The Storm

Shaking my head, I let out a humorless chuckle.

“Hindsight—it’s a motherfucker, ain’t it?”

I stare ahead at nothing for a moment. Then, I push up to my feet and put my hands in my pockets. I look at Jonny’s name etched deep into the headstone.

“I miss you, man.”

Then, I turn on my heel and head back to the car.

When we pull up in front of the bakery, it’s closed, but the lights are on.

Bob and I exit the car. Dave isn’t staying this time. He’s going to have dinner with an old friend and come back to pick us up in a few hours.

I knock on the glass door. A few seconds later, Marie appears. She unlocks the door, letting us in. She isn’t smiling at me, but she isn’t scowling either, so I take that as a good thing.

I hear Dave’s car pulling away as Marie closes the door behind us.

“Go on up,” she tells us.

I lead the way, and Bob follows me through the back and up the stairs. When I reach the landing, I knock on the apartment door.

I hear voices behind the door. Then, it opens, and Storm is standing on the other side.

Only a few hours ago, I saw him, but the sight of him is still a sucker-punch to the heart. I wonder if seeing him will ever stop hurting.

“Hey,” he says in a low tone, his eyes sweeping the floor. “Come in.”

He stands aside, so Bob and I walk in.

There’s an awkward moment where we’re all standing in the hallway with no clue about what to say.

“Mom’s already at the table,” he says.

He starts walking, so we follow him. He turns into a kitchen with a small table in the center. Tiffany is sitting at it. She doesn’t look well—not that she looked well earlier, but she seems a little worse now.

I start to wonder if we should be here. She looks like she needs rest.

“Hey,” I say to her. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She gives me a bright smile, but I can tell it’s forced. “Sit, please.” She gestures to the empty chairs.

Storm sits opposite Tiffany, so Bob and I take the two seats opposite each other. Lasagna and salad are already on the table.

“Looks great.” I gesture to the food.

“I can’t take credit. Marie made it for us. I don’t get to cook much nowadays.” Her smile is forced again.

“I don’t cook ever.” I laugh.

“Yeah, you probably have a maid to do all that for you,” Storm mutters.

Okay…

I see a look transpire between Tiffany and Storm.

So, I chuckle and say, “Well, I wouldn’t call my wife a maid. I wouldn’t dare. She’d have my ass if I did.”

Even though Tru would look amazing in a maid’s uniform. Maybe I should buy her one—for bedroom purposes only, of course.

“You don’t have house staff?” Storm frowns at me.

“We do have a cleaner who comes in a once a week to help out, but we have three kids, and my wife works. That’s it though.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t believe me.

“I do have staff…people who work for me at the label.”

My eyes flicker to Bob, realizing what I’m talking about—the label that Jonny and I set up together. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.

“You know, when Jake and Jonny created TMS Records, they were the youngest people ever to own and run their own label,” Bob tells Storm.

My eyes come back to Bob, and he gives me a smile.

Picking up the bottle of water from the table, I pour some out before offering it to everyone else.

“So, who do you have signed to your label then?” Storm asks with a begrudging tone, but he’s talking to me. So, I run with it.

“We have The Devil’s Own, and of course, Vintage—”

“I love their music,” Tiffany says.

“Oh, and we’ve just signed Lennox,” I add.

“Lennox?” Storm’s eyes show immediate interest.

“Yeah. You like them?”

“Like is putting it mildly.” Tiffany laughs softly.

“Yeah, well, they’re awesome,” Storm says defensively, in only that way a teenager can.

“I can arrange for you to meet them sometime, if you’d like,” I tell him.

“Really?” His face is all lit up.

I know that I’m making some ground with him. Even if only a small amount, it’s a move in the right direction.

We spend the rest of dinner talking about bands we like. Storm tells us about songs he can play on his guitar. I ask him to get his guitar and play some for us, but he declines. He does that embarrassed look that my kids do when they don’t want to do something, so I don’t push it with Storm. There will be plenty of time to hear his abilities even though I am dying to see if he plays like Jonny did.

“That lasagna was amazing.” Bob presses his hand to his stomach. “Thank Marie for us.”

“She’ll be pleased to hear that you enjoyed it,” Tiffany says.

“Well, let us clean up since you fed us.” Bob stands, picking up his plate.

“No, it’s fine.” Tiffany waves him down.

But I know that there’s no way she can stand at the sink, washing dishes, with how sick she is.

“It’s no trouble. And my wife would have my ass if she knew I hadn’t offered to clean up.” I stand, collecting the rest of the plates. I take them over to the sink.

“Bob, why don’t you and Tiffany go sit in the living room, and Storm and I will do the dishes?”

Storm’s eyes flash to mine. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue, and then he seems to relent.

“Sure. You go rest, Mom.” He stands. Going over to the sink, he starts to fill it with water, adding dish washing liquid.

“I’ll wash,” I tell him, rolling up my sleeves. I have no clue where the dishes need to go, so it’ll be easier this way.

Storm brings the rest of the dishes over, and I start washing.

After I place the washed plate on the dish drainer, he picks it up and starts to dry it with a dish towel.

“Not very rock and roll,” he says. “Never thought I’d see the day when Jake Wethers was standing in my kitchen, washing the dishes. I almost feel like I should take a picture.” He chuckles.

“Yeah, don’t.” I laugh. “Tom and Den would never let me live it down.”

He chuckles again, and then silence descends between us as we wash the dishes.

“What was he like?” His softly spoken words blindside me. There’s an ache to them, and it’s like a blade piercing my chest.

I turn my eyes to him, to find him already watching me.

“Jonny?” I’m careful not to call Jonny his dad. I don’t want to pour fuel on Storm’s kindling flame.

“Yeah,” he utters, his eyes sweeping the floor.

I stare down into the soapy water my hands are in. “He was wild, impulsive, and stubborn. But he was loyal, talented and smart as hell.” A smile plays on my lips. “He could play a guitar like you’d never seen before. And…he was my best friend.” A lump chokes my throat. I turn, pressing my back against the counter. “You look exactly like he did at your age.”

“You knew him when he was young?”