The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(20)

“No. It’s fine.”

“Stop. It’s just a shirt.” She reaches for my hand. “Let me see.”

As her fingers graze the top of my hand and around the edges of my palm, I try to keep my thoughts pure. I’m standing next to my brother’s freakin’ ashes, for shit’s sake. But Sam’s delicate touch triggers heat, want, feeling. And something painful.

“I’ll do it,” I say, taking the tee from her hands.

She releases it and steps back, as if she’s ashamed of her own actions. Or maybe she just remembered that she hates me. Either way, I finish dressing the cut with the tiny scrap of white tee while she looks around, as if making sure we’re still alone. Then she steps into the granite enclosure.

Filling my lungs with warm air, I roll my shoulders back and follow her inside.

The noticeable dip in temperature sends my defenses up, and the staleness sucks every bit of air back out of my lungs. I’d say it feels like a crypt in here, but that’s not even funny to me. And when my eyes land on the wall with my mother’s engraved name, disturbing images that have haunted my dreams bang against my vision, stealing all light from the room.

“Holden?”

Sam’s voice is distant and dark. Dark as the void trying to pull me under.

I blink, then drag my gaze across the small room until I find her face. Ashen and worried. “I’m fine,” I say, even though she didn’t ask. “Let’s hurry. Probably not a good idea to make it our hang out.”

She wrings her hands, like she’s again having second thoughts, and walks over to the slab holding Tyler’s urn. My stomach knots. I hate that my brother—all six feet of him; all of everything he was in life—can fit in such a small container.

Sam lugs her backpack to the floor and dives in, coming up with a jade and silver satin-covered box. “Will you help me?”

I want to tell her that I already have, that I’ve already committed a major felony for her—but I don’t. Tamping down the unease roiling in my stomach, I command my feet to move until I’m beside her, then I lift the urn from the slab. The top is easy enough to open, and when Sam nods, I pour—with trembling hands—half of my brother’s remains into her box.

I feel like I should ask for forgiveness. But I’ll save that for later.

Sam silently watches the ashes fill the small box. Then, “I couldn’t speak at his funeral.”

I know this, because when I finally worked up the courage to go back into the church—steering clear of my father’s pissed off glare—she wasn’t there. After she ran away from me, she didn’t come back. “You could say something now,” I offer.

For a minute, it looks like she’s debating it. “No,” she says, and her gaze flicks to mine. “Not here.” She leaves her statement unfinished, but I get what she’s saying. She wants to say her final goodbye on the road, in her own way. Away from this hollow shell.

After we make sure everything looks untouched, like no grave robbers or unhinged girlfriends have busted into the place, I seal the door back up. Then I follow Sam out of the graveyard. I follow her after she tells me goodbye. And when she thinks she’s being slick . . .

I follow her.





Sam

My nervous system is about to shut down. I know it is. I suddenly regret not taking Dr. Hartman up on her offer for anxiety meds.

I’d be chewing those bitches like Gummy Bears right now.

The train station is loud and dirty, and smells like rotten eggs and farts. I’m told that’s just the smell of the paper mill coming downwind, but I’m not so sure I believe that. This place is filthy. And I swear people are staring at me. Like they know I’m carrying my stolen boyfriend in my pack.

I keep peeking over my shoulder, waiting for Mr. Marks or the cops to come barreling in. I switch seats again, not sitting in one place longer than five minutes. Maybe if I keep moving around time will go by faster, and my train will be ready to board.

Checking my phone again, I curse. I still have fifteen minutes.

I left early this morning by cab. The note I wrote my mother sits on the kitchen counter by the coffee maker. Last night, I almost told her. I’d curled up with her on the couch while she was reading one of her mystery novels (she loves them almost more than she loves watching Law and Order), and I just laid my head in her lap. Like I used to do when I was a kid.

To my relief, she didn’t ask me what was wrong. I mean, what’s not wrong with my life? She just ran her fingers through my hair and continued to read. Before I went to bed, she actually commented on my hair, saying that it looked good. And then smiled.

She always hated my hairstyles before. But she thinks I’m doing better. That the medications are helping, and that I’m returning to the Sam she loves. I almost blurted my plans right then, but I couldn’t bear to see the relief and hope in her eyes shattered.

The note explains that Dr. Hartman’s encouragement (damn right I blamed it on her) helped me realize that I needed a change, an adventure, to get out and discover my independence. I let her know I’d have my phone on at all times. And I’d keep her posted on my “adventure.”

Hopefully she’ll see this as a good thing, like I’m just doing what Dr. Hartman suggested and trying to find myself.

I move to another seat, where I have a direct view of the tracks, and tuck my backpack between my feet. I can feel Tyler’s picture box against my Converse. The jade one I’d given him the day we left for college—that now holds his remains instead of our memories. I’d made one last-minute stop before meeting Holden at the cemetery yesterday. Tyler’s room.