Page 27 of Walking on Broken Paths

“I’m sorry,” Jesse said once he found his breath. “I shouldn’t have left when Mikey died. You were grieving too, and I left you all alone.”

“I understood. Even then, I understood. But thanks for saying that.” Parker peeled his face from Jesse’s neck and wiped his eyes. His face was blotchy, his eyes puffy. But he was no less beautiful.

Jesse nodded, trying for a smile and failing. He took his wallet out of his pocket and removed Mikey’s suicide note.

Horror darkened Parker’s expression. “Christ, Jess. Tell me you haven’t been carrying that around all this time.”

“It’s my way of keeping Mikey close.”

“Oh, Jess. I get that. I do. But is that the best way?”

Probably not. But Jesse had fled in such a hurry after Mikey’s death, heading west with a small suitcase of essentials, and the note was all he’d had.

Parker sniffled. “Why don’t you join me for the cruise tonight? Get out of your head for a bit. I can bribe Matilda to let you on without a ticket again.”

The attempt at a joke was appreciated, and Jesse dug up a wan smile for him. “Thanks, but I’m going to go see my parents. I think I need to right now.”

“Okay.” Parker swiped a thumb under Jesse’s right eye, catching an errant tear. “But I’m here if you need me.”

Jesse thought of the day they’d buried Parker’s dad. Of Parker unable to get out of bed, wishing things were different.

They were both a little bit broken, weren’t they?

One didn’t cancel the other out.

Maybe, just maybe, they softened each other’s broken edges.

Jesse pressed a lingering kiss to the back of Parker’s hand and held his red-eyed gaze. “I know, Parks. I know.”

* * *

His parents were sitting on the porch when he arrived, like clichéd retirees just waiting to yell at a kid to get off their grass. Of course, they were too neighbourly—and kind—to ever do so, but it was funny to imagine, and Jesse needed a little levity right now, even if it was all in his head.

“Jesse.” Dad raised his glass of lemonade at him, his Tilley hat shading his eyes. “Pull up a chair.”

Chuckling at the bad joke—his parents were sitting in the only two chairs—Jesse sat on the top step.

“Taking a break from the renovations?” Mom asked, fanning herself with her sunhat.

That wasn’t exactly a lie, so Jesse rolled with it. “Yeah.”

“What are you working on now?”

“The kitchen. Parker helped me gut it.”

“What’s the next step?” Dad asked.

“Drywall. I think?” Turning sideways, Jesse leaned back against the porch railing so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck to look at them. “And I need to order cabinets. And look at countertops.”

As Mom narrowed her gaze, Dad said, “You don’t think you should’ve done that first so you wouldn’t have a non-working kitchen for the entire summer?”

“I forgot.”

They laughed at him. Mom’s titter turned into a full belly laugh, and Dad threw his head back, guffawing so loudly that a bird burst out of the tree in the yard.

And it was good. Nice. Normal. Needed. The perfect scenario to come home to after his time on The Windblown .

Dad was still chuckling when he said, “You know it can take upwards of sixteen weeks to get custom cabinets, right?”

Jesse winced. It was nearing the end of July. He only had about five weeks left on the island. “Yeah, I didn’t think the kitchen through.”

“Do you think it might be time to admit that you need an actual contractor?” Mom said gently.

“What? No. I can do it.” What would he do with himself without the house to work on?

His parents made identical hmph sounds.

“Maybe not before I head back to BC,” he amended. “But I can finish it next summer.”

That seemed to please them, though they still looked skeptical about his ability to complete his home reno on his own.

“Speaking of BC,” Mom said hesitantly, sounding like she was walking on tip toes. “Your father and I haven’t wanted to pry, but... how is that going to work between you and Parker?”

“We still need to talk about that,” he told her.

And to stop any further questions, he took the key to The Windblown out of his pocket and handed it to his dad.

“Thanks for this, by the way.” And because he was in avoidance mode and unwilling to discuss how his foray onto the boat had gone, he rose. “Do you still have Mikey’s sketchpad?”

“Sure,” Mom said, clearly surprised by the question. “We’ve got them all. They’re on the bookshelf in the living room. Which one are you looking for?”

Jesse hesitated, unwilling to cause more pain, but he needed to see it. “The last one.”

Mom’s eyelashes flickered. Dad took her hand and jerked his head in the direction of the house. “It’s on the shelf with the others,” he said.

It was cool inside the house as Jesse aimed for the bookshelf in the living room. And there they were, just as his mom had said, sitting in a neat row on a middle shelf.

Jesse couldn’t believe he’d never seen them there before, but of course, it wasn’t like he’d spent any time inspecting the contents of the bookshelf.

He pulled out what he thought might be Mikey’s final sketchpad, based on its position at the end of the row, and weighed it in his hand.

It was heavy, like the weight of Jesse’s grief.

The paper was silken, like the skin of Mikey’s arm when Jesse had tried to shake him awake.

He flipped to the final sketch, and there it was, in black and white—Jesse and Mikey seated on a grassy hill, looking out toward the ocean. Mikey had drawn them from behind, Jesse’s arm around Mikey’s shoulders, Mikey’s hair tangling in the breeze.

The drawing was the theme of their relationship, one that embodied friendship as well as familial bonds.

Jesse sucked in a breath that skipped like a broken record. His throat hurt from holding back tears, and he held the sketchpad to his chest while he got himself under control.

“God, Mikey,” he choked out. “I wish you’d talked to me. I wish?—”

A soft breeze dragged warm fingers over his cheeks, and he whirled toward the living room windows.

But they were closed.

Christ. Was there a draft here too? He was clear on the other side of the house from where he’d first felt a draft weeks ago. What was it with these island houses?

Closing the sketchpad, he stepped back outside and showed it to his parents. “Can I borrow this for a couple of days?”

“Of course,” Mom said, fiddling with the sunhat in her lap. “Is everything okay?”

Jesse thought back to Mikey’s memorial. To the joy his parents seemed to get from talking about Mikey with others who’d loved him. All these years, Jesse had been reluctant to bring him up because he didn’t want to upset his parents.

But he’d gotten it all wrong.

It upset them not to talk about him.

And maybe they hadn’t brought Mikey up often because they were taking their cues from Jesse.

Jesse resumed his seat on the top step, laying Mikey’s sketchpad carefully next to him.

“Is it okay if we talk about Mikey sometime?” Ignoring his mom’s gasp, he carried on.

“I haven’t talked about him much over the years, except with my therapist. But I’d like to talk about him with you.

Remember the good times. The laughter. Not today,” he added quickly.

“I’ve had a bit of a day. But sometime soon. ”

Mom smiled at him through her tears, looking both sad and happy. She reached one hand out to him, the other to his dad. Dad held out his free hand to Jesse, closing the loop, and with his own misty eyes, said, “Anytime, Jesse.”

“Okay,” Jesse said, another section of his broken edges smoothing over. “Okay.” Grabbing the sketchpad to put in his car, he rose. “Why don’t I pick up a pizza and we can watch a movie or something?”

Dad grunted. “If you put mushrooms on it, I’m disowning you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jesse chuckled and pulled his phone out to order ahead. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, probably.”

“Oh, Jesse.”

He paused, one foot in the car. Mom stood on the porch, elbows on the railing, her loose skirt rippling in the breeze.

“I keep forgetting to ask,” she said. “Did you get your delivery after you got back from Toronto?”

He thought back. Had he been expecting anything? “What delivery?”

She shrugged. “There was a box of toys on your driveway. I figured the delivery driver was too lazy to bring it up to your porch, so I brought it up myself. Tried to tuck it out of the way so no one would steal it.”

Wait, was she talking about the dolls? Had she put the box on his porch?

“You put that box there?” he asked.

She nodded. “Saw it when I was driving by on my way to visit a friend who lives near you.”

“It must’ve fallen out of the dumpster,” he told her. That made so much more sense than the dolls coming alive to walk themselves to his porch. “I’m not keeping them.”

“Ah, that makes sense. I did wonder why on earth you’d ordered a box of murder dolls.”

Startled into a laugh, he got into his car, and he was still laughing when he arrived at the pizza joint.