the form of anthropomorphic animals and talking objects that somehow had hands but no arms. He watched them obsessively until one day, he suddenly changed. One day he was obsessed with the latest cartoon, and the next, he exclusively watched baking shows.

No one knew how or when he found these shows. Or if he could even understand what was going on. But he glued himself to the TV every time one was on. The only time his attention would waver was when Kurt or Willow came over. Then he would race to them on tiny legs, grab their hand, and drag them over to watch with hIm. In total silence, he would stare at the TV as if the cakes and other baked goods had all the answers his three-year-old brain needed.

Kurt distinctly remembered watching these shows with him. They had this sugary concoction called fondant. Apparently, it didn’t taste very good, but it made the cakes look better than regular frosting. He watched as the bakers combined the fondant to make whatever color they wanted. Slapping them together and kneading them until they congealed into a blob of sugary not-goodness. Then they would feed it through this squishing machine. Two large plastic rollers would flatten this blob. Over and over, they would compress the fondant until it was many times its original size and completely flat. Totally malleable and different from its original shape.

That’s how Kurt felt now.

Like someone had run his eighteen-year-old self through again and again until he was technically the same but no longer resembled who he was anymore.

How did he explain that to Noah?

Did he have any right?

In his attempt to protect Noah, he had hurt him. At the time, he had been okay with it. It was preferable, even. He could live with Noah hating him as long as he was safe. But that was back when he wasn’t sure he would even be alive long enough to notice.

Now, he wanted to live. Looking back at the mess he’d made was making that difficult.

Willow had received a couple emails from the kid saying he had ditched his phone but that he was okay and hiding from Luther with Elijah and Jamie. Willow had attempted to convince him to come back with them, but so far, there was no answer from the angry teenager. Kurt tried to tell himself that Noah was eighteen now and capable of doing whatever he wanted. He was crafty, too—the kid had a knack for disappearing when he wanted to.

For the second time, he found himself grateful that his nephew was spending time with assassins. The young Weavers were more capable of protecting Noah than just about anyone else.

Like a lot of things, it would take time to mend fences with his nephew. Time that Kurt now had an abundance of.

Tires crunching on the gravel parking lot drew Kurt out of his reverie. Sitting up in his seat, he looked out over the hood of the car at the bar. He thought it would look different. The place looked the same as it had for the last decade. Blacked-out windows kept nosey eyes from prying into the interior, sheet metal roofing was patched in places where the sun and wind had worn through, and the front door still looked a little crooked in its frame.

He got out of the car and inhaled. The scent of desert mixed with that indescribable scent of The Sunspot made him strangely homesick.