The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(7)

“I know we weren’t as close growing up as you and my brother,” he says, and a pang hits my chest. “But I’d like to think we were still friends . . . on some level. I have to make sure that you’re okay. That you get the help you need.”

Embarrassed anger rises up within me. Has my mother told him about my doctor visits? About my “major depression with psychotic features?” I don’t think I could handle him knowing. “I just need time alone, Holden. I’m not your responsibility.”

“Yeah, you kind of are.” My head snaps around, and he’s standing up, then stepping closer to me. “After our mother died”—pain flashes across his face—“Tyler made me promise to watch out for you, if anything should ever happen to him. A death makes people think of their own, and he loved you more than anyone. I promised him.”

I stand and brush loose grass from my backside, keeping my sight on the pond. I’m sure Tyler wouldn’t have asked that of him had he known the truth. “Just find whoever hit Tyler, Holden. If you’re really here to help the police with their investigation, then help them. I’ve told you everything I know, and now I want to be left alone.”

I spin, but his hand grasps my wrist, halting me. He immediately releases it, and his hand clenches into a fist. “When did you get that?” He nods at the tattoo on my wrist.

Reflexively, I clamp my hand over the inked tree, its trunk starting just above my palm and the thin, wiry branches reaching up and out toward my forearm. “When I turned eighteen. It was my birthday gift to myself.” My face flames, and I can’t meet his eyes.

Silence hums in the air, charged. It presses against me.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice raspy. “It suits you.”

My pulse hammers against my veins as a memory covers my vision. I’m suddenly chilly, the rain soaking my hair—but warm arms cradle me . . . soft, strong lips caress mine.

I fasten my eyes shut. Then opening them, I look up into Holden’s face.

“Well,” I say, inching backward. “Tats are supposed to mean something. But mine doesn’t,” I add quickly, and watch as he flinches, my words hitting him like a punch. “I’ve just always loved dead trees. Always loved drawing them.” I shrug, layering on my nonchalance.

A muscle ticks in his jaw as he grits his teeth. Sinking his hands into his jean pockets, he schools his features into a calm expression. “Later, Sam. Please take care of yourself.” He nods once before leaving.

I’m left standing near the pond, shaken at his abrupt dismissal.

As I walk home alone, the darkness creeping along with me, I trace my thumb over my tattoo. Remembering.





Holden

Shifting into a lower gear, I take the curve fast and hard. I can feel the tires drifting over the asphalt, burning the tread. I wish I could rub out my memories as easily as I can burn up a pair of tires.

Sam looks bad. She’s never been girly, not one to really care about her appearance all that much, but she’s never let herself go like this. Always had her hair dyed, hiding the blond beneath. Used to wear a nose ring—the one Tyler used to give her shit for. And she’s always dressed like the artsy person she is. Or was.

It’s the one thing we had in common when we were younger. She and Tyler were exact opposites. He was all about impressing Dad—trying to gain his approval. Following in his footsteps to be a lawyer, dressing the part, all preppy and clean cut. Which was fine. It suited him. And somehow, it even worked for him and Sam. Opposites attract, I guess.

But Sam and I . . . We were different. We didn’t joke around like she and Tyler did. They were the same age and always had an inside joke to laugh at. There was a silent understanding between us, though, being able to draw beside each other, no words, just the scratching of pencil on paper. Our conversation. Our music.

And when I looked into her eyes, getting lost in that color that doesn’t have a name on any painter’s palette, I saw intensity. Fire. I knew I was going to get burned, but like the dumbass that I am, I leapt.

The dark road stretches endlessly before me, and I crank my stereo, trying to blast away the memories.

Five Years Ago

We’ve been leaving each other messages in our paintings for weeks. We share the same art teacher, but not the same class. Sam’s freshman art block is in the morning, and my junior art class is my last block of the day.

I check her canvas before I dive into my current project. Yesterday, it was just an orange sky with a hint of stars in the falling twilight. Today, it’s finished. And staring back at me is a black dead tree. Its branches gnarly and bare, casting a shadow over two hidden figures. Embracing.

My heart jumps in my throat.

Finding my easel, I place my canvas on it and study my palette. I have to answer her, but f*ck. How? She’s going to stop by after the last bell to put her canvas away. That’s when she’ll read mine. It’s our routine.

It started out as a game, just two artists having a hidden theme in the same art class. But somewhere, somehow, it turned into more.

As I bring my paintbrush to the canvas, I begin blending a setting similar to hers—an orange sky with a tree. My answer to whether or not I’ll meet her. When I start on the couple, my hand twitches and I slip. “Dammit.”

“Mr. Marks,” Ms. Snyder snaps. “I’m all in favor of expression, but let’s keep the profanity out of the classroom.” She raises her brows.