Page 27 of Drive Me Wilde

By the way, Nana is buried just to the right of the rose garden. We thought it was the perfect resting place for her.

Great. See you later.

I open the bedroom window and warm summer air rushes in. I set a piece of cheese on bread and nibble it before going out to cut some roses. I haven't been back in town for many years, and Weston's been gone too. Dad's grave is no doubt overgrown and neglected.

A few minutes and a few thorn pricks later I hold a cluster of yellow, fragrant roses in one hand as I pedal the bike three blocks to the cemetery. The air is warm, but the coastal breeze always provides relief. It's a constant reminder that just past the tall spruces and cliff edges, the Pacific Ocean stretches out to the rest of the world.

I reach the Rockhurst Cemetery and lock up the bike outside the gate. Half the graveyard is filled with old, weathered tombstones from the last two centuries. Most of the stones are crooked and cracked, and a pair of angel statues that have stood watch over them for many years are starting to look more like monsters than angels. Their delicate facial features have decayed, leaving big holes where noses and lips should be.

The newer half of the cemetery is filled with shiny marble markers that are mostly flat in the ground, the more affordable headstones. Weston and I badly wanted our dad to have a tall, vertical marker, one that matched his grandness in our hearts and minds, but Mom refused, insisting it was too much money. An ornate black iron fence surrounds carefully planted and pruned rose bushes of every color and fragrance. There's a stone fountain in the middle where an angel pours water from an ewerinto the surrounding basin. A sign on the fence forbids visitors from using the roses for individual graves.

El Honey's plot is still covered with a fresh patch of sod, and there are many bouquets resting on top of the marker. I can still smell and taste her incredible oatmeal cookies. After Dad's death, I spent much more time with El Honey than with my mom. She knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. I think that's why the Wilde brothers, especially Zander and Jameson, spent so much time at her house. And she never turned anyone away.

I place half the roses on her grave "Thank you, El Honey. I hope you're having a peaceful eternity."

I'm ashamed to realize I'm lost when trying to find my dad's grave. I remember a woman named Poolie Ransom is buried nearby because her name was so unusual. I finally find Poolie, turn a sharp left and walk across a small knoll to my dad's grave. There's a shiny new bench under an oak tree just past his plot. An elderly woman wearing a straw, bonnet-style hat is throwing seeds out for the birds. A group of pigeons huddle nearby waiting for the next toss. The bonnet is deep, but I can see her smile under the shade of the brim. She waves. I wave back.

I find my dad's marker. I'm expecting it to be weed-choked and neglected. Instead, it's shiny, and the grass around it is lush and green. A bouquet of lilies is resting in a half-wilted pile on top of the marker. I sit down next to it and swallow back the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, Dad. I was busy trying to chase my dream career, only the dream must have belonged to someone else because I hated it, every minute of it." That revelation becomes clearer to me with each day away from L.A. Maybe it was Sunni and her carefree life and breezy, happy outlook that made me realize I was doing it all wrong.

I rub my fingers over the name, Edward Roy Nash. He's been gone for half my life, but that day is still raw and fresh in my soul as if it was yesterday.

Sixteen years earlier

"This rain is wreaking total havoc on my hair," Susie complains as she tosses her duffle bag on the bleachers. Susie gets up at the crack of dawn to run a flat iron through her natural curls only to have those same curls bounce right back the second a little fog or rain hits them. I constantly tell her to embrace the gorgeous curls, but she tells me "try the Shirley Temple look for a day, and you'll be reaching for the flat iron, too."

"Keep your feet flexed," I tell Kinsley as I help her stretch her legs by pushing lightly on her back.

"You're turning me into a pretzel," she complains.

The other girls pile in for practice. We had big plans to practice a few new routines out on the field, but the weather had other plans. The rain has been falling for three straight days. Dad mentioned something about an ark this morning as we ate frozen waffles. He and mom were up early arguing about bills, a subject I always found too boring to listen to. I pulled the pillow over my head to try and catch a few more winks before getting up for school, but my mom's shrill tone cut right through the pillow. I've been feeling the early morning start all day.

My parents didn't argue a lot, but when they did it was as if they'd stored up all their anger for one big blow out. In the end, Mom swept out of the kitchen, telling all of us to just toast some frozen waffles. Dad sat with us, grumpy at first, but thenhe watched in amusement as Weston methodically filled each waffle hole with syrup. I joined in to watch, but Weston was clueless about his audience. Dad and I had a good laugh about it. It was easy to pop Dad out of a bad mood. Unfortunately, it wasn't the same with Mom. She'd be mean and short-tempered the rest of the day.

The girls tend to spend the first ten minutes of practice stretching and tossing around gossip from the day. It helps them get their minds on the cheers once we get started. "It's a little cold in the gym, so warm up slowly," I advise. "Don't need any pulled muscles before the big game this Friday."

"When our hot quarterback, Zach, will score big points," Lisa teases. Her eyes round, and her cheeks turn pink. "There's your brother," she says with a sigh. Lisa has been crushing on Weston all year, but he's still dating Naomi. Lisa looks past me again, and her brows bunch with worry. "He looks upset."

I straighten from my stretch and turn to look at him. Weston has stopped a good ten feet from where we are. His face is void of color, as if he's about to get sick. When his gaze lands on me, a deep, cold shiver shakes me to my core.

The girls have gone quiet, and the only sounds are the bleachers creaking from the cold temperature and the rain slapping the cement outside the gym. I hurry toward him and notice my feet feel heavy, like I'm dragging blocks of cement. Something is horribly wrong.

"West?" I ask. I don't have a clue why he's here, but my voice is already shaking, and my knees are trembling. "What's the matter?"

Weston is dripping water on the tile floor. He swallows hard before talking. "There's been an accident. Dad's in the hospital."

His arm shoots out to keep me from collapsing. The girls are gasping and whispering behind me. Kinsley races over andwraps her hand around my arm to steady me. "Is it bad?" she asks.

Weston has no answer, but his face grows even paler. "Come on. We need to get to the hospital."

"I'll take care of your stuff," Kinsley says. "Just go. I'm sure he'll be fine," she calls to us as we push out into the rain. The cold drops pelt us as we walk what seems like miles to the student parking lot. There are a million questions swirling through my head, but it's too hard to communicate in the bad weather, and I want badly to get on the road to the hospital. The relentless rain will make travel harder.

I feel sick to my stomach, and I'm shivering from the cold. I'm still dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, my workout outfit. Weston smacks the heater a few times to get it working. The defroster is crap, like everything else in the old truck. Weston worked two summer jobs to earn enough to buy it from a neighbor, but it has taken way more money just to keep it running.

Weston pulls the sleeve of his sweatshirt down over his hand and leans forward to wipe the condensation off the inside of the windshield. The wipers creak and scrape a line in the glass as he pulls out of the parking lot. I release my breath, glad we're on the road.

"Who called you?" I ask.

"Mom." It's all he says, and that makes the nausea in my stomach worse.

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