The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(28)

Performing these mindless actions keeps me from thinking about what I witnessed after Sam got sick on the side of the highway. She was having a conversation with an invisible person. I stood there, water bottle in hand, battling a mix of confusion and fright. I’ve never dealt with someone who suffers from delusions, or psychosis. I’m not sure I’m capable of handling it right.

So I didn’t handle it. I ignored it. That’s easier than asking questions.

It would only make an already stressed situation that much more strained and complicated. I doubt she wants to divulge the information, anyway.

I didn’t dive into this completely unprepared, though. Before I tracked her down at the train station, I contacted Rachel and asked for all the sordid details of Sam’s condition. What her doctor suggested would be the best way to behave around her, and what to do in case of an emergency. I’m sure Sam would be furious if she knew I’d talked to her mom about it behind her back, but desperate times and such. I don’t want to chance anything with Sam.

Glancing at my bag, I remind myself that I have a backup plan if things get bad. I just hope I don’t have to resort to it—that this trip will help her overcome her grief, and her mind can heal. Maybe she needs to be able to say goodbye to Tyler on her own terms. Or maybe she just needs to release whatever guilt she’s harboring over his death.

As much as I miss my brother, I’ve let him go. That’s not to say I’m not battling my own demons. I’ve dealt with all the regret and anger and frustration . . . but not always in a healthy way. The first two months after his death were the hardest. Harder even than dealing with my mother’s. But now, right this minute, I’m burying my guilt. As long as the world accepts that Tyler was killed by a hit-and-run, I can move on.

I have to.

I should’ve tried harder to be there for Sam, though. I knew she was struggling, but I let her push me away. I let her, because it was easier to avoid. But I’m here now. And as difficult and painful as it is to be around her, I’ll deal. If she needs me to take the guilt so she can free her mind of her demons, I can do that.

I’ve locked mine up in my nightmares where they can torment me, but I’m not haunted. Not afraid my brother will appear.

Maybe I should be.

I blow out a heavy breath and dial the number to the speedway. We need to have some fun. Stat.



I haven’t stopped since I hung up with the guy from the speedway. Screw rest. I don’t want to see the disappointment in Sam’s eyes.

Working up my courage, I knock on her room door.

After a few seconds, “Who is it?”

I told her to keep the door bolted after I checked that there were no creepers hanging out in her room. I’ve watched those shows; I know the deal. Of course she just rolled her eyes. Obviously, she’s watched them, too.

“Me.”

She unlocks the door and fans a hand, welcoming me in. As I walk past, I inhale the scent of strawberries and something else, some kind of girly fragrance. It’s the smell of her body wash and shampoo. I smelled it the whole way here and it drove me crazy. It’s even stronger now. Her hair’s wet and combed straight over her shoulders, and she’s dressed in a simple black tee and yoga pants that hug her hips and thighs nicely.

Her eyes narrow as she notices the laptop tucked under my arm.

“Good and bad news,” I say, setting my computer on the bed. “It’s the off season. We won’t be able to catch a race, but they said there’s a practice run tomorrow, and visitors can watch.”

She crosses her arms as her lips purse into a tight frown, and I can’t help but notice she’s not wearing a bra. Shit. Clearing my throat, I look away.

“What’s the computer for?” She walks to the bed and sits, pulling her legs up to block my view of her chest. Good.

“I downloaded Talladega Nights. Thought since we can’t catch a race, we could watch the inspiration for this stop.”

She smiles, and warmth prickles beneath my breastbone. I haven’t seen a sincere smile from her in years. I forgot how her lips curved, revealing the tiny dimple beside her mouth. I immediately want to make her smile again.

“And”—I jog to the door and grab the pile of food I left in the hallway—“dinner. Or vegging out food. Whichever you prefer.” I hold up the Chinese takeout and the grocery bag of junk food I picked up from the store across the street.

“Wow,” she says. “And you accomplished all this while I was in the shower.”

“You apparently take really long showers.”

A hint of red touches her cheeks, and she reaches out. “Give up the chocolate.”

Digging through the plastic bag, I find the Hershey bars and the Pepto-Bismol. I hand her both. She looks at the medicine, her eyes studying the label. “Thanks.”

I nod. She’s still staring at the pink bottle, her thumb running over it, like picking up stomach medicine is the most thoughtful gesture. It makes my chest tighten, and I have to break the heavy silence.

Flipping my laptop open, I say, “I assume you’re a Ricky Bobby fan.”

She snorts. “Do I lose cool points if I say no?” Her eyes peek up at me as she fiddles with the Hershey wrapper. Before I can return a quip, she says, “Tyler watched it at least once a month. I never got why.”

I shrug again. I’m real smooth right now. “He’s a dude.”