The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(67)

Once we’re back in the room and packing up the clothes we tossed around in a flurry during our fight, I spot the meds on the bedspread. She’s looking at them, too.

I know the way I approached it was wrong, but I’m not wrong in wanting her to take her meds—for wanting her to get better. I can’t take that moment back, but I can hope that maybe something good comes out of it. I don’t want to toss them. If I put them in the bag, will the shit hit the fan all over again?

I’m accepting that I can’t be the one to help her. Fine. She doesn’t want help from me. But I won’t accept her ignoring her psychosis altogether. After this trip, I will be there for her, and this time, I won’t avoid. No matter what. As a friend, or whatever she needs.

She must see the discomfort on my face. I’m probably an open book as I stare down the pill bottles. With a heavy sigh, she picks them up. “I’ll carry these in my bag.”

A shred of hope lightens my shoulders. “Okay,” I say. “That’s fine.”

She shrugs. “I doubt it’s a good idea to flush them here.”

And just like that, the weight crushes me. Schooling my features into a neutral expression, I nod and say, “You’re not supposed to. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Take them back home and give them to your doctor.” My chest constricts with every word I force out. But I’m not going to win this battle with her. And, it’s not even my place. She was right on that front.

I’m not sure where my place is. I know where my deranged self wants it to be. But again, that’s in some other reality. One where my brother is still alive. Where five years ago I stood up to him and told him the truth—that I loved this girl. That even though he loved her, too, we should let her make her own choice.

A reality where our father wasn’t an abusive monster, and I didn’t suffer a world of guilt, trying to do anything and everything to give Tyler a semblance of normal.

Where I could’ve been with Sam.

But it’s stupid to even fantasize about that. We’re in this f*cked up reality, where I’ll take any scrap Sam’s willing to give me of herself and cling to it like the pathetic fool I am.

As she shrugs her pack onto her shoulder, I grab my bag, then surprisingly—because just an hour ago, I thought I’d blown any chance—we head out of the room. Together.

Once we’re checked out and walking toward my truck, a wave of sickness crashes over me. Oh, baby. Here we go.

Sam peeks at me and laughs. “Relax. I won’t grind the gears.”

My stomach clenches just hearing her say grind and gears in the same sentence. “I’m not worried. I trust you.” I look at her and let the full meaning of my words sink in.

She doesn’t look away. My heart tightens as she holds my gaze a moment longer before she’s forced to look where she’s walking. Again, I have no idea what Biker Chick said to her, but when I see her, I’m going to hug the crap out of her.

With an internal groan, I hand Sam my keys. “Please, please, be gentle.”

She rolls her eyes and unlocks the door. Sliding behind the wheel, she smiles. It floods me with warmth. My truck is pretty badass. She reaches over and unlocks my door, then as I climb in, she pushes in the clutch and turns the ignition.

My truck rumbles to life. And to my utter relief, it doesn’t sputter or choke out. I glance at Sam. Her hands are gripped tightly to the steering wheel, her gaze staring ahead. As if talking herself into it, she nods and places a shaky hand on the skull shifter knob.

Against my inner voice screaming that I shouldn’t touch her, I extend my hand and lay it over hers. “You can do this.”

Her eyes meet mine before I feel her shift into first. Giving her a lopsided smile, I say, “It’s all yours.”

She pulls out of the parking space, perfectly if not a bit hesitantly, then smiles, her dimple making an appearance. Without a doubt, I wasn’t talking about the truck. This girl owns my heart.

And it scares me shitless.





Sam

Holden is really trying to be cool. Like me driving his truck isn’t about to make him rip his hair out. He’s run his hand through his dark layers about fifty times since I got on the highway. And he’s never worked that lip ring so hard.

A triumphant smile spreads across my face as I press back into the seat. I’m still a bit nervous, but after the first ten minutes of minor panic attacks (it felt like more than one), the fight or flight adrenaline coursing through my veins finally stopped pumping. Now I’m on a high.

I used to love driving. Whenever I’d have a bad day—after I botched a test or had a fight with Tyler, or just needed to think—I’d hop into my car and just drive. Blast the stereo and get lost.

Sure, there weren’t a lot of places to drive around the island, but it was the action. The going. Being away from the world in my own place where no one could bother me.

That is, until Tyler’s hit-and-run. Dr. Hartman tried to analyze it, saying my fear was normal. A car had taken Tyler away from me, and of course I’d be fearful of cars now. It was logical and rational, and what’s more, expected.

Earlier, the idea had just hit me.

As much as I’m doing this trip for Tyler, truth is, I’m doing it for me, too. I’m tired of being scared. Sick of living in fear. I’m doing this to set Tyler free, yes, to help him to cross over—but deep down, I know it’s about more.