The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(24)

I balk. “Don’t start that new age MP3, iTunes crap with me. If there was a way to install a record player in my truck, I’d be rocking vinyl right now.”

With a sigh, Sam digs under the seat and pulls out the black leather case. Every CD I’ve collected since middle school.

“Holy hell,” she says. “This thing weighs a ton. You cart around your vinyl in here, too?”

“That’s not even funny. I’d never treat my music so disrespectfully.” She doesn’t return the quip, which makes me anxious. This is the first time we’ve really spoken since we hit 95, and I want the ice barricade to continue to thaw between us.

Her lips turn down, and I think about my words. Shit. I guess I shouldn’t joke about treating anything disrespectfully. Not with how I treated her in high school.

I open my mouth, about to . . . I have no idea. Apologize? I wouldn’t know where to start. Telling her the truth would only make things worse, and I just can’t. Maybe explain that I was a seventeen-year-old * who didn’t know anything about girls? If she didn’t see right through that weak excuse—which I’m sure she would—it’d only make things more uncomfortable between us.

She loads a disc into the stereo and clicks through the tracks. Smashing Pumpkins’ Cherubim starts up, and my chest loosens a fraction.

“Good choice,” I say.

“Well, you at least have decent taste in music.” Then she holds up another disc. “But this”—she shakes her head at Eminem’s latest album—“is damn pathetic.”

“What? You don’t love some Slim Shady? Come on. All you girls love him.”

“Maybe the chicks you’re into,” she says under her breath, and pushes the CD back into its holder. And with that, the wall of silence slides back into place between us.

I push my back against the seat, settling into the drive as Billy Corgan’s mad guitar solo thrums through me. I try not to think about her comment, but its poking holes in my brain like a demented woodpecker.

As she pulls out a book and leans away from me to read, I crank the music, and drum my fingers against my thigh. Sam’s been my type for far too long, and being near her now is like using acid to reopen an old wound.

Five Years Ago

“How long?”

“Shit, Tyler.” I slide the drawing I’ve been working on for Sam under the stack of loose papers on my desk. “You f*cking snuck up on me.” I shuffle them and then turn around in my chair. The stony look on his face freezes me in place. “What are you talking about?”

He’s standing in the doorway to my room, his arms taut, sinewy muscles strained as he grips his hands into fists. At first, I think Dad’s done something. But the hate seething from his eyes is directed toward me.

He stalks into my room and bows up, like he’s going to throw a punch. I spring from the chair and stand over him, ready, reminding him that I’m taller, bigger, and the one who took down the man we’ve both feared since forever.

He hesitates, a slight waver, and backs up a step. “What gives you the f*cking right to move in on my girl? How long has it been going on?”

I’m sure a barrage of emotions passes over my face, but I try to rein in my feelings, not give anything away. It’s useless, of course. The one thing Tyler’s damn good at is reading people. Just like the * that calls himself our father, he has that talent—that thing that makes my dad a good lawyer, and Tyler a good future one.

“She told you,” I say. It’s not really a question. I can see Sam feeling guilty, admitting what happened. I doubt they’ve ever kept anything from each other. Well, except for the one thing Tyler and I swore never to tell a living soul.

Not even Sam knows that.

His chest puffs out with labored breaths. His face is strained, but I can see the pain etched behind the anger. And it makes me feel about as good as a piece of dog shit.

“I’m not stupid,” he says, still crowding my personal space. “She’s been distracted. Hiding paintings that she’s usually eager to show off. And every time you’re around, she gets all weird and quiet, and then yesterday”—he mock laughs—“I knew something was going on between you two. I just f*cking knew it. And then I saw it.” He slams his fist down on the desk behind me.

I start, reacting to the threat, adrenaline coursing now, and physically have to force myself not to touch him. I won’t ever be like him. “So what . . . you followed me?” It’s disturbing, but I don’t know what’s worse. That he found out and let his rage build up until now, or that I was keeping it from him.

“Damn right,” he spits through clenched teeth. “What are you going to do? Keep her around to f*ck on the weekends when you finally come back to visit? You’re only going to screw her over. Anything you do will end bad, then she’s going to be a mess, and I’ll have to be the one to deal with it. Because you sure as shit won’t.” He scoffs. “You don’t give a f*ck about her.”

I’d have rather he punched me in the gut. Or the face. Or the balls. His words attack me from the inside, splintering my brain like rotten wood. I’ve been avoiding talking to him about my leaving because I knew he’d get upset. Guilt steals the edge from my words. “I will come back. And I do care about her.”