One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(110)

Pressing a kiss to Delphine’s temple, I whisper a low, “I’ll be—”

“Go,” she whispers, her gaze fixed on Dom’s casket as it sinks further into the hallowed ground.

I’m ten steps behind when I snap out Tobias’s name in vain, knowing exactly where he’s going and to whom.

“Tobias . . .” I manage, my throat thick. “You can’t go,” I swallow, jogging to catch up with him as he quickens his pace. “You know you can’t—”

“Where is she?” He snaps, not sparing a glance back as he pulls his keys from his pocket.

“You don’t want to do this,” I warn. “It will only—”

He turns on a dime. “Where is she?!”

“At school,” I exhale, exasperated.

Within the minute, he’s inside his Jag, speeding toward Georgia, toward Cecelia. But even this far gone in his grief, we both know he won’t make it past the state line. He’ll protect her, even if doing so destroys what’s left of him. When his car is out of sight, I turn and start my climb back up the hill and through the gate. The sun disappears beneath a blanket of clouds as the crowd begins to disperse in scattered waves. Delphine remains the only one left, looking so small as she stands isolated at the edge of the grave, eyes cast down. Standing nearby with shovels, the two men at the ready look to me for permission to start, and I jerk my head, refusing to allow her to see it. Her grief and fear are too much of a combination to endure. Or maybe it’s mine.

It’s when I reach her that I see the true toll in her posture—which looks more maternal, like that of a grieving mother—as she stares down at her nephew’s grave. Standing idly next to her, it’s when the last car starts and begins to pull away that she finally turns to me and allows herself to fall apart in my arms.





Russell



Spotting the kid peeking behind the tree as the last of the soil is patted in, I wait at my car until he starts to approach Dom’s grave.

He looks to be no more than twelve or thirteen, but I can see in his posture that he’s matured far beyond his age. It becomes even more apparent as I approach, and he turns his watchful gaze toward me. His eyes are filled to the brim, a thousand emotions flitting through them. His lip is cut, and there’s a yellow bruise beneath one of his eyes.

I stand beside him in wait, sensing some familiarity but unable to place who he is.

“Hey,” I say, lining my footing up with his.

The kid’s chest bounces as he stares down at the fresh soil, and I appraise him. He looks like he hasn’t bathed in days or eaten well in months, his skin sickly.

“He was . . .” the kid starts, “he was the only . . .” he tries again and fails before deciding to allow his grief through—though he bats away a few of his tears. “He was the only person who ever saw me,” the kid sniffs and falters, face crumbling as though he’s lost everything.

My eyes burn as I stare down at the dirt and nod. “I can relate.”

For me, Dom was a mentor, a friend, and the only human being who truly saw the struggle going on inside me. He pinpointed it early, talked it out with me when I wanted to, and sat it out with me when I didn’t.

It was our secret.

Getting lost in that thought, the kid speaks up again, his voice filled with utter devastation. “I-I went to t-the garage last week, and that g-guy Peter told me,” he shakes his head, “never mind. I’m sorry for your loss. I shouldn’t be here.”

The kid moves toward the gate, and on instinct, I palm his shoulder. He flinches, instantly pulling himself from my grip when it dawns on me. A conversation Dom and I had before he left for France. “You Zach?”

He nods, eyes widening a little. “He told you about me?”

“Yeah, he did,” I nod. “And I can tell you right now, you’re exactly where you need to be.” A soul-crushing relief covers his face as I nod toward my car. “Let’s go.”





Sean



“Alfred Sean Roberts, get your ass back in this house right now!” Mom yells at my back as I race out of the driveway, one of my shoes slipping on my pedal as I call over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back, Mama!”

“Now, mister!” Mom hollers after me, and I know she means business.

If I get my Sunday school clothes dirty, I’m going to get an ass-whoopin’. I pedal faster, my shoes slowing me down as my dad hollers my name from the porch when I turn the corner.

I pretend not to hear him. If I go back now, he might not be there.

I saw him when we passed on the way home from church—sitting on the curb. He’s always on the curb and never plays. Turning onto his street, I see he’s still there, sitting next to his mailbox. He sees me just before I ride up and stands up fast, looking both ways.

My shoes slide a little when I put my feet down to stop. “Hi.”

He stares at me as if I didn’t talk to him.

“You want to ride bikes with me?” I ask.

He just blinks at me. He’s got dark hair and skin. My cousin Bradly said his family are fortuners.

“Where’s your bike?” I ask, and he doesn’t say anything.

“If you get your bike, we can ride.” When he doesn’t talk, I try again. “Bradly said you were a fortuner!” I shout. “Are you weird?!” I tilt my head. “You don’t look weird.”