The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(3)

As his hand inches under my shirt, I suck in a breath. “I can’t wait to marry you, Tyler Marks.”

A groan rumbles in his chest, and his hand flattens against my stomach, stopping its progression. “Shit, Sam. I forgot.”

I lift up onto my elbows. “About what?”

He shakes his head and drives his hand through his hair as he sits back on his heels. “My brother’s in town, and I promised I’d hang with him tonight. I missed his birthday last week.” His brown eyes crease at the corners. “But I can cancel.” He bounds forward, capturing my arms and bringing them above my head.

My back hits the bed, and his weight presses me into the comforter. I revel in the feel of his strong body on top of mine for a minute before the guilt kicks in. I run my hands along his back. “You haven’t seen Holden in forever,” I say through my disappointment. “You should go.”

“Yeah, I should.” He exhales against my neck, a forced breath. Then he pushes up to look at me. “I can stop by later.” He dips his fingers beneath the elastic of my pajama shorts. “Pick up where we left off . . .”

I laugh. “No. I have an early class.” I sigh, hating that, again, I’ll go to bed without him. “I should probably pass out early anyway. Tomorrow?”

“You know it.” He leans in and kisses me long and soft.

After he slips on his shoes and jacket, I walk him to the outside corridor and lean against the doorway, hugging my arms around myself against the cold. “I love you,” I tell him.

With another groan, he pivots and races back toward me, scooping me into his arms, my toes grazing the floor. “Forever,” he whispers in my ear.

Those were his last words to me.





Sam

I stare down at the orange pill bottles on my bathroom counter. Run my fingers over the white prescription labels.

Celexa. Abilify.

Ignoring my reflection in the mirror, because I know he’s standing behind me, I press down on the childproof top and twist. The smell of plastic and new medication hits my nose, and I dump the pills into my hand. They’re white and small and oblong.

“You don’t need them,” Tyler says. “You’re not crazy, Sam. I’m really here. Those pills will just drug you into a comatose state where I can’t reach you . . . I need you, baby.”

Guilt pools in my stomach, twisting and churning. With a determined but shaky hand, I extend my arm over the toilet and slowly tilt my hand. The white pills trickle from my palm like a little waterfall, plopping into the water.

I reach over and flush.

Then I repeat the action with the antidepressant medication.

“What do you want, Tyler?” I’m a bit put out since my mom and Dr. Hartman have been extra tough on me this week. And Tyler popping up during my session today only makes it harder.

He doesn’t appear every day, and even on the days that he does, he doesn’t always speak. But his presence is constant. I can feel him everywhere. Even in my sleep. Unconscious.

Finally, I look up. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on the night of the accident. His white Polo shirt and dark denim jeans. His hair still mussed from my fingers when he kissed me for the last time.

I squeeze my eyes closed, then open them. He’s still there.

“Just you,” he says. “I always want just you.”

An ache builds in my chest and rises to my throat. “I’m here,” I whisper.

Then he’s gone.

Since he first appeared to me, three days after his funeral, I’ve researched every book in the college library, and Googled every phenomenon I could on life after death. It became an obsession.

When he started coming to me, I was frightened. Freaked out. But overwhelmingly happy, as if somehow everything that happened prior was just a bad dream and he was back. I was scared to try and touch him. Scared of what it would mean if I could . . . Scared of the returning heartache and feelings of loss if I couldn’t.

Then one day I worked up the courage. My hand passed right through him, and it was like he died all over again.

The day I heard his voice, I nearly shattered. It was the most beautiful sound, and I discovered that if I talked back, he would respond. We could have conversations again. I locked myself in my old room of my parents’ house and didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t leave, afraid that he’d leave, or that he’d forget me.

Eventually, my parents sought help. They’d given me, what they felt, was sufficient time to grieve. They thought it was time for me to go back to classes, at least, if not back to living on campus. I had to go on living, they said. Tyler would want that.

Would he really?

According to Tyler, that’s not true. He missed me, and he needs my presence to anchor him to this . . . whatever new reality between life and death where he exists. I hadn’t been there that night. I hadn’t been there for him. Maybe if I had been, he would still be alive now.

He needs me.

It’s what he always says. And if being here for him helps, then it’s what I have to do.

After months of arguing with my parents about school and life, and all the other bullshit they felt I should be doing, I cracked. I told them the truth. I can still see my mother’s shocked expression, feel it like a mallet to my gut. I terrified her.

So this is life now. My talking to Tyler when he appears, living every second of my day just waiting to hear his voice, while my family copes with having a nut-case as a daughter.