More Than Lies (More Than #1)(72)

She always refers to Shawn as Baby, Shane as Bud or sometimes Buddy, and Trent . . . Trent was Kiddo, which never really fit in my opinion. Then again, I’ve never seen my brother as a kid.

I walk to her and allow the warmth of her motherly arms to envelop me. I don’t break, though. It’s hard, but the tears stay at bay. Normally, I don’t hide my emotions from Pam. She’s one of the few people I’m comfortable around and feel safe just being me. Right now I think I’m holding back to protect myself from more pain. I can’t handle anything more right now.

“So what happened last night, Shane?” It’s Shawn that voices his parents’ question again. Even if my heart isn’t prepared for it yet, I want to know the full story too.

“We were heading home on Interstate 55 after leaving a friend’s house,” Shane began. “Kylie wanted to beat the New Year’s crowd and be able to see the ball drop on TV. Trent was on his motorcycle. Kylie and I were in her car, following. It was late, but it wasn’t that late. I guess the time of day doesn’t really matter when someone drank too much and decides to drive.”

“What?” I ask, because I don’t want to assume my brother would do something so stupid. Trent’s smarter than that; he wouldn’t. “My brother wouldn’t drive after drinking—especially not on his motorcycle.” I’m the one that’s gotten on the back of Jared’s motorcycle numerous times after drinking, sometimes too much. Trent would never be so careless.

“Not Trent. But the guy that hit him? I’m certain he was drunk.”

“What makes you think that?” Bill inquires.

“Seconds before he slammed into Trent’s bike, I noticed his car swerving in the lane beside Trent. After Trent took the impact, the car veered into an embankment, and the man was ejected from the vehicle. He was also pronounced on the scene.” He breathes. “I’m sure they’ll have to do an autopsy on him to confirm any traces of alcohol.”

“Honey, grab your purse, okay? We’ll take you home.” Pam squeezes me before releasing me.

My parents.

I haven’t thought of them. God, I’m awful. What they must be going through at this very moment. I should be home.

“I . . . I need to pack a few things. I don’t have clothes at my parents’ house.” Unlike Pam and Bill’s house; I have a dresser full of clothes there.

“Okay. No problem. We’ll leave when you are ready.”

I look back toward Shawn before exiting the kitchen. His eyes are sympathetic, but otherwise I can’t read what he’s thinking. I can’t dwell on it either.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





SHAWN





It’s the day of Trent’s funeral.

Man, it’s surreal. I just saw him a week ago on Christmas night at a party. It’s not like we were tight, but I sure as hell didn’t think I’d be standing in my old room at my parents’ house, in front of this mirror, putting on a black suit for this reason.

I don’t think I’ve been to a funeral since I was a little kid. Even then I don’t remember much about it other than the awkwardness of not knowing what to do or say when random people hugged me and started crying.

Will that be me today? No, it won’t, but I do know one person who will be in tears. I’m a master at masking my emotions; Tara isn’t—except for when it comes to her parents.

I haven’t laid eyes on her in three days. She’s been at her parents’ house since my parents dropped her off there Sunday morning.

As I tighten the knot on my gray tie, a sound draws my attention to the here and now. It’s a soft melody. I’ve heard it before, and I’d know the sound anywhere. It’s been nearly ten years since Shane has played his guitar.

So why today? I wonder.

He didn’t stop playing because of Trent. He stopped because he lost Whitney. I was a kid in middle school back then, but even I know Shane loved her. Even though he won’t admit it, it’s also why he hasn’t moved on. I don’t think he can.

I drop my hands from the shit job I’m doing. Yep, I’m a man that doesn’t know how to tie a tie.

Walking out of my room, I step into the hall and then make my way down the short distance to Shane’s bedroom. I don’t knock; I doubt he’d hear the sound over the guitar. He’s also been distant. He won’t talk to our parents about how he’s coping. With the exception of yesterday, I’ve been here since Sunday afternoon. I had to go into the shop and reschedule my clients for today and tomorrow.

I open the door to see Shane sitting on his bed with his back leaned against the headboard, legs crossed, his guitar resting in his lap. He’s dressed the same as I am, but without shoes; just black socks with a black suit.

I lean into the doorframe. He stops playing the moment he notices my presence.

“Wanna talk about it?” He looks up at my question.

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Bullshit!” I holler out. Pointing my finger in his direction, I tell him, “The guitar, the song, they both say differently, man. They tell me you have something you need to get off your chest.”

“Go away, Shawn. Not today.” He breathes hard.

“Don’t play that card with me.” I shake my head to emphasize my point. “You’re not in here moping over your best friend’s death. You’re in here thinking about her.” He glares at me before cracking.