The Darkest Part (16 page)

I don’t think. Reflexively, my hand flies out. But he’s faster, clamping his hand around my wrist before my palm meets his face. We’re locked together, my arm trembling, his body rigid.

He tosses my arm aside. “Trip’s over. I’m taking you home.” He turns his back to me and stuffs his computer into his bag.

“I don’t want to go back. I
can’t
go back.” My voice is weak, low. And the shame of blurting his secret—a secret that hurts him to the core—is eating away at my anger. “I promise, I’ve never breathed a word about . . .
that
. . . to anyone. I would never—” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I fucked up last night and said anything, other than I was stupid drunk. But I remember now when I said it. And it was because you were there. So close. And you were looking at me, and I saw my own pain reflected in your eyes. And shit, Holden.” I inhale a breath. “I just wanted you to know . . .”

At some point during my babbling, he stopped packing. His back is stiff and straight, his gaze away from me, on something else. The wall. The beach painting hanging above the headboard. I can see the tension in the corded muscles of his neck.

“You just wanted me to know what?” he asks. His voice is so soft, hollow. It cracks a seam down my heart.

With a determined breath, I suck up my pride. “I just wanted you to know that I was sorry I never knew the truth. Back then. That maybe if I had, then I might’ve understood your anger. You pushing me away. And I never would have let you.”

I see the moment my words hit him. His body loses its rigidness, and his shoulders slump. But he doesn’t face me. “I’m sorry I called you a silly college girl.”

I shrug, even though he can’t see me, and I’m thankful he doesn’t say anything about what I just said—because I’m not ready. “Sometimes I am.” I note that he doesn’t retract calling me crazy.

“No,” he says. “I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry . . . for a lot of other things. I wish I could give you the explanation.” Before I can let him off the hook, telling him its ancient history, he continues. “We need to be at the speedway in less than an hour. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

And just like that, he throws up a wall between us. Locking me out.

Stuffing my hands under my arms, I don’t say anything else as I walk toward the door. There’s so much more that needs to be said. Like whether or not he’s going to confront his father. Has he ever confronted him? Whether or not he ever plans to press charges. I wonder if there’s a statute of limitation on child abuse. Why he’s so angry that I know
now
. What difference does it make
when
I discovered the truth?

And why he said “give you
the
explanation” instead of “
an
explanation?” I didn’t miss that. I just don’t know how to connect the dots. Yet.

But none of this is said. I’m not sure it ever will be. He’s got some deep-seeded anger, a past that haunts him, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to wrestle his ghosts.

Not while I’m dancing with mine.

Holden

On the drive to the speedway, the tension in the truck could’ve strangled me. I think we said about two words between each of us. If Sam never
really
talks to me again, I wouldn’t blame her. I flew off the handle back at the hotel. I
never
fly off the handle. Not anymore.

I can blame it on lack of sleep. Or a hangover. Or grief over Tyler and my mother. Any number of things I can pluck out of the air and say that’s why I lost my shit.

But Sam would see through my crap. I can’t be truthful with her on this front, but I’d like to try not lying to her, either. I’m sick of lying of to her. But since I can’t be honest, then I just need to keep my fucking mouth shut.

Right now, as we walk up the bleachers of the Talladega Superspeedway, the sun glinting off the tops of race cars, her smile stretching ear-to-ear despite my asshole behavior, I’m having a hard time doing just that.

At some point, I’m going to have to man up and talk to her. Make her understand that she holds knowledge that could impact people’s lives—but I need to sort my shit out first. I need to find out how much she knows without giving away anything she doesn’t. Because shit. I can’t believe Tyler told her. How much else did he let her in on?

I guess I could always get her drunk, fish for answers . . . but I think I’m at my douchebag limit for the day. I was caught off-guard earlier by my emotions, and fuck emotions. I swear this girl is turning me into the biggest pussy.

With that thought, I settle onto a seat next to Sam and let the purr of powerful engines thrum through me. For the offseason, there are a lot of tourists. The stands aren’t packed, but crowded enough. As the drivers rev their engines, Sam turns toward me, her mouth parted and eyes wide, like she’s going to say something. I hold my breath expectantly.

She presses her lips together and turns her attention back to the racetrack.

Damn it. Whatever progress we’ve made, however small, we’ve taken two steps back. I didn’t think we’d become best friends by the end of this trip, and I definitely didn’t think she’d forgive and forget the shit I said in high school, but I thought, maybe, we could start fresh. She could get to know the real me away from Hilton Hell, and I might have a reason to go back there sometimes.

Now that Tyler’s case has been swept under the rug, I don’t have any reason to return to my hometown other than to visit the cemetery. And even though I wanted to believe I was happy staying away from there . . . from her . . . I’ve been a ticking time bomb. You can’t ignore your past.

Even if I couldn’t admit it to myself before, I was hoping she could be part of some new future where I wouldn’t have to keep running. Diving into that bottomless dark pit, I realize that now—I can own it. It’s why I’m on this trip. Sure, to keep her safe. I couldn’t deal if anything happened to her that I could’ve prevented. But it goes deeper—I wanted to be close to her again. I’ve been lying to myself thinking it’s for any other reason.

Funny how we believe our own lies.

That couldn’t be truer in Sam’s case.

After this morning, I don’t think I can fix this. I should’ve stuck to my guns and taken her home. This is only day two. Day fucking
two
, and we’re already about to crack. She’s off her rocker, and I’m losing my shit all over again for a girl who doesn’t belong to me. I wonder what Tyler would think about us on this trip together.

“Tyler would love this,” Sam says, like she read my mind. Not sure that’d be her response if she really had, though.

I take a swig from my water bottle; my throat dry and scratchy. “He would. Though I think he’d love seeing them actually race more, this is pretty cool.” I try for a smile, but it feels fake on my face. I think she knows.

“He had a different set of days mapped out,” she adds. “Timed to events he wanted to see. But I couldn’t wait to take this trip.”

I feel my forehead crease, and I’m glad I’m wearing my shades to hide my eyes. “Why now, Sam?”

She exhales softly. “You’ll think I’m crazy . . . crazi
er
.” She returns her gaze to the cars, and my heart lurches. I should apologize for calling her that. But I don’t want to condone what she’s doing to herself. Whatever guilt she’s harboring over Tyler’s death, it’s not hers to own. She needs to know this one truth: I won’t play the fool so she can have her fantasy.

The cars are now zooming around the racetrack, doing practice runs. I grip the water bottle in my hand, and with a forced shrug, I say, “You were dancing by yourself last night, and not on purpose. I think that ship has sailed.”

She nods slowly. Neither denying she’s unstable or trying to debate my opinion. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For trying to help me not
look
crazy.” She smiles. It’s fragile, like she’s not sure she’s actually grateful. And hell. I didn’t think she’d remember. She was three sheets to the wind, and she also called me Tyler. She
thought
I was him. I wonder how she’s spinning what actually happened in her mind.

I clear my throat, preparing myself for this conversation, but not really sure I want to dive headfirst into the cracked pot. But with Sam, I’m either all in or not. I make my choice. “So it’s true, then?”

She takes a deep breath. “Yeah, well, whatever you’ve heard”—she looks at me—“I’m not crazy. As hard as it is to believe, Tyler’s here. Or at least he was.” She glances away and drops her shades over her eyes. “It’s getting harder for him. And he’s starting to forget things. That’s why this trip is important. It’s his unfinished business. He has to cross over. I’m scared he’ll get lost if he doesn’t, and I can’t bear the thought of him a wandering ghost forever.”

Holy hell. She didn’t hold back at all, just let the full crazy fly. I don’t know whether to feel honored she’s trusting me with it, or insulted she thinks I’m buying it. Regardless, I opened the door. Now I have to decide how to deal with it.

She has to know, somewhere in the logical recesses of her brain, that if I wanted to, I could prove her wrong. Even though she and Tyler were close their whole lives, I’m his brother. There’re things only a brother would know.

If Tyler were really trapped in some ghostly form, then all I have to do is ask her something there’s no way she could know. Something she’d have to ask Tyler. And when he doesn’t know the answer—because
she
doesn’t know it—she’d have to accept this is all in her mind.

But before I open my mouth to do just that, I consider the ramifications. If her mind is really in this bad of shape, what will happen when her beliefs start crumbling? Will she fall apart? Will she have an actual breakdown?

I know for damn sure I’m not here to help her regain her sanity.
I’m
not delusional enough to believe I can save her—I’m not hero material. I know there’s nothing romantic between us, either. Not now. She was young before, with a girl’s crush. And she loved—
loves
—my brother.

But I can’t turn my back on what his death has done to her. I’m warring with my own guilt, my own part in his death, and I don’t want her issues added to the mound weighing me down. Selfish? Maybe. But if she realizes by the end of this trip that Tyler’s really gone, it will just be one less thing on my conscience.

I swallow my rebuttal, and instead say, “So this trip will . . . what? You believe Tyler’s ghost will magically cross over once you complete it?”

She pushes her shades on top of her head and eyes me warily. “I have to believe that.”

Like grabbing a livewire, a bolt of electricity zings through me. The conviction in her eyes is absolute. Despite the heat, a chill slithers down my spine. She thinks she’s trying to save Tyler. But the truth is, whatever it is that protects our minds from crazy shit like this is fighting to protect hers. She doesn’t realize it, but her subconscious is trying to save
her
.

I can work with that.

“All right,” I say. “We fulfill Tyler’s unfinished business, and then he crosses over.”

Her eyebrows raise. “That’s it? No fight. No debate about how I should be taking my meds and talking to my psychiatrist and everything? You just believe me, and you’re going to stick this trip out? With a crazy girl?”

I hold her gaze, unwavering. “If you believe it, then in your mind, it’s real. I won’t lie and say I think Tyler’s ghost is haunting you—”

“Don’t use that word.” Her eyes are pleading.

I nod. “Okay. Sorry. But I can’t. We’ll just have to agree to disagree, but I trust
you
believe it. And I’ll do the trip, for Tyler, and for my own reason.” I suck in a sharp breath. “But from here on out, we’re not discussing my past . . . at least that part of it.”

She studies me for a moment, searching my face for something. “I didn’t know about your father until yesterday.” Her mouth pulls into a tight frown. “Just so you know, I haven’t told anyone. And I promise, I never will, Holden.”

I’m grabbing that livewire again, and a painful current strikes my chest. “Yesterday?”

She nods. “And I’ll never bring it up again.”

Fuck. I bite down hard on my tongue. If she’s trying to convince me that my brother’s really a ghost—she’s messing up. I hate being lied to. But in the back of my mind, I feel a nagging twinge of doubt creeping in. Tyler never would’ve told her that—not while he was alive. And my mind flashes to the moment she got sick in the truck yesterday . . .

Shit.
No
. He told her at some point. Maybe after that night at the bar. After Mom died. After he started spiraling again.

“What is your reason?” she asks, catching me off-guard. Then I remember what I said. My reason for doing this trip.

I pinch my lips together, inwardly cursing. Then, as I look back over the racetrack, I say, “Redemption.”

She doesn’t press, and I’m thankful. She’d get an earful of silence from me, anyway. But she lets me have my secret, for whatever reason, and I let her have her fantasy. We’re both fucked up in different ways, but we agree to accept that. No more questions asked.