Page 191 of The Spider & the Storm

I stood up from my chair and hurried around the table to where Luke was already standing. We collided in a hug so full of warmth, his body firm against mine, and if I hadn't known better, I would've said it was real. I wanted it so badly to be real.

“I'm going to miss you so much,” I said.

“I know.” He held the back of my head the way he had that last day I saw him at the prison. “Promise you'll read that letter.”

My fingertips dug into his T-shirt, my mind aware of how soft the material was beneath my touch. “Only if you promise I'll see you again.”

I felt him smile as he nodded. “Yeah, Charlie. You will. Now, wake up. Live your life. Marry that woman, for fuck's sake. Tell her to look up Ritchie’s picture. And read that letter.”

***

Charlie,

This is weird.

Honestly, there are a few things that are weird about this, but I think the one that takes the cake is knowing that, if you'rereading this, I'm probably dead. Like, I'm alive right now while writing it, but … fuck, man, remember how you used to get those feelings about shit? Like, you knew something was going to happen, something bad? That's how I feel. I've felt it for a while. I've felt it ever since this new kid rode in. I took one look at his face, and I don't know how else to explain it other than to say it was like seeing the Grim Reaper in the flesh. This fucking chill went straight down my spine, man. Gave me the fucking creeps from the get-go, and you know what's even crazier than that? I like him. I like being around him. Actually, he reminds me of you, which probably sounds like a big slap in the face to you right now since I just described him as the Grim Reaper. But you know what I mean. He's got this lost thing about him, like he needs a friend, someone to take him under their wing. Nobody else would, and I just kept thinking, what if that was Charlie? So, he's my friend, and I like him. But I also think he's gonna be the end of me, too, which is why I'm writing this now.

First of all, chances are, if you're reading this, you probably already know that Mel and I got back together. Surprise! Actually, we officially got back together a little before you hit the road. I wanted to tell you the last time I saw you. I had planned on it, and I thought it'd make you happy. But then I saw this look in your eyes, like you were finally done with this place, and it hit me like a ton of fucking bricks that, in that moment, my happiness couldn't trump your chance at finding your own. You needed to leave. I needed to make sure you left. I had a feeling about that too. I knew you'd find a life—more of one—up in Salem.

You wanna know something absolutely insane? I actually had a dream recently that you were gonna meet a chick with a shitload of piercings and tattoos. I saw you guys riding around on the bike, and I was just watching you like some weirdo,smoking a cigarette between the trees in a fucking graveyard. Like, I couldn't say anything to you, but I could watch, and I could see that you were happy. Actually, I think I was dead in the dream, but anyway, I woke up, just knowing I had done the right thing by letting you go without telling you about me and Mel. And I'm not sorry for it, for the record, in case you're pissed about it.

We have three kids. Can you believe that shit? If you had told me ten years ago that, one day, I'd not only be in prison, but also married to my dream girl and a father to three boys, I would've said you were fucking insane. But that's how it is. And I'm not gonna lie to you … it fucking sucks. No, not that I have her back or that we have the boys, but most days, I don't feel like I have them at all. I feel like I'm wasting her life. I feel like the biggest piece of shit on the planet that I not only convinced her to marry me again, but that she just kept getting pregnant. And, yeah, sure, she had a say in the matter. She could've said no. She could've not sent me that first letter altogether—I'm assuming you already know that we were pen pals for a while. She could've insisted on birth control instead of insisting we didn't use anything at all. I mean, fuck, Charlie, you know what she said? She said she had always wanted babies with me. She said she had never stopped wanting them. She said she wanted her house—our house—full of pieces of the two of us, and I wanted to say no, but I couldn't because I wanted that too. I didn't want her to be alone, and I guess I thought that, if she had our kids, she wouldn't be. And she's not. She's the best mother on the fucking planet, and I love my family more than I've ever loved anything. Hell, I didn't know I was this capable of loving anything so much. But, holy shit, I miss them. I miss them all the fucking time, and I wish I hadn't killed Ritchie.

I wish I had listened to you, Charlie.

I wish I had never gone to that fucking movie. I wish, more than anything in the world, that I had gone to see Mel instead because she was single then. She was out there, missing me and wishing I would call or show up or whatever the hell, and instead of cleaning up my shit and doing the right thing, I had to go ahead and kill someone. Jesus fucking Christ, I killed someone. I took Ritchie's life, and, yeah, he was an asshole. He had always been an asshole, and the world is better without him. But I wish I could find a reason why it happened because right now, I feel like … he didn't deserve todie. He didn't deserve that. Tommy didn't deserve it. Their mom didn't deserve it. God, Charlie, you didn't deserve it either. You more than anyone. You were always this innocent bystander to all of this shit, caught in a crossfire of my stupid fucking mistakes, and you have no idea how much I regret that. You have no idea how much I wish I could take it all back. But we make our beds, don’t we?

Anyway, since I'm dead, I need you to do a few things for me.

First and foremost, sign the house over to Mel. Let it be hers. She doesn't need money, and she doesn't want it. But she needs the house. She and her parents have already done a shitload of work on it—I'm assuming you've already been back, if you have this letter—and she's already made it hers. I want my kids to have my roof over their heads—that's all. I want them to at least feel connected to me in that way.

Second, I want you to be in their lives, and I don't mean as that uncle who sends a card every once in a while when you remember a birthday. I want them to know you. Be weird, creepy Uncle Charlie. I want them to know me through you. They're gonna need it because if this feeling I have is right,they're not gonna have me for much longer, and our youngest … he's only a couple of days old, man. He doesn't even know me now. How the hell is he going to know me ten years down the road if it isn't through you? And, sure, he'll have Mel, of course, but … the thing is—and I've told her this—I don't want her to be married to my memory forever. If something happens to me, I want her to move on. I want her to find someone who will actually be there for my kids. I want her to finally find the man she's always deserved, and you and I both know that's not me. I fucking love her, and for some reason, she loves me, but I am not in a million years who she deserves. He's out there somewhere, and I want her to find him once I'm gone. But that only makes your presence more important in their lives because you'll be the only connection between my kids and me. They'll know me through you, and you'll see me in them, and I don't know if I'm just losing my mind or what, but I feel like, one day, you're both gonna need that. So, just be there, okay? Please. Whenever you can, be there.

Third, if that dream was a premonition and you happen to find a woman as creepy as you with a shitload of piercings and tattoos, don't let her go and don't run away. Happiness looks good on you, man. I always knew it would.

I'll be smoking a cigarette and watching from between the trees.

Love you, bro.

—Luke

EPILOGUE

SALEM, THREE YEARS LATER

A blanket of white held the cemetery in a state of hibernation. Tangles of black sprigs reached out from the snow, buried and suffocated and longing for the breath only spring would provide. We were months out still, and I couldn’t say I was looking forward to it much myself, apart from the distraction.

There was no need for landscaping in the winter. Only shovels and snowblowers. The mower was as asleep as the greenery outside, and I missed its rumbling reprieve.

The winter left too much time to think, too much time to dwell and reminisce. Christmastime especially.

I hated Christmastime and the sadness it brought. Before everything had changed again, I’d face the holidays with feigned disinterest. I had forced a blissful ignorance toward those days of celebration and continued with life as if it were any other day of the year.

But like I said, that was before.

Now, there was a Christmas tree in the corner and stockings hanging from the mantel. There were strings of garland tacked around the doorframes and twinkling lights strung along the roof and the rafters. There were in-laws and nephews on the road and a turkey in the oven.

And the kicker? It was my idea.

---