The Love That Split the World(61)

I almost scream when he grabs my upper arms and shoves me against the side of the car. “Stop pretending you care what I do.”

“You don’t have to leave,” I say, breathless, trying to touch his shoulders, to calm him, though he keeps knocking my hands away. “I’ll go. I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”

His fingers dig in deeper, and his eyes are unfocused as he slams my back against the car door again. “How could you do this to me?” he shouts. “Tell me why you ruined us.”

“Matt, please.” His hands are shaking, or I’m shaking, or both, and tears blur my vision. “You’re hurting me.”

“Tell me why.” He slams me backward again. Hard, too hard. Stars swirl behind my eyelids. I’m not hurt, but I’m shocked, scared, shivering madly. His mouth is an inch from mine, and I’m terrified he might try to kiss me, when suddenly someone rips him backward into the street.

He staggers to gain his balance and moves toward Beau, who throws a punch to Matt’s cheek and sends him reeling back again. Next thing I know, there’s an all-out brawl in the middle of the street, and kids come running down the side of the lawn to see. “Stop!” I shriek, but they ignore me.

Beau has his arms locked around Matt’s neck, and then he’s kneeing him in the stomach. I try to haul Beau off Matt, screaming all the time. “Beau, stop,” I’m sobbing over and over again. Matt trips backward and lands on the ground, breathing hard as Beau advances on him. “Beau,” I plead.

He stops, turns to face me, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

Matt scrambles up, blood dripping from his lips and the split across his check, and stumbles toward his car. The whole time he’s staring at me, furious, shaking his head. He gets in his car and pulls away, his tires squealing.

I don’t know how long I stand there. I don’t know which version I’m in anymore. Does it even matter?

I finally turn to head back, finding Beau and a hushed crowd of my classmates watching me.

“Take me home.”

Beau walks over to his truck and gets in without a word. I follow, my legs wobbling like Jell-O in an earthquake and my eyes desperately avoiding everyone staring after us as we back down the driveway.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“Yes, I did.” His voice is low and he’s driving fast, won’t look at me.

“You should’ve stayed out of it.” He laughs harshly. “I’m serious, Beau. You really hurt him.”

He shakes his head. “You mean like he was gonna do to you?”

“He wouldn’t have hurt me,” I insist, though I’m still shaking, still seeing the unfocused, almost bloodthirsty look in Matt’s eye.

“Natalie, you really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“Forget it,” he says. Neither of us speaks for the rest of the drive, and when we pull up in front of my house, he turns the car off, and we continue to sit in silence. Finally, Beau speaks, without looking up from the steering wheel. “I may drink too much and get into fights now and then, but I would never hurt you, or anyone else I care about. You don’t deserve that. No one does. You shouldn’t be scared of someone you love, Natalie.”

“I have to go.” I get out of the car and run inside before he can see the tears really start to fall.



I wake up in the middle of the night again, and this time I know right away: I’m not alone. My eyes focus on the rocking chair.

Grandmother is there, but for once she’s wearing different clothes: an open pink robe over a faded blue nightgown. Her skin is less wrinkled, her hair swept into a neat bun.

“Grandmother,” I say, sitting up.

She seems blind, the way her eyes move across the room. “Don’t be afraid, Natalie,” she says, and then she’s gone.

“Grandmother,” I say into the night. “Grandmother.”

No response. I try to think about the song Beau played in the band room that night, the feeling it gave me. I try to tune in to my own anxiety. That part’s easy—there’s a lump in my chest and a weight in my stomach, that indescribable feeling that something’s wrong.

I hear Gus whining at the door. I get out of bed to let him into the hall, and he trots right to the stairs, thumping clumsily down to the foyer. A light from down in the kitchen reaches the fringes of the stairs, and hushed voices drift along it.

I creep down the steps and follow the hallway to the kitchen. Mom and Dad are sitting at the table across from one another, and when Mom notices me standing in the doorway I see that her eyes are red and puffy. Dad turns around and looks at me, revealing his own sunken and dark gaze. “Hey, sugar cube,” he says softly.

“What’s wrong?”

They exchange a look and Mom starts to cry, covering her mouth with her thin hand. Dad tips his head toward the yellow wooden chair beside him, but I can’t move. My feet weigh a thousand pounds, and my heartrate’s like I’m in the middle of a sprint. “Dad?” I urge, my voice little more than a squeak.

He sighs and stands, setting a hand on Mom’s shoulder as her slim frame shakes with silent tears. “Honey, he’s alive,” Dad starts, “but Matt Kincaid’s been in a car accident.”