Page 6 of Part & Parcel

“Okay?” Kelly whispered.

Nick took a deep breath, gazing at Kelly.

Kelly raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “What?”

“I love you,” Nick said, but the words came out a whisper, as if the mere thought had stolen them before they could form.

Kelly grinned a little wider and slid his arm around Nick’s waist again, squeezing him as they continued on toward the car.

April 4, 2013

Nick was on the couch watching a baseball game, but by the fifth inning, he got stiff and sore and lost interest because the Sox were playing like shit and it was only the third game of the season. After using the head and then limping back to the sofa, he gave up on appearances, took a pain pill, slumped down on the sofa in a cocoon of blankets, and tossed his feet up on the coffee table, trying to ease the ache in his body.

It wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to try to keep his mind from running in circles like it had been day in and day out since he’s gotten home from Miami.

He needed to do something with his hands. He needed to do something with hismind. Kelly had been adamant lately that he not overtax himself, and Nick had been following orders. He knew he wasn’t right yet, physically or mentally. He’d nearly died in the street in Miami, and that was going to take more than a month or two to get over.

He glanced around theFiddler, mentally making a list of the things he needed to do. She still had holes in her. In the doors to the salon, in the door to the main cabin. The bunks belowdecks were still in shambles as well, and Nick was tired of fighting with his stupid insurance company about it. She deserved to be made whole again as soon as he was physically able.

Hell, maybe putting her right again would help puthimright again too.

It would have to wait until he wasn’t hurting and drugged, though. He couldn’t even concentrate on baseball. He stared at another stupid fucking erectile dysfunction commercial, shaking his head and sneering at the screen. His attention wavered to the shelves hidden in the compartments beside the TV, and he scowled. He hadn’t looked in that compartment in a long time, not since the incident with the CIA when he’d been terrified that they’d shot up the box he kept hidden in there.

He pushed himself off the couch, the blanket still over his head and dragging behind him as he trudged over to the cabinet. He stared at the handle, preparing himself for what was inside, then he jerked it open and grabbed the beat-up old cardboard storage box on the top shelf.

He clutched it to his chest as he returned to his spot on the couch, wincing when he flopped too hard onto the cushions and jarred all his sore parts.

The box fell to the floor, settling between his bare feet. He hung his head as he stared at the lid, the blanket heavy over his head. What the hell was he thinking? He hadn’t opened this box since the day Elias Sanchez’s mother had handed it to him in the middle of Arlington Cemetery; why the hell did he thinknowwas a good time to do this?

No. He knew why. Eli had been talking to him ever since the knife had slid into his side. His life had flashed before his eyes: a frenzied, terrified montage of all the time he’d wasted and the precious things he’d lost. And Eli had been there with him in the street, staying behind when he’d begged the others to go and save themselves.

Eli had stayed with him.

Nick took a deep, steadying breath, then gingerly pulled the lid off the box and set it on the couch beside him.

Nick O,

If you’re reading this letter right now, I guess that means I kicked it. I always kind of figured your crazy ass would go first, down in a blaze of glory or some bullshit. I finally beat you to something.

I’m writing this from a hospital bed. You probably remember the day, you were just here with me. Hell, I think you might still be here, hitting on that male nurse out there (you’re not as subtle as you used to be, bro). You spent hours here, cheering me up, telling me stories from the old days, sitting with me when I fell asleep and waiting until I woke up again.

I love you, brother. I realized today that I never tell you enough, but I love you. I keep thinking about how goddamned pure your friendship is, and I love you.

As I’m writing this, you and Grady aren’t speaking to each other and you haven’t for almost a year. Johns is off doing his thing in California, wearing fancy suits and too busy to return our calls. Doc is still in some sort of fugue state, building that damn cabin he won’t let any of us help him with. And I’m pretty sure I have enough evidence to convict Digger of three bank robberies in Louisiana.

It breaks my heart,papá. We were so fucking solid. Now, the team is all but dead.

All those people trying to kill Sidewinder over the years, and it was us that did it in the end. When I get out of this place, I’m going to fucking fix it. And you’re the linchpin, bro, you’re the one who holds us together. I got to fix you first.

But since I intend to write a new one of these every couple years, I guess I died pretty fucking young, huh? I’m hoping I just forgot to keep writing them and you’re like ninety years old right now and we escaped from our old folks’ home together and ran away on theFiddler. Although, your poor fucking leg, bro. I don’t know if I should hope that you’re ninety or not.

Maybe I didn’t get a chance to fix it. Maybe I couldn’t.

I know what it’d do to me if I lost one of you this soon. We were supposed to grow old together. We were supposed to go off on theFiddlerand disappear into the sunset together. I’d be a fucking wreck if I lost that. But you and me, we got something the others don’t have. Losing you would hit me harder than any of them, and I’m not ashamed to tell you that. I don’t care if you tell them that. They know it. I’m fucking tearing up again just thinking about it, and I swear to God if you put me through that shit I’ll resurrect you just to beat your ass.

I don’t know how I died, but I’m betting odds are you went out with me. Back to back, brother to brother, just like we always talked about. Because that’s the kind of man you are.

But if you couldn’t be there with me, and you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I know you’re hurting. I know you’re hurting even more because the others are all scattered and there’s no one for you to lean on. So, in the words of my best friend Nick fucking O’Flaherty, “I’m going to do you a favor, son, and you’re going to love me for it.”

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