Page 77 of Everything We Left Behind

CHAPTER 23

JAMES

Present Day

June 28

Hanalei, Kauai, Hawaii

After a quick excursion with Marc back to the art and toy store, where they purchase paints, brushes, acrylics, canvases, and portable easels because there’s no better time than the present to start Marc’s art gallery, they return to Natalya’s. James pulls into the driveway behind a truck that’s seen its share of saltwater. Three surfboards angle up from the rear bed. Julian’s shooting hoops with an older man whose long, athletic strides and sinewy frame forecast the body Julian’s growing into. Gale Hayes, retired world-class surfer and the owner of Hayes Boards. This man is his son’s grandfather. His father-in-law.

He’s also the one Carlos punched in his face at his wedding.

For once, he’s thankful he can’t remember.

Gale catches Julian’s rebound and pitches him the basketball as James cuts the engine. He squints at the car, hand raised to block the high sun. James exits the car, and Gale, lowering his arm, approaches him with a purpose.

Oh boy. This should go well,James thinks grimly. He shuts the door, pushes back his shoulders, and thrusts out his hand. Might as well reintroduce himself, and then apologize on behalf of his other self. “Mr.Hayes, I’m—”

“James, yeah, I know.” Gale clasps James’s hand and claps his upper arm. Weathered skin folds under a dusting of strawberry-gray whiskers, revealing teeth tinged yellow with age. Julian dribbles the ball up behind him, listening to their conversation. Gale grips his hips and widens his stance, ducking his head against the sun’s glare to peer at James. “Nat tells me you don’t remember anything about the last seven years.”

James lifts his Maui Jims to rest on his head. His eyes immediately tear from the intense daylight reflecting off the light-colored asphalt. “Aside from the past six months, not a thing.”

Gale grins. “Then we’re going to get along just fine. Although”—he loosely grasps James’s upper arm—“it’s a shame you don’t remember Raquel.”

Julian’s dribble slows. He’s angled his body away, acting as though he doesn’t care, but James knows he’s listening intently. “She’s the mother of my sons, and for that reason alone, I’ll always be grateful.”

Gale nods and pats James’s arm. “She was a good woman.”

A car door shuts behind James, and Gale cranes his neck to get a better look around him. Green eyes the same color as Natalya’s widen. “Who is this lovely beach bunny?”

James turns around in time to see his mother blush.

Marc swings from the Jeep’s roll bar. “She’spapá’s mamá.”

The dribbling stops. Julian gawks at his brother. “Don’t be stupid, Marc. She was our neighbor.”

“It’s true. I heardpapácall Señora Carla ‘Mom.’”

Julian swivels his head and glares at James.

James’s heart drops to the ground. He swears under his breath. Marc had heard him. And he was old enough to connect the dots. He watches the color drain from Julian’s face, how his hands flex, fingers splayed and bent gripping the ball. Emotions come in a quick succession of waves, rippling across his face—disbelief, fear, anger, and then the worst. Betrayal. James knows that feeling well.

Julian’s body tenses. He chucks the ball at James, hitting him in the ribs.

He grunts, choosing to absorb the impact of Julian’s anger rather than deflecting the ball. He catches and holds the ball against his chest.

“You’re an asshole,” Julian shouts. He takes off toward the beach at a full sprint.

“Aren’t you going to go after him?” Claire asks, her voice pitching high with her dismay.

“In a moment. He’s been angry with me for a long time. He needs to run off some steam.”

James gives the ball to Gale, letting it roll off his fingertips. His mother glowers at him. “It’s probably for the best,” she says sanctimoniously. “They would have found out sooner or later. I should have told them—”

James holds up a finger, stopping her. “What you did in Mexico is a whole other matter. Right now, I need to go talk with my son.”

James finds Julian about a football-field length down the beach crouched under the shade of a palm, elbows parked on knees and head buried in his arms. James eases down with a long sigh to sit beside his son; then he unlaces his shoes and dumps the sand. Taking off his socks, he stuffs them in his shoes and digs his heels into the sand in search of the cool granules underneath.

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