The Darkest Part (17 page)

Sam

I knew the bottom would fall out. Eventually. And I want to believe this is the worst of it—that this morning in the hotel room was the inevitable fallout Holden and I have been skirting since high school.

But as bad as it was seeing him lose his temper, and as hurtful as it was hearing what he truly thinks of me (now added to the list right under: see what it’d be like to
fuck
you), I can’t believe this was the bottom. Oh, the bottom fell out beneath us, all right, but we haven’t
hit
bottom yet.

I’m terrified to find out how far our bottom goes.

I glance at him from out of the corner of my eye. He’s focused on the road, his gaze straight ahead. His teeth drag over his lip ring, as if he’s deep in thought. He let the subject of my psychosis drop at the speedway. Which is good, because I’m not going to argue with him. I don’t care whether he believes me or not. Truthfully, I was hoping to avoid discussing it at all. Despite my feelings toward Holden, I don’t want to hurt him. Not by using Tyler, anyway.

I can imagine if it were the other way around, and he was trying to convince me that Tyler was stuck on this plane. I’d be angry and resentful and feel gutted.

But there was no way, with the amount of time we have to spend together, that he wasn’t going to witness
something
. It was inevitable. And I could curse myself for getting drunk, but really, letting go felt good. I won’t punish myself for it.

I wanted to trust he was trying to respect my privacy by not bringing it up before, because I knew he had to have heard something. There’s no privacy on the island; everyone talks. But really, I’m sure he just doesn’t want to deal with it. Who would? My own father keeps skipping town so he doesn’t have to.

Besides, I don’t need Holden’s approval. Couldn’t care less. And he has his own reason for doing this trip. Fine. I’m just angry with myself for ever believing that he forced his way into coming because he was actually worried about me. I should’ve known he had his own agenda.

But the truth (most of it) is out now. We’re tolerating each other for Tyler. I almost laugh out loud. It’s like the past all over again. Me being at their house for holidays before Holden left after his graduation, and us uncomfortably smiling and making small talk, all for Tyler.

Only now, I have an inside glimpse into what the two guys in my life were going through during that time. I have the answers to secrets I never even knew existed, but could always sense were there. And it might be wrong to dive into that rabbit hole (Alice didn’t come out unscathed), but it’s now a compulsion. I have to. No matter the outcome.

With Tyler’s permission, at least, I don’t feel
as
deceitful. Just slightly less slimy. I only wish Holden would trust me. Would trust that I’d never betray Tyler by revealing anything. I’d never tell anyone. Even though I think Holden should do or say something about his father, it’s his place. Not mine.

Tyler can no longer speak up for himself. He needs someone to talk for him. And his brother should be that person.

That’s a whole other argument, though. And I’m choosing my battles. For now.

Sinking into my seat, I pull my paperback higher. I’m still invested in finding any shred of evidence that could help Tyler’s case. If it’s the only thing I can offer Holden once this disaster of a trip ends, then I’ll wade through the dark waters to find it. Tyler deserves at least that.

After a while, Holden groans and shakes his head, interrupting my reading. “What?” I sit up. “If you hate this band so much, why do you have their album?” I mark my place in the journal and flip it and the paperback closed. Then I reach to change the disc.

“No. Hollywood Undead is fine. One of my favorites,” he says, and I instead turn the volume down. “But even they can’t keep me awake at this point.” He checks the time on the dash. He’s been driving nearly two hours, half the distance to our next destination. Memphis, Tennessee.

“You drove, like, three times this long yesterday,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” He widens his eyes, blinks, and I can see the irritated red crowding the white from here.

It’s my fault, I realize. After my blurt last night, he must have sat up worrying over who I might tell, or who I might’ve already told. Guilt kicks me in the gut.

I open my mouth to offer to drive, and shut it. I’m no good for driving on this trip. Biting down on my lip, I fall back into the seat. I hear Holden groan again, deep and rumbling from the back of his throat. “Shit, okay. You’re not doing so hot. Why don’t we pull over in the next town so you can rest? Maybe we can go ahead and pick up something to eat, too.”

He rubs his forehead in thought. “Like a picnic?”

I nearly laugh. The thought of Holden and me having a sweet picnic is that messed up. “Sure,” I say. “Why not.”

We take the next exit and head toward downtown Fulton, Mississippi. Which, as I’m looking around, consists of one main road. Old brick homes litter one side of the street, while small businesses line the other. We pass a couple of motels, and Holden pulls into a McDonalds.

“This all right with you?” he asks.

“It’s fine. I didn’t really see anything else.”

“We could keep going. Look around.”

I shake my head. He’s tired and needs to sleep. “Big Mac, large fry, chocolate shake. Oh, and an apple pie.”

His head pulls back. “And where do you put all that?” His gaze purposefully travels over my frame. Heat splashes my cheeks.

“I’m not one of those girls who doesn’t eat. I like food.” I raise an eyebrow. “And besides, I’m still suffering some of a hangover. The grease will help soak up the alcohol.”

He laughs before placing our order. Once we’re back on the main road, I’m tempted to tell Holden that I can drive. At least in a small town, I might be all right. There’s not many cars on the road, and I might be able to pull it off for a few minutes. But he turns into a park near an old church before I can work up the courage.

I grab the paper bags while he rummages behind the seat. As I walk in the short yellow grass, I look up at the overcast sky. This place looks thirsty, and the dry grass could use a rain shower. I just hope it holds off until we’re gone.

Spotting an oak tree in the middle of the barren park not far from the playground, I head toward it. The tree is beautiful, with a massive dark trunk and huge, sprawling braches that reach into the sky. The lower ones droop and twist just above the ground. I imagine kids love to climb it. I’d love to climb it.

Holden walks up beside me carrying a blue and green plaid blanket. “Wow. Couldn’t have found a better place.”

I glance at him, feeling my brows pull together. “Didn’t know you loved trees so much.”

My comment ruins the moment, and I inwardly curse as his jaw tightens. With no response, he walks up to the huge oak and spreads out the blanket next to one of the low-hanging branches. I set the bags down, then run back to the truck.

I’m trying to keep a visual log of the trip, and sketched the speedway while we were there. I plan to transform the drawings into paintings when I get back home. And even though this technically isn’t one of Tyler’s destinations, the oak is too awesome not to sketch.

Maybe this stop can be one of mine. Or Holden’s. I can’t think of it as
ours
. . . he’s already tainted one of my favorite places that I
used
to consider ours. I won’t give him another.

Folding my knees under me, I place my sketchpad on my lap, as Holden digs his food out of the bag. He eats in silence while I sketch, pausing to sip my milkshake. The only sounds come from the birds crying and cicadas chirring, calling for the rain, and the branches creaking in the rising wind.

To keep the page from turning up at the corners, I put the sketchpad on the blanket and lean over it, blocking the breeze. Almost to myself, I mutter, “I wish there were more light.”

Holden balls up his burger wrapper and tosses the bag aside, then lies back, tucking his hands under his head. “What is it with you and trees?”

His question catches me off-guard, and my hand jerks. With an inward sigh, I erase the too-dark line. I shrug and blow away the eraser shavings. “I don’t know.” I begin sketching the branch again. “When I first started drawing, I actually wasn’t any good. I wanted to be, but I didn’t have natural talent.”
Unlike some people
. Holden came into the world wielding a paintbrush. “My first art teacher started me off on trees. She said they were simple, and I couldn’t really mess them up.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s not a reason to love them. A reason to have one tatted on your body. I call bullshit.”

Hell.
“Anyway, I found I
could
mess them up. And I was pretty pissed off about it. Then I found that old dead tree near our houses.” I keep my eyes on my sketch, away from his. “It was my first piece that I was proud of.”

I’m leaving out a lot of that story, and I hope he doesn’t catch on. But he’s just too fucking clever for his own good.

“I remember that.” A knowing grin slides across his face. “You had just ran away from home”—he chuckles—“and we drew together. I helped you with your tree draw—”

As he cuts off, my hand freezes over the page. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s made the connection. My grip on the charcoal tightens almost painfully, and I’ve stopped breathing. After the way he looked at me this morning . . . after the way he reminded me how very
un
important I am to him . . . having him piece together this part of me is like playing connect the dots with a razorblade on my soul.

Keeping my gaze lowered, tracing my charcoal over the same branch, over and over, I say, “Yeah. You helped me sketch my first tree. You taught me how to draw.”

He doesn’t respond, and his probing gaze is unnerving. I wish I could hear his thoughts. No, maybe I don’t. Deciding the conversation is over, I go back to shading in the bark.

After a moment, Holden sits up, wraps an arm around his knee. His other arm stretches behind him to support his weight. I try not to look at the shaded blue flames engulfing a compass on his inner forearm. “So in some way,” he says. “I’m a part of your tree obsession.”

I clamp my eyes closed. My mortification is complete. When I open them, he’s staring at me—almost through me. As if I’m becoming more transparent by the second. “Yeah. In some distant, obscured kind of way. I guess you are.”
And in all the ways that count
.

He tilts his head, like he’s trying to read me. Runs his tongue over his lip ring. “And so all the paintings of dead trees? It’s just because of that one. Some tree we found when we were kids. There’s something more there. There has to be.”

“Fuck, Holden.” I glare at him. “What do you want?”

His pale blue eyes puncture me. “The truth.”

I shake my head, aggravated. Does the truth even matter anymore? I blow out a breath. “I love them because even through they’re dead, they’re not,” I say, my anger conquering my nerves. “Something beneath the surface goes on living. They’re dark and ugly to most people, but I look at something that’s supposed to be hideous and see something haunting and beautiful. Something that’s supposed to be used up and discarded . . . to me, is wanted. Needed. It’s the start of something new.” I suck in a breath, my chest quivering. “Now, will you drop it?”

And like that stupid little girl who crushed on the artist boy next door, who fell in love with his artwork, who wanted to draw something to impress him . . . I feel raw and exposed. That day he tore my heart out, he didn’t just hurt me. He destroyed me. I couldn’t draw or paint or even think about sketching for months.

Getting the dead tree tattoo was for me. To remind me of who
I
am. Not Holden. I had invested so much of myself in loving him that I had to find myself again. I had to fall in love with my artwork and trees and everything all for me, apart from
him
. And I did. Eventually, with Tyler’s love, someone who loved me completely and openly, I was able to find myself buried beneath the dumb girl who desperately wanted the wrong brother.

When Holden reaches out and takes my hand, my breath stills on my lips. He wraps his strong fingers around my arm and turns it over. His thumb traces the desolate, inky branches on my wrist.

“I don’t know about dead trees,” he says, his voice deep, guttural, like friction against my skin. “But I do remember learning something about the heartwood.”

I try to ignore the many, sudden tremors that quake just beneath my skin where his fingers caress, and keep my voice steady. “The dead part of the tree?”

He nods slowly.

“It’s the darkest part,” I say, and a mock laugh tumbles from my mouth. “I can relate. It’s dark, stubborn, callous, dead on the inside.” The wind picks up, sending my hair lashing against my cheeks. I don’t care how crazy I sound to him anymore. It’s true. Since losing Tyler, I’m just like my lovely dead trees.

Holden’s thumb pauses over my vein, and his arctic eyes find and hold mine. “That’s only one perspective. The way I see it, the heartwood is strong, beautiful, and resilient. It can fight off any outside threat that tries to invade, and in rare cases . . . is alive. It may be the darkest part, but a living heartwood is a force to be reckoned with.”