Chapter Six:
# Jake
I stepped out of the bathroom, leaving behind the clothes of mud and regret. I put on the thick, white hotel robe; I had nothing else. But I couldn't go to say goodbye to Steve like this. Steve had expected success and elegance from me; I needed to go to him as the "Jake" I had promised.
I picked up the room's internal phone. My voice this time was decisive, carrying the tone of a businessman, even though I was wearing nothing but a bathrobe.
"This is Jake, in Room 144. I need immediate service. My car is parked on Leo Street, next to a small gray house. It's a black Mercedes. I left it there yesterday after a health scare."
"I need a trusted person from the hotel to retrieve it immediately. The keys are here," I said in an commanding tone, trying to mask my weakness with sharpness. "Most importantly: I want the small black bag in the back seat. I need it right now."
The employee replied hesitantly: "Sir, I will send the driver to get it immediately. The cost will be added to your bill."
I sat on the edge of the bed, shivering from the internal and external cold, waited, then closed my eyes and surrendered to memory, ignoring the present moment:
I had spent months secretly working on my invention: a device that could remotely stop bombs. This was my dream, and Steve, my only brother, was my biggest supporter in our quiet town. I promised him I would return as soon as I succeeded, and we would live a new life together.
It was that day in the summer of 2022, on that same quiet Leo Street. Steve was standing on the threshold of the wooden house, smiling that radiant smile that chased the darkness from my life.
"I'm leaving, Steve," I said, my invention bag in my hand. "The big opportunity has come. I will achieve my dream."
Steve wrapped his arm tightly around my shoulder. "Go, Jake. Go and achieve your dream. I trust you. But... come back to us. Don't let the bright lights blind you."
I remembered the fleeting look of doubt in his eyes when he saw a new gleam of determination in mine—not just determination to succeed, but to escape my dark past. He was the one who had saved me from sliding into the swamp of drugs, and he feared that New York City, with its lights and temptations, would swallow me whole.
"I'll be back as soon as the contract is signed," I promised him, squeezing his hand. "I'll come back and tell everyone I made it."
The last goodbye was the image of Steve waving to me from the house window, his face a mixture of pride and fear.
I headed to New York, carrying the prototype. I succeeded in closing the deal of a lifetime with Harold Cross, the CEO, and acquired immense wealth. To celebrate the success, I immediately bought a luxurious black car, a symbol of the end of poverty and the beginning of a new life for Steve and me.
But what I didn't know was that Harold's brother, Robert Cross, harbored a grudge. Robert managed a competing department within the company and believed the deal should have been made with him, and on less generous terms. That night, before I could call Steve, the police surrounded me.
Robert had planted a bag of cocaine in my pocket, and I was charged with "possession with intent to distribute," a serious felony. My funds and contract proceeds were immediately frozen. In an instant, the wealth vanished, and I was left alone.
I spent three years in the hell of prison. The hardest part wasn't the bars, but the imposed silence. I couldn't call or write to Steve at all, because any letter leaving would bear the seal of the correctional facility.
It was Steve who had pulled me out of the swamp of drugs in the past. My fear wasn't for my reputation, but for his trust in me. I knew that seeing the prison stamp, accompanied by a drug charge, would make him doubt for one moment that I had relapsed, and that I had betrayed all the effort he put into saving me. I couldn't bear for Steve to think I had lied to him about my addiction. I preferred the bitter silence over destroying his faith in me entirely.
For three years, Steve received nothing from me but humiliating silence.
After three years, I was released on parole. My money was still frozen, but my lawyer managed to secure the release of my luxury car. I drove back to town, exhausted, but holding onto one hope: Steve. Steve, who died while I was serving a sentence I never committed.
I had deceived him, not intentionally, but by the silence forced upon me out of fear of betraying his trust. He must have thought I had prioritized my success over him, while I was desperately trying to protect what little faith he had left in me.
An hour later, the hotel driver returned with the car and the bag. The driver handed me the bag and left.
I opened the bag. It didn't hold much, but it contained the luxurious black suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie. This suit is the last thing connecting me to the dream of success. It is the symbol Steve must see.
I put on the suit. It was a bit tight from the years in prison, but it hid all traces of the collapse. I looked at myself in the mirror: an elegant, successful man, but my eyes screamed despair. This is the Jake who will go to say goodbye to Steve.
I left the room and walked out of the hotel. My car was parked on the right side. I got in and drove towards the cemetery. On my way, I realized I was going empty-handed. How could I go visit my brother like this? I kept looking for a flower shop, as three years of absence were enough to change the situation of this small town, but it wasn't difficult. After a few minutes, I found an open shop. I parked the car and went inside. It was full of beautiful and varied flowers, and the scents that invaded my nose, despite myself, were overwhelming. A girl was sitting amidst the flowers, busy arranging them in a long green dress. If I had looked longer, I might have thought she was a flower herself.
I said quietly, "Good morning, Miss." She quickly stood up, as if my voice startled her. She stood staring without speaking. Her brown hair was beautifully tied up, and her face looked like an angel's. I told her, "I want a beautiful bouquet of flowers," then continued, "No, the most beautiful bouquet you have."
She smiled and told me, "Of course, Sir. I will prepare the most beautiful and wonderful bouquet you will ever see." She began arranging the flowers, selecting them with great care, and I wondered how she did this as if she had long experience with flowers. Then she wrapped them in colorful paper and said, "Oh, Sir, this person seems very special to you."
I answered, turning to the other side, "Yes, he is a very dear person to me." He is my brother whom I lost without even knowing of his loss. I looked at the table and found the bouquet ready. It was truly a very beautiful bouquet. I asked her, "How much is the bouquet, Miss?" She surprised me with her reply, "It's a gift from the shop, Sir. No need to pay." Strange, indeed. In this town, they don't give gifts, but this must be a new shop, as I hadn't seen this girl before in town, so it must be a policy to win customers. I thanked her and quickly left, as I didn't want to be late for Steve any longer.
I couldn't call Uncle Matthew to find out the location of Steve's grave; perhaps I didn't want to hear his words that would lash me. But I knew where I would find him. The old town cemetery was the only place Steve could be buried.
I got into my car and drove. I watched the familiar streets rush by, every corner screaming Steve's name.
When I arrived at the cemetery, the place was chillingly quiet.
The search wasn't difficult. The area where young people were recently buried was clear. I took heavy steps between the rows of graves until I finally saw, amidst the similar stone headstones, a relatively new piece of marble.
"Steven Michael, 1995–2024."
I stopped a few steps away. I couldn't walk any further. This is where my brother sleeps. Under this cold ground lies the only part of me that believed me without question.
I knelt down, this time not in an angry collapse like at the lake, but in a sad surrender. I placed my hand on the cold marble. The name was prominent, but I was searching for the smile I knew, for the friendly punch I was used to.
"Brother," the word came out as a lost whisper. "I... I'm sorry."
I began to speak, slowly at first, then my words turned into a frantic confession, as if I were telling my secret to the gravestone, hoping the sound would reach the depths:
"I didn't leave, Steve. I didn't ignore you for money. I actually succeeded. I bought that car for you and for me. But before I could call you to tell you 'we made it,' Robert set a trap for me. Three years, Steve, I spent in prison for drug possession."
I felt the tears burn me. Harder than prison was the secrecy.
"I couldn't write to you. Not out of fear of reputation, but because I knew you wouldn't believe me. You would remember when you helped me get clean... I knew you would think I betrayed your trust and returned to addiction. I preferred the silence of temporary betrayal over revealing a truth that would have completely destroyed your faith in me..."
I paused, gasping, as if I had emptied my soul of a burden that had lasted three years. I waited for a sound, any sign, any breeze to indicate he forgave me, but only the heavy silence of the cemetery answered me.
I realized that no matter how much I apologized, my voice wouldn't reach him. The only thing I could do was to live a way that proved my innocence, and proved that I had never betrayed him.
I finally stood up, feeling the weight of guilt intensify, but now it was confessed guilt. I looked at the gravestone one last time, wiping a tear from the cold stone.