The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(13)

But that’s what he is. A lawyer. Tyler didn’t make me go around him much—actually, he kept me pretty guarded from his family life, preferring to hang out at my house until we were in high school. I think his dad embarrassed him. As kids, when we did play at his house, we used to place bets on how many minutes it would take before his dad started his interrogation. Like simply asking about how Tyler’s day went after school. It would start out simple enough, then he’d go all lawyer mode.

I haven’t seen him since the funeral. And I’m still ashamed that I couldn’t stand up and speak in front of Tyler’s friends and family. I wonder if he’ll mention it, and my hands slick with sweat.

Raising my hand to ring the doorbell, I jump as Tyler materializes before the door.

“Shit,” I hiss. “Tyler. Go away. I can’t talk to your dad with you hanging around. Please.”

His features screw up into a determined expression, and I can just make out the door through his translucent appearance. I’m worried about how much energy he’s exerting to be here.

“He’s not the same,” Tyler says. “Since Mom . . . and now me . . . he won’t listen to you, Sam.”

“I have to try.” With a forceful step, I walk through Tyler. No cold. No chill. No tingle. I believe it’s because I love him, because I knew him. The reason why I never feel him the way the accounts claim I should. I huff. All that Internet crap is just hyperbole.

I press the doorbell, and the soft chime of bells rings out. Then footsteps, echoing through the hallway, getting closer.

Running my palms over my jeans, then smoothing down any flyaway strands, I prepare myself to face Tyler’s father. But when the door swings wide, it’s not Mr. Marks. It’s his fiancé, Amber.

Her blue eyes go wide. “Sam.” Scanning my frame, her gaze comes to rest on my hair. Before I left my house, I tried to look as nice and clean and sane as possible. Apparently, I didn’t accomplish that. I absentmindedly touch my hair, thinking I should’ve worn a hat. Her voice and eyes soften. “How have you been?”

I smile. “I’m good, thanks. But I need to speak with Mr. Marks. Is he home?” I noticed his new Beamer in the driveway, but being here sends me back years, and I’m a kid all over again. Nervous and polite.

She matches my smile and widens the door. “Yeah, of course. Come on in.”

“Thanks.” I walk inside, and the scent of vanilla, ocean, and fresh wood hits me hard. I take an immediate step back. It’s what Tyler used to smell like. It’s the smell of his home. I bite back the sting of tears—I haven’t smelled him in so long . . .

“Sam.” Mr. Marks’ deep voice startles me from my thoughts.

Tucking a rogue strand of hair behind my ear, I force my feet to move past the entryway. “Hi, Mr. Marks.”

“It’s been a while,” he says. His dark eyes squint as he smiles.

Amber’s pink glossy lips press together as she glances between us, then she points to the kitchen, saying she’s going to finish logging her new recipe.

She leaves, and we stand there awkwardly. I’m not sure what to say, but then he motions toward the living room, and I quietly nod. I follow him past bookshelves that house photos of Tyler and Holden, and my heart tightens. I try to focus on why I’m here, thankful that Tyler isn’t lingering.

A surge of guilt rushes through me at how short I was with him. But my nerves are on edge, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this with him here. I just hope he didn’t exhaust himself with his attempt to stop me.

After a few minutes of polite conversation (he doesn’t mention my disappearance at the funeral, thank God), I suck in a breath and jump in.

“I’m actually here to ask your permission for something, Mr. Marks.”

I watch as his relaxed features shift, his forehead and the corners of his eyes creasing with concern. “All right. Shoot.”

“You know how Tyler always wanted to travel across the country,” I say, my fingers laced so tightly together I’m cutting off my circulation. “Besides football, it was all he ever talked about. Well that, and becoming a lawyer,” I add, hoping to quash some of the tension in the room.

He chuckles. “Yes, he did. His damn room is still covered in maps.” His gaze clouds, as if he’s envisioning a moment between them.

“And then once we were married”—I swallow; my mouth dry—“it was going to be our honeymoon. We had it all mapped out.”

With a furtive, tight-lipped smile, he nods. “He mentioned that.” He eyes me curiously. “But I’m not sure I’m following what this has to do with anything now.”

“Right, well.” Shit. Here it goes. “I’d like to be able to spread some of his ashes in the places he marked on our map, sir.” His face darkens, and I quickly push on, through my imploding nerves. “I want to fulfill his dream, his wishes, and take him on his trip.”

A long silence follows. And then, “No.”

I blink. My mouth parts, but I quickly snap it shut. My sinuses flare and my throat grows thick as the pain behind my eyes returns with the feeling I’m about to cry. I shove it down, replacing it with the only emotion stronger than hurt. Anger.

“I’m sorry. Just ‘no’?” I take a sobering breath. “It was really hard for me to ask this . . . and I feel like you should at least hear me out before making a decision. At least let me explain—”