Reckless (Thoughtless, #3)(126)
Kellan, however, surprisingly frowned and looked down at his shoes. “Actually . . . I have a favor to ask of you.”
Seeing the seriousness in his expression, I twisted to face him on the couch. “What is it?”
Kellan leaned forward on his knees. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt with a short-sleeved black shirt layered over the top of it. The two contrasting colors seemed to perfectly express his disposition—he was eager, he was reluctant. He was happy, he was sad. He was at peace, he was melancholy. I hated seeing the conflict on his face, especially when I wasn’t sure what he was conflicted about.
He ran a hand through his hair and peeked up at me. “I’ve been debating doing something. I wasn’t going to do it, so I didn’t even bother mentioning it, but the longer we sit here, the more it eats away at me, and I just feel like . . . I have to do it. I need to do it.” He swallowed, then slowly exhaled. “But I can’t do it alone. I need you.”
Not expecting him to say anything like that, I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “My answer is yes. Whatever the favor is, my answer is always yes. Whenever you need me, I’m there, Kellan . . . I’m always here for you.”
His eyes watered as he swallowed again. It broke my heart. Brushing some hair off of his forehead, I asked, “What do you need to do?”
He tried to tell me, but his voice was so hoarse he couldn’t. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “I need to visit someone.” He clamped his mouth shut after that and looked away; the pain on his face was obvious.
I kissed his shoulder. “Okay.” I didn’t know who he needed to visit, and it didn’t matter. My husband was asking for me, and I would be there.
Kellan called for a cab while I grabbed my purse and a thick jacket. The label would arrange transportation if we needed it, but that was generally only for official functions; we were on our own if we were running errands. Upon Kellan’s request, our friendly bus driver, Jonathan, had started parking so that the door to our bus was hidden by the other tour bus. It gave us a modicum amount of privacy from the fans and photographers when we entered or exited the bus. It also prevented Sienna from attempting anymore “conjugal visit” photo ops.
When the taxi arrived and was cleared by security, it parked in front of the crack between the two busses. Kellan slipped on his leather jacket and gave me a sad smile as he walked over to me. “Thanks for doing this,” he whispered, twisting me around and helping me put on my jacket.
Looking over my shoulder and wondering what it was we were doing, I told him, “It’s not a problem, Kellan. You’re not ever a problem.”
Kellan’s face was a stone mask when we settled into the taxi; he looked completely impassive. To the driver, he said, “Saint Joseph’s Cemetery in Gloucester Township, New Jersey.” That answer was about the last thing I’d expected him to say. I could not have been more confused about why we were going to a graveyard. Turning to me, Kellan clarified, “It’s where my parents are buried.”
Knowing just how difficult this day was going to be for him, I put my hand on his thigh. He immediately placed his hand over mine and laced our fingers together. While Kellan’s gaze shifted to the cityscape blurring past us, I asked him, “Why are your parents buried here and not Seattle?”
Still not looking at me, Kellan shrugged. “My aunt brought them here after the funeral. She said there was nothing left in Washington for them, so why bury them there.” He returned his eyes to mine then, and there was a distinct edge of hardness in them. “She buried them here, near where she and my mom grew up.”
Sadness swept over me. He really hadn’t had anybody on his side when he was younger—except Denny and his band. “Oh, does your aunt live here, then?”
Kellan eyes snapped back to the window. “Don’t know, don’t care. We don’t talk . . . never have.” Kellan clearly didn’t want to talk about her, so I let the conversation die.
We made one stop on the way to the cemetery—for flowers. It just about broke my heart when he ran into a shop on the corner and came out holding two bouquets. It really killed me when he handed me a white rose petal with the words I’m glad you’re here written on it.
The drive to the cemetery took less than twenty minutes, but the light rain outside had turned into a heavy downpour by the time we arrived. I didn’t have an umbrella with me, but I didn’t really care; Kellan needed to do this. He needed closure. The cab stopped on a road that looped around an island of grass with a gigantic concrete angel in the center of it. Kellan told the driver to wait for us, then hopped out of the cab. Clenching both bouquets of red roses in his hand, Kellan immediately started turning his head back and forth, searching the expansive grounds. By the time I exited the cab, he was soaking wet; he looked lost and lonely as he looked around the empty graveyard.
He shook his head when I was beside him and ran his hand through his hair, slicking back the thick, wet mess. “I don’t know where they are.”
There was sorrow in his eyes as the rain streamed down his face. He didn’t know where his parents were buried. Grabbing his free hand, cool from the damp air, I looked around the sea of headstones. The space around us was huge, and a road to our left led to even more graves that I could see through the breaks in the dripping trees. We could search for days and never find his parents. We didn’t have days, though. We had a few hours at best.