The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(64)

Slogging toward a bench, I find an empty seat away from the crowds to just sit and watch. Let my mind process. I need to process. And being around Holden? There’s no rational thought there. I just need someone . . . My chest tightens as I realize who I need.

My best friend.

Tyler was always there. Could fix anything.

What happened in the pool comes crashing back with a fury. I’ve been so angry with Holden, I haven’t even had time to process that yet. I didn’t lie to him—I truly believe that Tyler wouldn’t hurt me. Not on purpose, anyway. But I can’t help the chill that skitters down my spine as I remember that growing blackness, its tendrils reaching out to me as Tyler vanished.

He’ll come back.

I shudder, and with a warm breath sucked into my lungs, I try to center myself.

Was it real?

I feel my brow furrow. Of course it was real. I saw it. I felt those wispy claws grab me.

Weren’t you feeling guilty over your feelings for Holden, though?

What the hell? Is my own subconscious debating me?

Annoyed and insulted at my own damn self, I shake off my unease. Then like a prayer being answered, I remember a number I’ve never dialed. A person I didn’t think I’d ever call. But someone who’s not biased to either me or Holden. Biker Melody.

She programed her number into my phone at the bar, insisting I call her on the road. She was drunk at the time, and skeeted up, and possibly entered the wrong number. But what do I have to lose?

At this point, the fierce biker girl is the only friend I have. Which is sad. I’ve lived on the island my whole life, and in just under half a year, I’ve pushed everyone important to me away. Even Dr. Hartman is closer to a pal than any of the girls I grew up with.

Digging into my bag, I pull out my iPhone and scroll through the contacts. A picture of a girl with her mouth open in a mock tough expression pops up. I smile at the image and tap the number.

It rings a few times, and I think she’s not picking up, or it’s the wrong number, when her raspy voice answers. “Yeah?”

I can’t help but smile at her curt greeting. “Hey, it’s Sam. The girl at the . . . bar in Talladega?” I stop myself from saying “biker bar.” That’s probably somewhat offensive to actual bikers.

“I know,” she says. “I saw your pic on my phone. What’s up? You and lover boy made it to Wichita yet?”

A hazy memory of me drunkenly talking about the trip with her comes back to me. “No, not yet. Springfield, actually.”

She groans. “Oh, man. That place is so lame. You should totally hotfoot it to Wichita. There’s this show tomorrow. Oh!” The phone crackles with her high-pitched squeal. “Dude, you’d love this band. It’s an all-chick group and they rock. Like, none of that girly shit. Like hardcore, kick ass. If you make it up here tomorrow, we could hang.”

“You’re there already?” I knew her and her biker peeps were on their own road trip. Well, I guess it’s not the same as us, since they’re always on the road. Bikers and all. But I’m surprised to hear she’s there. I don’t remember her mentioning it. But then again, I was pretty wasted.

“Not yet,” she says. “We will be tomorrow, though. And you totally should be, too.” I can hear the hopeful smile in her voice. And suddenly, I want to go to whatever show she’s talking about.

“You know what? It’s on. We’ll be there. Can you send me directions to this place?”

“I can do better. I’ll send you the website with all the info. Hey, Dar!” The receiver picks up her shuffling movements. “Baby girl Sam is going to the show!” An excited cheer reaches my ear through the phone, and I smile. I really do like these girls.

“So,” she says, her tone going from fun to serious in a nanosecond. “I know you didn’t call to shoot the shit. What’s really up?”

Nodding to myself, I pull in a breath. “I need some advice, or an opinion . . . something from someone who might see a bit clearer—” possibly saner “—about Holden. And me.”

“Hmm.” A beat. “That boy loves you.”

Her words catch me off-guard, and my jaw falls open. I think I even stutter something.

“You know that, right?” she asks. “Like, loves you, loves you. He’s in deep. I think you could hock all his shit on EBay and he’d fall to his knees and give you head.”

A laugh escapes me. “I’m not sure about that.”

“Oh, I am. But anyway, what’s the deal?”

With another deep breath, I dive in. Tell her everything, as unbiasedly as I can (though I may call him a dickhead a couple of times). And I know I’m spilling my heart out all over the phone, and to someone who I only just met. But for whatever reason, I trust her. There’s an honesty about Melody, an easiness I envy, and I feel she might shed light where the darkness clouds my thoughts.

There’s a long pause after I finish. I wonder if I’ve lost connection, or after I admitted to seeing and talking to my dead boyfriend she hung up. Holding the phone away from me, I look at the screen. Still connected. “Mel?”

“I’m thinking,” she says. “All right. I’m going to lay this out pretty simply, so be prepared. I know you’ve had the worst kind of run lately, but I think you need to hear it. And by the way, I am sorry for your loss.”