Mended

CHAPTER 17 You’re Not Alone

A ray of moonlight through my window brings me to consciousness. I sit straight up, staring into his face, wild and fierce, full of hate. It takes me a moment to realize he is me. I struggle to find the floor and then stumble to the mirror over the dresser. I peer at the reflection; it’s murky, but I can see it now—I look like him. If I look like Damon, he must look like his brother. How did I not see it?

Devastation, anger, and remorse run through me in a cacophony. I head to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I squeeze my eyes shut as a rapid succession of faces flies across a blank canvas in my mind. My family, the ones I belong to . . . but not really. I shake off that thought and try to persuade myself that my conception doesn’t change anything. But I know it does. If it didn’t, why did no one ever tell me?

Was Dylan Wolf a monster like his brother? I scream at that son of a bitch buried in a coffin somewhere—you bastard. Gripping the sink, I break down when I realize that no, I’m the bastard. What kind of fucking irony is that? Along with rage, should I be feeling shame? What do you call that combination of emotions?

I bend over and purge myself of my thoughts and the alcohol. Vomiting profusely, I fall to my knees and wrap my arms around the toilet. A rush of memories that I haven’t thought about in years surfaces, only causing me to want to expel the toxicity even more. I spit in the bowl one last time, making sure every ounce of wretchedness is gone.

“Feel any better?” my brother’s voice asks from behind me.

I slowly turn my head, not sure if any of my senses are functioning. It’s River, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. His eyes are red, bloodshot, even more so than when I left him two days ago.

“What are you doing here?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m here for you.”

“You should be home with your wife.”

“Bell’s with her and I should be here with you. I want to talk to you. I’ve been calling you and when I called Mom for the hundredth time Jack finally got on the phone and filled me in.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to be left alone.”

He stares at me. “Not happening. We can talk . . . or not. Your choice, but I’m not leaving.”

My heart rate picks up speed as I try to stand up, and he extends his arm to help me. I take it. He feels like my brother. He’s the same guy he always was— except we no longer share the same father.

I get a close look at him. “You look like shit.”

“You don’t look so hot yourself.” Then with his voice full of sarcasm, he adds, “You want another drink?”

“Fuck off,” I tell him. “And I’m not talking about it. I’m going back to fucking bed.”

“Suits me. I’m pretty exhausted myself.” He follows me into my bedroom.

I kick my boots off and peel out of my jeans before sliding into the sheets. He stares at me and throws himself on the bed.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re not sleeping in the same bed as me.”

“The fuck I’m not,” he says and toes his shoes off.

I roll over with my back to him and close my eyes. “Whatever.”

When I next open my eyes the sun is filtering through my bedroom window and I’m alone. For a moment I’m the person I always was, but then the recent revelations come back to me. I feel the pain as soon as I lift my head, but I don’t give a shit how my head feels. Kicking out of bed, I glance over at my phone. I turn it on to see missed calls and messages from late last night and most recently an hour ago. My mother, Jack, Bell, the guys, and Ivy have all called. I turn it back off—I can’t deal with any of them right now, not even Ivy. Instead I walk out of my room and through the living room into the kitchen. River’s sitting at the kitchen table that used to belong to my grandparents . . . the people I thought were my grandparents anyway. He’s sipping a cup of coffee and thumping his fingers on the wooden tabletop.

He watches me cross the room to the coffeepot. I pour a cup and move to head out the back door onto the balcony.

“Where are you going?” his voice asks calmly.

“Outside. Where does it look like I’m going?”

“Xander, let’s talk about this.”

I pause at the door but don’t turn around. “Everything in my life that I thought was real was a lie. Fuck, even this house that belongs to me is a lie. It was willed to me by the two people I admired more than anyone in this world and they weren’t really mine. So what’s there to talk about?”

“Stop being such a fucking douchebag and sit down and talk to me.”

I open the door. “Fuck you.”

“You’re my brother and I’m concerned about you. Please talk to me.” His voice sounds just as shaky as mine.

Closing the door, I lean my head against the cool glass.

“You and me—we’re the same as we were two days ago. Nothing has changed. We’re always there for each other. We always have been. Come on, Xander, we’re the same two kids that grew up together, fought with each other, went to school together, took care of our drunk father, watched over our sister, looked out for our mother. We started our careers together. We know who we are. Whose DNA runs through your veins doesn’t change any of it.” His voice rising slightly, he adds, “None of it!”

I turn around and close the distance between us, taking a seat across from him.

I look at him for a long while before speaking. “You know, it’s weird, but I don’t feel any different. Both men are dead, so what’s it matter?”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s what I’m saying.”

I nod and try to put everything in perspective.

He looks me in the eye. “You know I love you, right?”

I roll my eyes. “I was just starting to think you had stopped being such a pussy and now you’re going to talk about feelings?”

River takes a serious tone. “No, Xander, I’m serious. I want to talk to you about Mom.”

One solid fucking hour we spend talking about how I need to go talk to my mother. I tell him I’m not ready. I mean, I’m still digesting that I’m not who I thought I was. All he keeps saying is that I’m the same person I’ve always been—and fuck, I know he’s right. I just need time. We slam our fists on the table, throw both our coffee cups across the room, and I almost walk out about a dozen times, but the storm passes and now we’re both lying on the huge L-shaped sofa in the living room reminiscing about our youth.

“You should take that ’Vette out of storage,” he says.

“I hate that fucking car,” I tell him.

“Really? Then why have you held on to it for all these years?”

“Because Grandpa bought it and he helped me get it running again after it sat in his garage for so long.”

“Xander, come on, I know as well as you do that you loved it that Dad gave that car to you. Do you know how pissed I was when I was finally able to drive and I begged Dad to make you share it with me and he said no. He actually said it was yours and yours only. Then when you wouldn’t even let me drive it—that pissed me off more than anything.”

“I forgot about that.”

We’re both quiet for the longest time, and I try to remember the last time I even set eyes on that car.

River sits up and breaks the silence. “Xander, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Please, no more feelings. I can’t take any more of it.”

“Fuck off! I’m being serious.”

“Okay, what?”

“Damon shut the tour down. Everyone arrived home this morning.”

“What an asshole.” That’s all I can come up with because I can’t even think about work or the band.

After a few more minutes of silence, I’m tossing a basketball above my head. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know anything about Dylan Wolf? What kind of person he was?”

“No,” he answers softly. “Can I ask you something?” he counters.

“Maybe,” I answer.

“Why do you think Damon made the announcement?”

My heart starts pounding and I bolt upright, tossing the ball aside. River’s eyes flare to mine. “I don’t know. But I’d wager it has something to do with money,” I say with a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow.

River frowns and crosses a leg over his knee. “Go on.”

“With everything that’s been going on with Ivy and the tour, he still kept it going. It had to be for the money. He could have given a shit about the band. Then his old man dies and he cancels the remaining shows even after I left. When I confronted him, he kept throwing things out there about me being like my father. I assumed he meant Nick, but he must have meant his brother.”

The doorbell rings. Blood rushes to my face and my shoulders stiffen. “Don’t answer it,” I bark.

River shrugs. “Don’t be a dick. You can’t stay locked up all day. People are looking to talk to you.”

“By people, you mean Mom?”

“Yeah, Mom, Jack, Bell, the band. Everyone that cares about you.”

“I’m not ready to talk to Mom.”

“It’s not her anyway. I told her I’d call when you were ready. I made her promise to give me the time I needed to talk to you. But, Xander, she’s a wreck. Don’t make her wait too much longer.”

I stand up and stare at him. “When did you become so mature?”

He shakes his head at me.

Walking over to the door, I look through the peephole to see who it is. It’s Aerie.

As soon as I open the door she rushes in. She’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen her before. She’s wearing some kind of track suit. Her blond hair is pulled back and the sneakers on her feet make her seem really short. She’s almost a whole head shorter than me.

“Xander,” she greets me in total business mode.

“Aerie, what are you doing here?” Then I remember she asked for an interview. “Now is not the best time for that interview.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“What’s going on?” I ask her as I close the door.

“Can we sit down and talk?”

“Sure. Come in.” I move past her, escorting her toward the living room.

River’s still sitting on the couch and stands up the minute he sees her.

“River,” she says softly and crosses the room to hug him. She holds on to him tightly. “I’m so sorry I had to run out on Dahlia. As soon as I explain everything to the both of you I’m heading back over to see her. Jagger’s meeting me there with lunch from her favorite place.”

“She understands. I’m sure she’d love to see you,” River responds.

She pulls away. “Mind?” she asks, looking at me and pointing to the large graphite-colored chair that used to be my grandfather’s favorite.

“No. Have a seat.” I wonder what could be so urgent that she would come over here to talk when I know she’s obviously seen the headlines. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you, I don’t drink coffee. I’m fine really.”

Aerie takes a deep breath, pulls some papers out of her bag, and sets them on the large glass coffee table. “Well,” she says, “I have something I want to show you.”

“Okay. Shoot.” I’m a little agitated that she’s not just getting to the point, but I think I get it. “Fuck, did Damon send you over? What does he want now? For me to sign some kind of huge-ass contract?” I say, pointing to the stack of papers on the table.

“Xander, relax, man. Let her finish.”

“Didn’t you hear?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Hear what?”

“Damon no longer owns Sound Music Magazine. If it hasn’t been announced yet, it will be later today.”

River raises an eyebrow. “Really? Why’d he sell it?”

Aerie snickers. “Well, he didn’t really have much of a choice. We were in poor financial condition. I actually think it was a takeover. I’m not sure about the details, but I’ve been reassured that the company that bought it intends to keep the magazine intact. I’ve never been more thankful in my life on both counts.”

“Who bought it?” I ask her.

Aerie shrugs her shoulders. “A company by the name of Plan B. It’s a small private company. Sound Music is its first acquisition, but I know another magazine is being shopped.”

“Interesting,” River responds.

“Are you concerned?” I ask him.

“No, just curious.”

“Sounds like perfect timing if you ask me,” I interject.

“It is,” she says, looking a little nervous. Then, “I can’t divulge the details just yet. I’m sorry.”

I shrug. It’s no skin off my back.

She fumbles through the papers on the table and my agitation level only grows.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted you to have these,” she says after she’s located what she’s looking for. She rises and walks over to where I’m still standing at the bottom of the steps in the living room.

“What are they?” I have to ask because I have no fucking clue why she’s handing me a stack of papers with numbers all over them.

“Sales reports and various supporting documents from when your father was signed under Sheep Industries’ Little Red label.”

I hand the papers back to her. “What do you want me to do with these?”

She pushes them toward me. “Look at them.”

“Aerie, I have a lot going on right now. Can this wait?”

“Xander, I wouldn’t be here if it could wait. I talked to Ivy yesterday and she told me everything. I know your mind is probably in a million places, but these reports are what she needs to get out from Damon’s hold.”

“Damon’s hold?” I question.

“Yes. Damon is blackmailing her—or he was. I wanted her to have the information either way.”

“Fuck, I knew he was up to something. I just wasn’t sure what. Do you know what he’s holding over her?”

“All she told me was that he’d said he ruined Nick and he would do the same to you. But I overheard him on the phone with his attorney just before the takeover became official, and he said at least the marriage clause was executed before his old man passed. I know it has something to do with the will, but that was all I heard.”

“Josh Wolf’s will going public has to be news to everyone. I can only guess the bastard wanted to be the first to report it. Put his own spin on it,” River muses.

Aerie flips through the stack and hands me two sheets of paper. “Well, here is what I found. This report is from Little Red’s records,” she says, pointing to the column on the right. “And this one I just got,” she says, pointing to the one on the left, like I have any idea what that means.

I look at both pieces of paper. My eyes scour the numbers. They’re different. I read the handwriting on the bottom and have no problem deciphering what this means now. “Where did you get these?”

“What are they?” River asks, standing and crossing his arms over his chest.

Aerie explains. “One set was in the basement of Sheep Industries, the other is from a box of old papers that I found in my uncle’s things when Jagger and I were going through everything a couple of months ago.”

I want to question her further, about how she got documents from the basement of Sheep Industries and why would sales reports of a record label be among her uncle’s things, but right now I don’t give a shit where the information came from. I stand there dumbfounded as River comes over to us and looks over my shoulder. “They’re for the same period of time, but there’s a huge discrepancy in reported earnings,” he manages to say, shock evident in his voice.

“Exactly!” Aerie says.

What kind of person does that to someone? I have to sit down, and once I do, I read the handwritten note again, but it begins to blur. River sits next to me, both of us staring at the series of numbers in front of us. Spots cloud my vision and my heart pounds for the man I always knew as my father—the one who wanted his whole life to be successful and thought he’d failed . . . when in actuality he was a superstar in his own right.

Utter silence falls in the room. River and I both sit there in shock, absorbing the information that might have changed both our lives . . . Maybe we both take the quiet to fast-forward that life in our minds, or maybe we’re barricading ourselves from the truth, maybe we’re just trying to stop the black fury that comes with the truth—or maybe those are just my feelings. I push aside the papers in my hands and lean over the others on the table, noticing that my hands are trembling. I look to my brother—his face is white, his expression blank.

I take a deep breath, adjust my focus, and pull myself together. I drop my hands to my sides and flex my fingers. When Aerie’s wide eyes meet mine I can finally say, “Thanks so much for this. I have to run, but call me for anything.”

River nods, still seemingly in a trance. Then he stands as well. “I’ll walk you out.”

She gives me a sad smile. “Call me for anything, Xander. I’ll leave you all this,” she says, pointing to the stack of papers. “It’s mostly collaborating documentation in case you file a complaint with the FCC.”

For a moment I stare at her. “I think I’ll handle this in my own way,” I tell her with no edge to my voice at all. Do I want to turn him in or do I want to use this to get him to leave Ivy alone? That’s a question I don’t even have to ask myself.

River leads Aerie to the door. I hear them whispering in the foyer. I cradle my head in my hands and know I have to see my mother before I do anything else. The biggest question being . . . selflessness or selfishness? The two conflicting feelings struggle within me and I’m not sure which will win out.

Thirty minutes later I’ve sent my brother packing and I’m climbing into my sister’s car, which is still parked in my driveway. She never came to pick it up. She must be driving my mother’s car. Fuck, I never called Ena and told her to get mine, but right now I don’t give a shit about my car. There’s no sign of the press and I’m fucking thankful. At first I lurch full speed down the road in my sister’s Cabriolet, but with no pickup in her chick car I change my mind and lay off the gas. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I quickly decide to turn around, trading Sunset Boulevard for the scenic route, the longer way. While I drive, I think about everything that has happened over the past days. I think about my life. I’m a guy who likes control. I follow a plan. I have a schedule. I’m all about structure—not chaos. And lately my life has been full of instability.

As I drive through the wooded streets, I stare at the beautiful manicured lawns and large homes that belong to families who I bet know who they are. I think about Nick—did he know any of this? If he knew the truth, why did he never treat me any different from River and Bell?

Pulling in the driveway, I park the car, whip off my sunglasses and toss them in the passenger seat. I look at the large two-story house tucked away behind a bounty of trees that my mother shares with Jack. I’m suddenly thankful that this isn’t my childhood home. I always thought it would have been cool to visit my mother with my kids at the place I grew up in—but now it’s a relief not to have to see that house again, since my childhood was a lie.

Turning off the ignition, I wipe those thoughts from my mind and get out of the car. I jam my hands into my pockets and pace the shadows of the sidewalk in front of the house. My stomach is in knots. I’m not sure I can do this. What can she say to take any of the pain away? Nothing can make me feel any better. I notice a strange car in the driveway and wonder if Brigitte got a new one or if someone is visiting. Fuck.

I stall as long as I can, pondering leaving in case someone is here, but I take a deep breath and go for it, hoping it’s just Bridgette’s new car. I walk slowly along the cobblestone path that leads to the back entrance, before slipping in through the door. The gleaming black-and-white marble floor of the rear entrance blinds me and I pause a moment to reconsider having this conversation with my mother. I’m still furious despite my heart pounding with fear, but I know I have to do this.

The kitchen smells of freshly brewed coffee and I look around for our housekeeper, Brigitte. Since she’s been with our family for years, I wonder if she knows. The room is empty, though; she doesn’t seem to be around, so I make my way through the house. The stab of irritation I’m already feeling quickly turns to trepidation when I hear Ivy’s voice—she’s here talking to my mother. The sadness in her tone makes me stop in my tracks. As if in slow motion, I come to a stop just outside the family room and listen.

My mother’s voice is raspy as she speaks. “You did what you had to—Xander will forgive you. I know he’ll understand.”

“I hope so. But he looked so hurt and betrayed. It killed me to see him like that.”

“Ivy, Xander is strong and perceptive. It’s easy to see through Damon’s manipulative ways and I’m sure he did.”

“God, I feel so dumb. How did I never see that side of him until recently? If I had I would have never been with him. Never.” Ivy starts to cry and her words only serve to strengthen not only my fury but also my fear.

It sounds like my mother’s comforting her. Then Ivy continues. “Damon told me after he received the call that his father passed that Josh’s will had a clause in it that Damon had to be married to collect his inheritance. That’s why he insisted we get married so quickly. I thought it was money from my performance he wanted. He said he only needed us to stay married for six months, enough time to produce an album. But really he knew his father didn’t have much time and he wanted to be sure he got what he thought he’d earned.”

“Oh, Ivy, no one could have known, darling,” my mother says amid sobs.

Ivy’s voice is low and I can’t make out what she says.

“You don’t know how it hurts me that you had to go through that,” my mother tells her.

“Charlotte, I’m so sorry to come over like this. I just didn’t know what to do. Xander won’t answer my calls. I can’t believe Damon made his father’s will public. I heard him on the phone with his attorney, completely shocked that Xander was in the will and the marriage clause wasn’t. I guess Josh changed his will, or Damon was told incorrect information. I don’t know. But as soon as he was behind the microphone making that announcement about the will, I knew I had to be with Xander. But now that I’m here I’m afraid he won’t forgive me.”

With my mother’s sobs weighing me down and Ivy sounding so emotional, I can’t stand to stay hidden listening any longer. I swing around the corner, almost manic. My mother turns toward me and I meet her gaze. Her face is full of concern and love, whereas I know mine must be a picture of confusion. She rushes over to me as I stand in a daze.

“Xander!” She pulls me in for a tight embrace. Then she pulls away and clutches my face in her trembling hands. “Xander.” She begins weeping again.

I shift on my feet, not sure what to ask. Not sure I want to know anything. I take a step back and nearly collide with the doorframe. The moment is awkward, and for the first time in my life I don’t know what to say to my mother.

Ivy clears her throat. “I’m going to leave you two alone. Thanks for talking to me, Charlotte.” I meet her gaze and her sad eyes, but I can’t talk to her now. I wish I could think of a way to let her know I know what she did and why she did it—I hope she understands I’m telling her I get it.

“Ivy, don’t go yet,” my mother manages, but I see Ivy turn and leave the room, then hear the click of the door. My mother is in such a state that her tears won’t stop. She’s sobbing so hard that her breathing is out of control.

“Take it easy, Mom,” I whisper.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come. That you’d never talk to me again. I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to explain everything to you.”

I take her hand and lead her to the sofa. “Sit down, Mom. I’m going to get you a glass of water. I’ll be right back.” She tries to stop me, but she’s so hysterical I can’t even understand what she’s saying. I hate seeing her like this—because of me. I pour some water in a glass and gulp it down, then fill another and take it to her. She drinks it, and once she sets the glass down, she takes my hands.

She looks at me helplessly. “I want you to hear the truth from me. I should have been the one to tell you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them to look at her. “I’m ready.”

With a deep sigh, my mother starts to explain. “I never told any of you that your father and I spent some time apart before we were married. That was a dark time for me. I was lost and alone. I had dated your father all through high school, and then we broke up shortly after he left to go on tour. I missed him terribly. Dylan and Damon went to UCLA with me. We were friends, but I had allowed Damon to fill my head with stories of what it must be like on the road. I loved Nick so much, but jealousy tore us apart. After we broke up I spent a lot of time with Dylan and Damon. I started to date Dylan, but it didn’t last long. Once we broke up—well, Damon—he was there for me. He made me think he was taking care of me—that my well-being was what mattered to him. He made himself trustworthy, he was a friend, a confidant even. And then one day he turned on me. Even now his name is a painful reminder. I never say it. Never talk about him or his brother. I let it go—I had to. But I’ll never forget . . .”

“Mom, you don’t have to go on. It’s okay.” My voice fades, but I know she hears it. She seems to forget I’m there, even though her story continues.

“I woke up the morning of Dylan’s death with a feeling of terrible anticipation—something had startled me out of what I thought was a horrifying dream. I sat up and realized I wasn’t in my own bed. My stomach was in knots from one too many drinks the night before. I groggily scanned the area for clues, trying to remember why I was in Damon’s room.” Her voice goes hoarse and I hand her the glass of water again.

“Damon rushed into the room—opening the door and closing it behind him just as quickly. He spoke haltingly as he opened the blinds and let the light flood the room. His tone was unusually grim and his haste caught me off guard. He told me he took care of everything. I didn’t know what he meant. I was scared. Shivering, I pulled the covers up closer to me and asked him what he was talking about. But even as the words left my mouth, hazy memories of what had happened came rushing back to me. I looked out the huge window at the daylight and tried to piece together where the previous night had led.” She stops again and I’m feeling poisoned by my own thoughts. Sitting up straighter, I try to calm my breathing so I can speak, but she starts again before I can say anything.

“After a few moments I cleared my dry throat and told him I had been out with my girlfriends and I’d had a little too much to drink. I’d called Dylan from the bar to see how he was doing. We had run into each other earlier that day and he looked terrible, so I wanted to check on him. He had asked me to come over and I couldn’t say no. When I got there he cried for me to take him back and when I refused he was so upset. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen so I thought it best that I leave. I told Damon that when I tried, Dylan begged me to stay, so I did.”

I feel sick—my head is pounding and I’m not sure I want to hear any more, but my mother seems intent on telling me the whole story.

Swallowing, she goes on, but the words stick in her throat. “He was a mess and he needed someone. Please don’t judge me, Xander.”

“I’m not, Mom, I’m not. I promise,” I assure her. Because I am certainly in no place to judge.

“I started to feel sick when I was telling Damon what had happened—I felt so incredibly hungover, so I slowly edged toward the bathroom, but I stopped at the dresser to look in the mirror. My hair was a mess, my eyes deeply shadowed, and my face pale, but what concerned me most was Damon’s reflection staring back at me—the crease in his brow and the anger in his eyes scared me.”

And once again my mind entertains thoughts of wanting to kill him.

She goes on. “The rest happened so fast. Damon told me Dylan was in the hospital, I’ll never forget the icy-cold edge to his voice. I looked at my hands and saw red stains and I screamed. Just then the phone rang and he answered it. The expression on his face darkened as he hung up the receiver. In that instant I felt like I had to get out of there. For the first time I was afraid of him. As I moved, the room started spinning, but I managed to make my way to the door. I swung the door open to the family room, the room I had been in the previous night. He caught me before I crossed the threshold and told me Dylan had died and I cried as I ran out of his bedroom and the nightmare of the previous night set in. The last thing I remember is the floor rushed up to meet me and unconsciousness consumed me.”

My mother pauses and seems to snap out of whatever trance she was in. “When I woke up I was home alone. He had brought me home. I remembered everything then. Dylan had gotten up and a few minutes later I heard a thud. I ran into the living room and there he was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. He must have fallen and hit his head on the coffee table. A syringe was on the floor next to him. Damon came in as I hovered over him and found us. He called for an ambulance and they came and took Dylan to the hospital. Damon stayed with me. Dylan died of an overdose before Damon made it to the hospital. Nick flew back for the funeral and we went for coffee and started talking. We kept talking even after he left again and we ended up reconciling while he was still on the road. He even asked me to marry him over the phone. He was always so impatient. God, I loved that man.” She pauses again, taking another breath and squeezing my hand. “After Nick left again to get back on the road, Damon kept coming around, but his mood was darker, grimmer. I thought it was because his brother had died and I didn’t want to turn my back on him. One day he asked me about Nick and I told him we were back together. It was like a switch went off. He started blaming me for Dylan’s death. He’d call me and ask if I wanted to go to dinner one minute and when I’d say no he’d ask if I wanted to go to jail. I knew what he was doing—he was trying to scare me into marrying him. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong—but I still worried.”

“What made him finally leave you alone?” I ask.

“He didn’t right away. First, he tried to convince me to marry him, and when that didn’t work he threatened me. But my father overheard our conversation and when he asked me about it, I broke down and told him everything. My father intervened and after that I never heard from Damon again—I honestly don’t know what happened.”

My ribs ache from breathing so erratically as I listened to my mother. I take a good look at her for the first time since sitting down next to her. She’s wearing tan linen pants that look like they’ve been slept in. Her white blouse looks rumpled and is covered in coffee stains. Her naturally long brown hair is messy and her eyes are swollen. Seeing her like this . . . I can’t fight what’s in me. I want to be mad, upset, yell at her, curse the day she gave birth to me, but she’s my mother and I love her. I’ve always looked after her, protected her, and I can’t change that now.

The words just slip out. “It’s okay. I understand why you didn’t tell me,” I tell her.

She takes a deep breath and her tears start to wane, but her chest seems to be heaving at a greater rate. I draw her into my arms and kiss her hair.

“We’re going to be okay, Mom. Don’t cry.”

She wraps her arms around me in return and rocks me back and forth. In her comforting arms everything I’ve been feeling melts away. This woman loves me for who I am. After a beat, I pull away and wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“Xander, Nick will always be your father. Please tell me you know that.”

I don’t say anything.

“I wanted to tell you about Dylan, but once you knew, you couldn’t unknow it. And I just knew it would have mattered to you so much more than it should have. You were always my and Nick’s firstborn. You were his son and he loved you.”

My words come out as the question of a young boy. “Did you love my father, my real one?”

“Nick’s your real father, Xander. Dylan and I had a short and turbulent relationship and he died before he ever knew about you. So Nick—he is your real father.”

“Did he know? Nick, I mean?”

“Yes, of course he knew.”

“How could it not have mattered to him?” I ask, looking into her eyes—the eyes that none of us had inherited. Mine are more brown, like his, I’m sure, and River’s and Bell’s are greener, like Nick’s.

“Your father and I loved each other, and the time we were apart took its toll on both of us. Once we were finally back together, we vowed we’d never let anything tear us apart, and I tried to keep that promise.” She cries a little more and her words trail off. She doesn’t have to finish. Walking over to the mantel, she lifts a crystal-framed photo of River, Bell, and me. “When I told your father I was pregnant, he stared at me for the longest time. We both knew whose baby it had to be. I expected anger, or worse. But instead he put a protective hand on my belly and with a calm and certain voice he said, ‘We’re going to have a baby, Charlotte, so now you have to marry me.’ That’s what he said.”

“How do you not hate me?” I ask her.

“Why would I ever hate you? You’re my son. I love you. You healed me.”

At her words my gut wrenches. I swallow hard. “Healed?”

“Healed, mended, made me the person I wanted to be. You made me grow up and, Xander, I loved my life with your father. I loved him. I know he had his flaws and I know you saw him in a way that highlighted those flaws, but he was a good man. He loved us. He loved you, Xander. You were his son. It made no difference whose blood ran through your veins. And I think he was more afraid of you finding out and not loving him than anything else. He was so proud of you. He loved you so much.”

I wince at the raw emotion in her statement and stare at her, at a loss for words. I hated my father for so long I never looked at the good in him. I buried those memories the day he killed himself. But he was my father, not the man with the brown eyes, but the one with the green ones. And he loved me. He did.

Everything is a jumbled mess in my head. I can’t look at my mother anymore because she’s right. I feel a need to flee from any more emotional conversation. I stand up and cross the room to the sliding doors, go out onto the deck, then across the wet lawn. The sprinklers are on, but I sprint across the yard and fall to my knees. Holding my head in my hands, I think of Nick taking us to every concert, instilling in us everything he knew about music, teaching me to drive in the Corvette he never drove anymore because it wasn’t a practical family car. He was my father, but over the years I’d forgotten all the good things.

“Xander!” The slight wind carries her shaky voice, but I can hear it. I can hear the worry and concern.

At first I don’t move. She calls to me again. I raise my head and see her wiping her tears, the tears I’m causing to fall, and I lift myself up. And in this moment of clarity, I realize I don’t give a shit who my biological father is. And I know with everything I am that I loved Nick Wilde and that I have to tell him. But before I go I have to tell my mother about the falsified sales reports—the reports that not only changed Nick’s life, but all of ours.

The memories that hit me as I enter Forest Lawn Cemetery are oddly not memories of the many times I’ve been here, but ones of the people it holds. All of my grandparents, both my mother’s and my father’s, are buried here, and of course so is my father, Nick. It’s an older place with large tombstones . . . some toppled, some crumbling with age, others new. It’s eerily quiet and I can hear the birds singing as they land on top of the marble and stone that line the rows.

It seems wrong to come here and not visit my grandparents. A young boy is selling cut flowers and I stop to purchase a wrap from him. I ask him what kind of flowers they are, and he says, “Today I have lilies, but tomorrow I’ll have wreaths with a mixture of flowers.” I just grin at his enthusiasm—an entrepreneur in the making.

The grass between the carved headstones leads to people I don’t know, but I read their names etched on the stones as I pass and scan their markers. Some of those buried here lived long, full lives. Some of their gravestones read, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER or BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. Others aren’t so descriptive, with just their date of birth followed by their date of death. Wilted bouquets of flowers lie below some of the gravestones and others have rosary beads draped around them. A far greater amount show no sign of visitation.

I stop at Nick’s parents’ graves first. Pulling two lilies from the stemmed flowers I’m holding, I place one on my grandmother’s grave and then another on my grandfather’s. Finding words has never been easy for me, but today my thoughts pour out and I thank them for loving me.

Once I’ve told them all I can handle right now, I stand and make my way down the path toward Nick’s grave. I think about him, about our life as a family, and about the turn his life took because of a man that hated him. Stopping in front of his headstone, I stare at it and silently recite the last words scripted on it: “A beloved son, husband, and father rests here where no shadows fall.” It’s a simple inscription but full of so much meaning. More now that I know the truth. I’ve never actually come here to visit him. I came with my grandparents to help take care of the area, I came with my mother when she needed to visit, but I’ve never come for me—just to talk to him.

I shuffle on my feet, feeling uncomfortable, and stand in front of the industrial gray marker. I run my fingers through my hair, then skim them over the smoothness of the stone. Glancing around, I’m surprised at how well tended the site is. My mother or Bell, or possibly even River, must still come here. I don’t know—I have never asked. I’ve carried this anger toward him deep inside myself for so long that once in a while I can douse it, but it has never gone away. I didn’t think I would ever get rid of it, but right now I don’t feel it anymore. The trees lining the cemetery sway back and forth as a slight wind ripples through the air. I inhale and let it out. I clear my throat and try to find my voice. This is so much more difficult than I ever thought it would be. I take another deep breath and sit down.

Dad,

My old man killed himself and left me to take care of the family. That was my “tagline” whenever anyone asked me about you. That basically summed up everything anyone needed to know about you as far as I was concerned. I hated you—not only for taking your life and leaving us, but also for leaving me feeling guilty in the wake of your death. I was never the same—our family, your family, we were never the same without you.

River and I said once if our life before you died was a puzzle, you took a piece of that puzzle with you—a piece that can never be returned. It took me until now to see that you were a product of the tolls life took on you . . . that you were a good man who had more than his share of obstacles thrown his way. But you and me—we shared a bond and I felt like you destroyed it when you took your life. I was mad at you a lot, but I was a teenager, you were the adult. You should have had faith that I loved you, no matter what. I mean, come on, you knew me better than anyone else—and I always wondered why. Was it because you wanted to make sure I was more like you than him? If so, I hope you are proud of me because I am proud to be so much more like you.

My view of the world has changed since your death, but I remember when I was young and naive and you taught me everything you could about music and helped me believe in the magic of the world. We looked for four-leaf clovers for hours and when we found one, you laminated it for me to preserve that small wonder. When I had questions, you answered them. You were always there for me.

Then after the funeral, that all changed. I lost my parent, my hero, and my teacher. I thought a lot about death and dying and who was to blame. In the end I blamed you rather than myself, but now standing here talking to you—I blame no one. I just wanted you to know that—I blame no one. And, Dad, know this—I love you.

That’s how I feel about him—finally I can accept him for him. I get to my feet and brush off the grass. Then I pick up the flower pack and pull the lilies out one by one and lay them on the ground. As I turn and walk away, birds sing and a bell tolls in the distance, but all I can think about is this man who I called Dad, even with all of his flaws—he was my dad and I loved him.