Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (29 page)

“Not even one.”

I step forward, placing my hands on her shoulders to move her out of my way. She lets me, her body limp and malleable. I ignore everything I feel, every instinct I have that is telling me to turn around and grab her up, to hold her against me and never let her go, to let her make the world right, even if it’s still fucked up in the morning. As long as she’s there.

I yank open the door to my truck and jump in, ignoring her still form. Slamming the door, I crank the engine, peeling out when I reverse. I don’t care—I need out
now
. I don’t look back, but I see her in my mind, standing there in her watercolor dress, watching me while I leave her.

Chapter 45

Jordan

I watch Brooklyn’s truck disappear in a literal cloud of dust and wonder if this can be real. And then I remember the pain on his face—the hurt visible everywhere on him, and I know it is.

He was right when he said I can’t make it better—I can’t change anything that has happened. Not even for him. God knows if I could do it for someone, it would be him.

“How does it feel to have him blame you?”

I don’t whip around at the sound of Mason’s voice. Somehow, it’s only fitting on this horrific day, at this horrific moment, that he make an appearance. Turning slowly, I size him up. He looks terrible, almost unrecognizable from the Mason I’ve known my entire life.

His eyes are bloodshot, sporting dark circles around them. His hair is flat and lifeless, unlike the normal coiffed perfection he usually styles it into. His skin is pale and littered with small signs of acne, and his clothes are wrinkly.

Disgust comes naturally to me when faced with him. I remember his slurred voice from the other night when Ashton died—the belligerent way he treated me the last few times I saw him, and I can’t help but hate him for whatever role he played in this tragedy.

“It must sting to know that after everything, he doesn’t think you’re any different than I am.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here. One might think you actually care that she’s dead.”

He moves quickly, faster than I gave him credit for, and has me by the shoulders before I can react. Spittle dots his lips, mixing with the runoff from his nose and eyes. “I did care, goddammit! What was I supposed to do? She didn’t tell me.” Mason squeezes my shoulders so tightly I wince, and then he shakes me, a heavy rattling of my bones that snaps my teeth together. “We met last year at a party. She was so different—gorgeous and fun. When I left at the end of the year, she promised to call, but she didn’t. I called her all summer—I went crazy thinking she had ended it. I almost didn’t come back—but then I do, and she’s there, waiting for me at my house.”

He’s crying outright now, tears and snot running down his face. If I hadn’t known him my entire life, I would believe everything he is saying. “Why didn’t you ever talk about her then? You forget, I was in the same house as you this summer, Mason. You partied every weekend. There were different girls every weekend. How much did you really miss her?”

He shakes his head, his fingers clenching and unclenching on my shoulders. “I hooked up, I partied—to forget. But I couldn’t. And when she was here… I just never asked. And she never said anything.”

“But we did,” I snap back. “We all did—her brother, her best friend, me. We told you, Mason, and you ignored us.”

“I thought you were lying to keep us apart.”

Before I can question him again, there’s a shout and then running feet. Mason’s hands loosen and then he’s being torn away from me, Nala reaching for me even while Hunter and Malcolm hold onto Mason.

He’s limp in their arms, crying, shaking his head.

“Don’t touch her,” Malcolm growls. “Don’t ever touch her again.”

Mason cries harder, sinking to his knees when they release him.

“Red, you okay?”

I nod at Hunter, squeezing Nala’s hand to reassure her. “I’m fine. He’s not,” I say. I hate him for who he is… for the weakness he has. But he’s my brother. I don’t want him to be who he is, but no matter what, he’s family.

“Who the fuck cares?” Malcolm scowls.

“He’s her brother,” Nala says.

“He’s a piece of shit.” Malcolm steps toward him, but Hunter lays a hand on his shoulder, looking at me.

“Jordan?”

I stare at Mason—dirty, silently weeping, hands in his hair while he sits on the ground in his Versace suit that once fit him like a prince and now looks loose and bedraggled, and then I stare at the three people around me, the three who have become my family.

“Can you help me get him into the car? I need to take him home.”

Mal wants to argue—one look from Nala has him sighing. He steps over to Mason and grips him under the armpits, hauling him to his feet. “One wrong move, asshole, I’m begging you.”

Mal and Hunter drag him to my car and put him in the backseat. Nala stands by the driver’s side with me. “Are you sure about this? I can come with you.”

I shake my head. “He needs help, Nala. Whatever he has or hasn’t done… he isn’t going to survive if he keeps living like this.” I watch him curl into the seat like a little boy. “I can’t let him keep living like this, no matter how I feel about him.”

She nods. “Brooks?”

There is a small squeezing around my heart, making it hard to breath. I shake my head. “He left. For good,” I say and get in the car. And then I ask, because we both know I have to. “Will you tell me how he is… whenever he gets where he’s going?”

“Yes.” Leaning down, she presses her cheek to mine. “Be safe. And come back. I need you, friend.”

My eyes fill and I reach out to hold onto her, just for a minute. My friend. “Me, too,” I say, realizing just how true those words are. I let her go and press the
START
button, heading out of the parking lot and toward home.

Chapter 46

Brooks

I expected Mal and Hunter to show up—I even expected Nala. What I didn’t expect was to feel a keen sense of disappointment when it is only the three of them who walk through my front door.

When she notices my stare, Nala shakes her head. “She took her brother home. To L.A.”

My stomach clenches. “He doesn’t deserve her.”

“He’s not the only one,” she says, and my eyes flash to hers.

“Don’t.”

“Why? Because you said? When has that ever worked?”

The tension that’s been building inside comes to a head and shatters me, splintering me into a million irreparable pieces. Like an asshole, I don’t muffle the explosion. I let it spew out and wreak havoc on everyone around me—heedless of the damage until it’s too late.

“Maybe you
should start listening
to me,” I yell, spinning toward her again. “If you had when you were fifteen, you wouldn’t have needed to run away when you were eighteen. You would have been here for Ashton instead of bleeding and crying at a party. We could have saved her together—instead of me saving you both one at a time.”

Her hand connects with my face before I finish the sentence. I hear Hunter and Mal head toward us, holding my hands out when Mal shoves me against the wall.

“What the fuck, Brooklyn?”

I ignore Malcolm and open my eyes to focus over his shoulder on Nala. “I’m sorry.” Her pale face guts me. “Jesus, Nala—I didn’t mean it. I just… I don’t know anymore.”

She nods, but she takes a step away. “Me either. I came to make sure you were all right, because I wanted to see you, and because Jordan asked me to.”

The knife in my stomach twists deeper.

“Nala.” She shakes her head and Malcolm presses me harder into the wall—a warning that I know I could challenge. The sight of Nala’s drawn shoulders and blank face stops me in a way Mal’s fists can’t.

“I miss her too,” she says, and for the life of me I can’t decide if she’s talking about Ashton or Jordan. Maybe both. “You can run away, Brooklyn—we’ve all done it; it’s your turn. I just hope you remember that whatever has happened, there are people here who love you. People here who need you.” Her eyes flash. “And we don’t feel weak because of it.”

She turns and heads to the door. Malcolm slams me one last time before releasing me to follow Nala, but one look from her has him halting, his fists clenching at his sides. When the front door closes, he turns toward me and I brace for the blow. “I get that you’re hurting, Brooklyn, but she doesn’t deserve that, whatever the fuck it was.”

I close my eyes. Nala—what happened to her—I’m the only one who knows other than her mom. She begged me to keep her secret, never to tell anyone—especially Mal. In one moment, I not only broke her heart, but her trust.

Jesus Christ. I’ve lost one sister and alienated the other. And Jordan—I made sure the words I said to her would keep her away.

The pressure in my chest is back, heavier than before, pulsing all the way through me until I can’t stand it anymore. There’s no calm, no numbness—only pain.

Breath heaving, I turn and pound my fist on the wall. I do it again, harder, and Malcolm says my name. That’s all it takes. I reach out and swipe my arms across my workbench, scattering pencils and pens, letting sketchbooks fly. When none of that eases the pain, I start on the magnet-pin board behind the desk, tearing down tools and pictures, ripping sketches from their perch and flinging them.

I turn to the stack of wrapped canvases. My name is said again, but I’m too far gone. There are maybe seven or eight. I knock the tower over and start throwing them, heaving until they litter the floor like dead bodies, their wrapping torn and falling away.

The pain stays, though. No matter how many half-packed boxes I upend, or tools I throw, the pressure inside of me remains until I turn and slam my fist against the wall, this time cracking straight through it. Like the last time I did this, there’s a satisfactory crunch, bone or Sheetrock, maybe both.

Before I can rip my hand free and do it again, a pair of arms band around me, halting my movement.

“Enough. That’s enough, Brooklyn.”

Mal’s voice sounds far away. I struggle against him, but he has his mean strength going and I am quickly running out of air and adrenaline.

“We both know you can’t shake me, so stop trying.”

His words give me the last push I need. I slam my head back, catching him hard enough he releases me.

“Fucker.”

I turn, ready to fight, but my vision wavers and I have to lean against the wall and blink. Mal has the back of his hand pressed to his lip, and Hunter is standing there with his arms crossed over his chest.

My rage vanishes, like a candle snuffed out; there’s no energy left in me. All that is there is the hollow sickness I started with.

Sliding down the wall, I lean my head back and close my eyes. There is a throbbing in my hand, but it’s nothing compared to the one in my chest.

“I’m sorry.” It’s weak and useless, but I say it anyway. I leave my eyes closed a second longer, trying to draw a real breath. “Christ, I’m sorry. Sorry for that, sorry for what I said to Nala.” I think of Jordan, but I don’t say her name. “I can’t think. That’s not an excuse, but I can’t fucking think right now.”

I open my eyes to find both of my friends staring at me. Hunter nods his head and turns to the kitchen. When he disappears, I look over at Malcolm. His lip is swollen, but I know that’s not why his fists are still clenched.

“Don’t do it again,” he spits out. Shame coats the already-heavy weight inside of me. “You want to punch someone, Brooks, you punch me. I’ll wrestle you all fucking day, but don’t
ever
come at her again. You got it?” I nod. “Say it.”

I straighten up a little so I can look directly into his eyes. I see the light—the one that tells me Mal’s about three seconds away from unleashing the beast he keeps on lockdown. “I promise.”

A few more seconds roll by, Hunter returning with a bottle and three glasses, flicking his eyes between us, Mal staring me down, deciding whether or not to use his fists. At this point, I’d gladly take the pain. It has to be better than the sinking hollowness consuming me from the inside out.

Finally, Malcolm blows out a breath and rolls his shoulders. “Jesus, man, what are you doing?” He looks around at the boxes and bags I’ve just wrecked.

I follow his eyes. “Leaving.”

Hunter reaches down a hand, hauling me to my feet. I wince slightly, grateful when he tosses me a bag of peas. Ignoring all of the debris at my feet, I walk over to the couch and flop down, settling the peas on my knuckles. Mal and Hunter flop down in either of the chairs, Hunter setting up the three glasses and filling them half full with vodka.

“For how long?”

I gulp down the first shot he hands me, letting the liquid burn away some of the dread. “Don’t know. I’ve never gone anywhere—not for more than a few days at a time. Always wanted to. Now… now feels like the perfect time to lose myself somewhere new.”

Both guys nod—because they get it. Home—it’s always here. But sometimes, leaving is the only thing we can do in order to let the ghosts fade into memories.

“Be careful,” Mal says. I look at him. He’s studying the pictures on the floor, the ones of Jordan I ripped from the wall, the ones I had hardly been able to look at when I got home. “Leaving—it gives you distance, and it gives you time. For a while, you convince yourself those both heal you because you can focus on something else for a while. But then the familiar ache returns, and a lot of that time… it’s really fucking lonely when she’s not there. Even if there are a million other people around you—she’s somewhere else, and she’s still all you can see, all you can feel, all you can think of.”

He turns back to me, and I see it—everything I feel, written across his face. And I finally get it. I get why he left the way he did, get why he can’t let Nala go, no matter how hard he tries. Get why that photograph is so important to him. Malcolm doesn’t have to tell me anything because I finally fucking
see it
.

Love—it doesn’t just fill you up. It takes everything inside of you, rearranges who you are and how you think, and then it leaves you hollow and needy and wondering how the hell you ever lived without seeing her face and hearing her voice every day. Not because she changed your mind, but because she opened it. She showed you, every day, she loved you. No matter who you were or weren’t, she loved you.