Wild with all regrets, p.18
Wild with All Regrets, page 18
Anyway, sorry to ramble on like this. I’d love to hear from you, to meet you in person, put a face to the name I’ve heard so much about. You’re always welcome in my home, Lucas. I know it’s silly, but I feel so close to you, I want to help you if I can. Fiona wants to meet you, too, I think she imagines that you’re very handsome—but don’t tell her I said that!
Please don’t worry about paying rent, the flat is paid for and I’m not losing anything by letting you take care of the upkeep. I hope to hear from you soon. This is such a terrible time for our country. Every single street in the village has a black banner in one of the windows. I hope they all died for something.
With all my love,
Anna Murray
Lucas shut his eyes and crumpled the paper up, guilt and love and regret nipping at his soul. He didn’t deserve Mrs. Murray’s kindness, her generosity, her love. He didn’t deserve to live in the space he shared with Jamie, in this beautiful apartment that had given him the happiest years of his life. He pulled out a plain piece of paper and sat down at the desk.
Mrs. Murray,
Sell the flat. I don’t need it. Jamie didn’t suffer.
Lucas Connolly
1928
Lucas went to bed early that night, not wanting to sit with Jamie for any longer than he had to. He had never admitted to anyone that literally—and directly—Jamie Murray’s death had been entirely his fault. That he was in every sense of the word a murderer, and the architect of his own misery and loneliness. How could he ever admit that to the increasingly dissatisfied spirit that endlessly haunted him? Jamie hated being dead. Lucas watched from the corner of his eye as Jamie moved to pick up a book and his hand whizzed right through it.
“Damn it!” Jamie growled, his aura flashing crimson. “How long does it take to get used to being a ghost?”
“I dunno. With Mattie’s injury it was over a year, I think. I guess he didn’t lose his whole body though.”
“It’s not funny.”
“ . . . I know it isn’t. I’m sorry, Jamie.”
“ . . . It’s not your fault, Lucas. Get some rest.”
He pulled the covers over his head, not sure if Jamie was going to sit and watch him sleep or—or whatever the hell a ghost would do to occupy its time in the late hours of the evening.
“Lucas?”
Christ. For fucking Christ’s sake.
“What is it?”
“I really am sorry about before. About doubting you.”
Lucas peeked over the edge of the blanket and saw Jamie’s forlorn expression. “It— don’t worry about it, Jamie. It must have been a tremendous surprise for you to find out I was ‘like that.’”
“Doesn’t matter. I know you. You deserved better than how I treated you.”
“Jamie, come here,” Lucas offered, moving the covers aside like it made a difference. “You can sleep here with me if it’s not too weird for you now. I forgive you; I love you, and I want to help you.”
Jamie swallowed. “It’s not too weird for me. Is it too weird for you?”
Lucas smiled. “Nah. Besides, even if you wanted to fool around, it’s not like it’s possible with your little impairment.”
“You’re such an ass.” Jamie smirked and moved toward the mattress all the same. It took him a moment to figure out how to lie down effectively, since he went through the whole bed if he wasn’t paying attention. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad. Lucas smiled at his efforts.
“We used to do this all the time, eh?” Jamie offered, settling inside the mattress but under the covers as much as was possible. “I loved being close to you. I always felt safe with you.”
“Me too,” Lucas whispered. “I bet the other guys talked about it, you know. How close we were.” How often we slept in the same bed. Once again, he found himself wondering if Jamie was real, if all of this was just a figment of his mind as it slowly self-destructed. Jamie was still so agreeable, but at times Lucas wondered if he was just saying things that his own mind wanted to hear. It didn’t matter if he was real, it didn’t matter. He was never going to get another chance to make things right like this again if he lived to be a hundred.
Jamie reached out his transparent hand rested it over Lucas’s shoulder. “I hated to see you the way you were when I first got here. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but you seem a lot more vibrant since I’ve arrived.” He chuckled. “I want to help you, too. And I forgive you for when I died. Hopefully that sinks in eventually and we can move on. We’ll need to figure out what other things I can help you with so both of us can find peace.”
“You can absolve me all you want, Jamie. It’s still my fault you died. I don’t want to argue about it.”
“Okay. We can come back to that one.” He looked at Lucas’s face for a good long while. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
Lucas’s eyes widened, and he licked his lips without thinking about it. “No.”
Jamie nodded and rolled over, staring at the ceiling. “Guess it wouldn’t feel like anything to either of us.”
“Probably not,” Lucas said quietly. “Jamie? Do you want to see your family again?”
“My . . . is my mother still alive?”
“I don’t know. She sent me a letter right after you got killed. I visited her once, a few years ago. Angie arranged everything. I must have it around here somewhere; her address would be on it.” Mrs. Murray didn’t seem like the type of person to sell a house to which she had an emotional connection. Jamie had grown up in that house, and John had lived and loved them all of those years there. Lucas would bet a fair bit of money that she would have stayed put.
“What about Fi?”
“I’m not sure, I think she lives in Dublin. I figure once we find your mum, we can ask her about Fiona. Seeing her would be good for you.”
“What was the letter about?” Jamie asked, resting his arms behind his head. “Did you like her when you met her?”
“She said I could stay in the old flat. She wanted to know if you suffered. She wanted me to visit her. I said no to all three questions. When I finally met her, she was kind and lovely. I didn’t want to impose on her for too long, though.”
“Did I suffer, Lucas? I don’t remember it at all.”
“You were shot in the heart; you never knew what hit you. I was with you ’til you passed.”
Jamie rolled over and looked at Lucas.
“Then what happened?”
Lucas shut his eyes.
“I put my gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger. I was out of bullets. I almost killed a guy trying to get your gun to finish the job. They overpowered me, and I don’t know why they didn’t kill me. I woke up in casualty clearing a few weeks later. I don’t remember anything from before that.” He felt his pulse quickening and wondered if Jamie could see the steady violent beat of his heart.
Your blood was hot and salty, it was on my hands, it was sticky, and it made it hard to do anything. I killed you. I killed you, and I watched you die.
“I’m so sorry, Lucas,” Jamie whispered. “To leave you like that.” The spirit was silent then, and Lucas continued to be astounded by his beauty. This was what an angel looked like, surely.
“Okay. Let’s go see my mother; I think it’ll be good for both of us. We can get up early tomorrow and try and dig out that letter together.”
Lucas wasn’t sure he was ready to face Anna again, but it seemed like it would give Jamie closure. “Yeah. That’s a great idea.”
“Can we see your family, too? I’ve missed them so much.”
“Sure, Jamie. I don’t see them very often, though. Jessie’s got the kids, and Becky’s got her hands full with Mattie . . . I don’t like to impose.”
“The war really damaged us both, even before it was over. I think seeing them all will help bring you peace. Little by little, I want to set you free,” Jamie reasoned. “Jesus Christ, Lucas. I wish I could touch you.”
He reached out a hand and rested it against Lucas’s cheek. Despite not being able to feel it, Lucas found himself nuzzling the air in an attempt to get closer.
God. This was torture.
“I wish you could, too. I wish things were different for you.” He knew the apologizing was getting old, from both of them. It wasn’t productive, and it wasn’t going to solve their problems. “Worst case, we can try to find an exorcist and try and banish you to heaven that way,” he joked, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
“Lucas, it’s okay, honestly. It’s frustrating, but it’s like any disability, really. I’m sure it just takes some getting used to. I promise you, this is better than being dead. Hell, it’s better than being alive was, some of the time. I have more clarity now, I’m not afraid anymore. Near the end . . . it was getting bad, wasn’t it?”
Lucas swallowed. “Yeah.” He reached over and tried to brush some of Jamie’s shimmering golden hair out of his eyes. But of course, he couldn’t. “It was really bad.”
“I know I wouldn’t have made it as long as I did without you, you know. You did so much for me, and I don’t know if I ever really thanked you.”
Jamie looked up at him, and Lucas wondered if the offer for a kiss was still open.
“You don’t need to thank me, Jamie,” Lucas assured him. “Your friendship was the most precious gift anyone ever gave me. You were the greatest part of my life. I would have done anything for you. I still will. Hell, you think I would have tried to get my shit together if I didn’t think it would get you to heaven? I’d do it again; I’d do it all again.”
The image of Jamie’s face as the life drained from his eyes conjured itself unbidden to the front of his mind and cursed him. Not here. Not now. Not while fucking Jamie needs me.
Lucas . . .?
His head flopping to the side, his eyes glazing over, the horror of that smile still playing on his lips . . . Jamie . . .? Jamie!
“Lucas?”
His sharp silver eyes darted up to Jamie; he must have looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“Sorry.” Christ, how embarrassing. He hadn’t meant to get into a fucking flashback while Jamie was with him. “I was thinking about things I would have done differently. I was thinking about how you died.”
“I can’t even imagine watching you die. It must have been so horrible.”
Oh, Jamie.
You have no idea.
1918
Lucas didn’t leave the flat for a few days after he sent off the letter to Mrs. Murray. He felt like he was underwater, like he was slowly freezing to death. He couldn’t really hear anything, feel anything. No hunger or fatigue, just emptiness. Regret. He went into Jamie’s room and thought about cleaning, about dusting the place, washing the sheets . . . but he couldn’t bear to do it. Each wash would lessen Jamie’s smell a little, remove his little touches here and there, and a large part of Lucas felt like he didn’t deserve to disrupt this sacred place. He went out only once that week, to buy some flowers to put into a vase in Jamie’s room.
He sat on the floor facing Jamie’s bed with his head in his hands. Why . . . why had he done it? Why had he shot Jamie? His eye twitched all the time now, it was his curse to forever relive that awful, awful moment. He had been so certain that the army would have him shot for murder but . . . it never occurred to anyone that Lucas Connolly would have laid a hand on Lieutenant Murray. Why would he? They loved each other; they were like brothers.
Lucas?
That look of betrayal in Jamie’s eyes as the gun came out—the confused little smile like he couldn’t believe what was happening. In his last moments, even as he was dying . . . Jamie trusted Lucas with all his heart. You’d never hurt me, Lucas, not you, never. That stupid idiot!
Lucas was weeping, he realized quite suddenly. Hot tears had been streaming down his face, snot running from his nose and over his lips. What the fuck was wrong with him? He never cried; he hadn’t even cried when he had known the war was over . . . Had he? Peace had settled in around him, and the consequences of his choices had come to light. Never hearing Jamie’s voice again, never making him laugh again. Their beautiful, peaceful home empty and gone, Lucas’s life in tatters. Jamie was never coming back, it was Lucas’s fault, and he was going to spend the rest of his life alone.
Jamie haunted his every waking moment, his dreams, his nightmares, there was nowhere to run. He’d taken care of most of his remaining duties, and he had to face his demons, whether he liked it or not.
For the better part of the last two years, Lucas had been watching Jamie lose himself to the darkness inside of his mind. He blamed himself for his father’s death, for Lucas’s involvement in the war, for failing to live up to his own expectations.
The guilt had slowly seeped into his consciousness and started poisoning him, compounded by the very real shell shock that had taken hold of his sanity. Jamie probably could have gone home on sick leave, but how could he leave the others behind? How could he let something as simple and weak as his mind overcome his duty to his country, his men?
Maybe that was part of the problem, that Lucas himself had become blinded to the reality that Jamie was flagging and suffering. Jamie’s dreams had become bigger than Jamie himself was, and over time those dreams had lost their clarity: help Ireland, avenge my father, be a man, a hero, someone my mother can be proud of. Survive, survive, survive.
Gradually, Lucas started to forget what Jamie’s smile looked like, what his laugh sounded like. Little by little, the war chipped away at the things that made him him. By the time Lucas realized just how bad the damage was, he feared it was too late to get him back. His episodes of intense fear and delusions were getting more frequent and longer, it was only a matter of time before he killed the wrong person . . . before he got discharged as a coward. Lined up and shot by the crown that he hated. Was that why Lucas had done it? To protect Jamie from a court-martial?
No. Unequivocally, no. That thought hadn’t been in his mind at all, had it? Odds are they never woulda shot him over this, right? Certainly, protecting Jamie from legal action wasn’t grounds to fucking put him down.
Jamie was charmed; he’d have managed somehow; he was so handsome, so poised, so likable . . . even a British court would have taken pity on him. Had it been Lucas’s fear of losing Jamie altogether? A selfish wish to keep their bond pure, their memories untarnished?
No. It had been that last little smile. That beautiful, serene face when they’d held each other that last time. Lucas had barely gotten Jamie out of his own head that day. He was losing him. Jamie had smiled, time had slowed, and . . . Lucas wanted to set him free. Let him go when he was still lucid, when he wasn’t afraid— when all that existed in the world was their friendship and the love between them.
Free him from the hell that Lucas was still trapped in, where his father was still dead, his comrades missing limbs, his mind about to shatter into pieces. Stop Jamie from slipping further away from him, preserve the memories they had before—before he . . . let him die as a man, with his dignity, his intelligence, and his humanity intact. Lucas hadn’t been thinking, really, it had been a spur of the moment decision. Give Jamie peace, let Jamie rest, let Jamie go.
Lucas had never thought about hurting Jamie before, his whole damn credo was to protect the idiot. But in that moment, death was a mercy and existence was a punishment. Lucas realized that the only thing he couldn’t protect Jamie from was the darkness of his own broken mind.
Lucas’s body shook, the muscles in his abdomen ached as he doubled over with agonized sobs. He gasped for air, hiccupping with grief as the truth assaulted him: that if he had only been patient . . . Jamie could have come home.
He’d be here with me, he’d be a mess, but he’d be breathing, and we could fix his problems together. I’d stay with him; I’d never let him go.
Lucas had given up on him too easily, but it had been two fucking years, two years of watching the man he loved suffer and crumble. He couldn’t watch Jamie lose any more of himself, right? That smile . . . that beautiful smile that he hadn’t seen in years. The smile that said, “I’m happy, I’m comfortable, I’ll be okay. Thank you, Lucas.”
He couldn’t — he should have waited, he . . . Lucas? Why? Why? Lucas screamed into his knees and covered his head with his arms.
If Jamie had lived, he would have heard Lucas’s cries, he would have come running and put his arms around those narrow shoulders and held him until he was calm enough to talk. Lucas could almost imagine his fingers clinging to the fabric of Jamie’s shirt, burying his sopping wet face in the crook of Jamie’s neck and muttering unintelligibly about how sorry he was for everything. Jamie would stroke his back, his lips nearly touching Lucas’s ear, whispering that it was going to be okay. And Lucas would believe him, since Jamie was never wrong about anything.
Lucas looked up from his knees to the empty apartment around him. All he could hear were his own shuddering breaths. Jamie wasn’t coming to hug him; Jamie wasn’t coming to tell him it had all been some terrible mistake. Jamie was dead. He was dead and buried in a mass grave in the middle of Belgium.
Go to the bathroom, Lucas. Get the razor. Make it quick, open your wrists . . . it’ll be over soon.
Yet his penance forbade it. Lucas had stolen Jamie Murray from the world, and his curse was to wander the earth as a miserable husk until he died of natural causes. Death at his own hand was too easy, too gentle.
He slept on the floor in Jamie’s room, just wanting to be close to him in these last days and hours before he left their past behind. It didn’t take much to pack his life into boxes; it wasn’t like he had much going on anymore. Lucas placed his meager possessions into a rucksack and walked into Jamie’s bedroom one last time. He thought about taking some memento, something tangible he could hold on to when the days dragged on together, when it was hard to remember what he was living for anymore.
The army had probably sent Jamie’s identification tags and medals to his mother, along with his father’s pocket watch that he never went anywhere without. Lucas felt like a grave robber as he opened Jamie’s drawers and closet, trying to find something suitable— well, acceptable, to take for himself. Nothing valuable, nothing too personal, he knew he didn’t deserve it, but he also knew that he needed it if he was going to survive.
