by Trisha Wolfe
I open my mouth, about to . . . I have no idea. Apologize? I wouldn’t know where to start. Telling her the truth would only make things worse, and I just can’t. Maybe explain that I was a seventeen-year-old asshole who didn’t know anything about girls? If she didn’t see right through that weak excuse—which I’m sure she would—it’d only make things more uncomfortable between us.
She loads a disc into the stereo and clicks through the tracks. Smashing Pumpkins’ Cherubim starts up, and my chest loosens a fraction.
“Good choice,” I say.
“Well, you at least have decent taste in music.” Then she holds up another disc. “But this”—she shakes her head at Eminem’s latest album—“is damn pathetic.”
“What? You don’t love some Slim Shady? Come on. All you girls love him.”
“Maybe the chicks you’re into,” she says under her breath, and pushes the CD back into its holder. And with that, the wall of silence slides back into place between us.
I push my back against the seat, settling into the drive as Billy Corgan’s mad guitar solo thrums through me. I try not to think about her comment, but its poking holes in my brain like a demented woodpecker.
As she pulls out a book and leans away from me to read, I crank the music, and drum my fingers against my thigh. Sam’s been my type for far too long, and being near her now is like using acid to reopen an old wound.
FIVE YEARS AGO
“How long?”
“Shit, Tyler.” I slide the drawing I’ve been working on for Sam under the stack of loose papers on my desk. “You fucking snuck up on me.” I shuffle them and then turn around in my chair. The stony look on his face freezes me in place. “What are you talking about?”
He’s standing in the doorway to my room, his arms taut, sinewy muscles strained as he grips his hands into fists. At first, I think Dad’s done something. But the hate seething from his eyes is directed toward me.
He stalks into my room and bows up, like he’s going to throw a punch. I spring from the chair and stand over him, ready, reminding him that I’m taller, bigger, and the one who took down the man we’ve both feared since forever.
He hesitates, a slight waver, and backs up a step. “What gives you the fucking right to move in on my girl? How long has it been going on?”
I’m sure a barrage of emotions passes over my face, but I try to rein in my feelings, not give anything away. It’s useless, of course. The one thing Tyler’s damn good at is reading people. Just like the asshole that calls himself our father, he has that talent—that thing that makes my dad a good lawyer, and Tyler a good future one.
“She told you,” I say. It’s not really a question. I can see Sam feeling guilty, admitting what happened. I doubt they’ve ever kept anything from each other. Well, except for the one thing Tyler and I swore never to tell a living soul.
Not even Sam knows that.
His chest puffs out with labored breaths. His face is strained, but I can see the pain etched behind the anger. And it makes me feel about as good as a piece of dog shit.
“I’m not stupid,” he says, still crowding my personal space. “She’s been distracted. Hiding paintings that she’s usually eager to show off. And every time you’re around, she gets all weird and quiet, and then yesterday”—he mock laughs—“I knew something was going on between you two. I just fucking knew it. And then I saw it.” He slams his fist down on the desk behind me.
I start, reacting to the threat, adrenaline coursing now, and physically have to force myself not to touch him. I won’t ever be like him. “So what . . . you followed me?” It’s disturbing, but I don’t know what’s worse. That he found out and let his rage build up until now, or that I was keeping it from him.
“Damn right,” he spits through clenched teeth. “What are you going to do? Keep her around to fuck on the weekends when you finally come back to visit? You’re only going to screw her over. Anything you do will end bad, then she’s going to be a mess, and I’ll have to be the one to deal with it. Because you sure as shit won’t.” He scoffs. “You don’t give a fuck about her.”
I’d have rather he punched me in the gut. Or the face. Or the balls. His words attack me from the inside, splintering my brain like rotten wood. I’ve been avoiding talking to him about my leaving because I knew he’d get upset. Guilt steals the edge from my words. “I will come back. And I do care about her.”
“Bullshit. Every word out of your mouth.” He drives a hand through his hair. “I care about her. I love her, and I have forever.”
“I know . . . but, Tyler, listen—”
“No,” he snaps. “I’m not buying this crap. Suddenly she gets tits and you give a damn.”
I forcefully step back and my thighs hit the desk. If he doesn’t get out of my face, I’m going to lose my temper. “Don’t say shit like that about her.”
He laughs. “Why? Because you know her so well and you’re all of a sudden respectful of the female populace?” He shakes his head, a disgusted look on his face. “Whatever. I knew this was going to happen.” He paces in a circle, and I glance at the window, suddenly worried about the time. We’re alone now, but Dad will be home soon. We need to end this.
“What do you want from me?” I step in front of him and hold my arms out wide. “I’m sorry this happened, but I do care about her. And she cares about me . . . just in a different way than she does for you.”
He punches me.
My head snaps sideways, and pain explodes across the side of my face. I can feel the trickle of blood dripping from my nose, down my chin. I lick my lips and taste the coppery warmth. But I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on the floor, let the rage simmer.
When I look up, he’s holding his fist. I know it had to hurt him as badly as my face throbs.
Tyler shakes out his hand, and as his anger noticeably starts to fade, his brows pull together. I glimpse guilt washing over him, only for a moment, before he hardens his face back into a mask.
“I don’t owe you shit,” he says, his voice wobbly with adrenaline. “I didn’t ask you to do that for me, and I sure as hell don’t owe you Sam for it.”
Confusion makes me forget about the pain for a second, and I screw up my face and wince. But then, with perfect clarity, his words strike home. Hurt barbs my chest, sinking its teeth in deep. “Hell, Tyler. If I hadn’t have stepped in when I did, Dad would’ve killed you.” And after what Tyler had just suffered, I wasn’t going to watch my brother get beaten to death, or self-destruct. Again. I’d just picked up the broken pieces.
It’s why Dad sent me away to boarding school. After I stood up to him and laid him out on the kitchen floor, his ego couldn’t handle that I wasn’t a kid he could knock around anymore. The only thing I regretted was leaving Tyler alone with the asshole for months.
“I never expected anything in return,” I continue, palming my swelling cheek. “But if you’re going to be with Sam, don’t you think she deserves the truth? Don’t you think she needs to be aware that you could decide to just check out? That’s not fair to her.” I want to take back the words as soon as they leave my mouth. “Fuck, Tyler. I didn’t mean it.”
“Fuck you.” He’s shaking now. “I’m not the twisted one, getting into fights and breaking into places, and getting stoned to deal with my issues. That’s you. I had one messed up moment. One. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever do anything to hurt her. Not like you will.” His eyes narrow. “What the hell can you possibly offer her?”
We’re both messed up, and neither one of us deserves someone like Sam. But the damage is done, and the guilt I’ve been feeling since I decided to leave home—leave my little brother behind—comes flaring back with a vengeance.
And he’s right. I won’t be here to give Sam what she deserves, what she needs from a boyfriend. And Tyler is losing the only protection he has, the only one he could ever count on. I’m taking that away from him by leaving. Now I’m threatening to take away the only other thing he loves. That makes h
im secure.
His Sam.
At least if he has her, I know she’ll take care of him, won’t let anything happen to him, and he won’t be alone. And Tyler being here now, punching the hell out of me, gives me hope that he’s at least fighting his own battles now.
I hold up my hands. “You win, bro. You’re right. I don’t really give a shit about her.” Each word I force out feels like razor blades slicing my throat. “I just want to get the hell out of here.”
Tyler’s eyes widen, and for a second, I think he’ll call me out on the lie. But he only nods once before he leaves. No other words between us.
I slam my palms on the desk, then snatch out the drawing. Sam’s jewel-like eyes, that’d I’d been trying so hard to capture, stare back at me, her mouth inviting—the moment right before I kissed her.
I ball the drawing up and throw it in the trash.
SAM
My eyes tear as I bite down on my lip, trying to cause physical pain to distract the ache gripping my heart.
The words in Tyler’s journal are ripping a hole through me. I’m not sure I believe him now, that he couldn’t remember where it was. He didn’t want me to read it, to know this. I shift the paperback higher, hiding the journal between the pages, and read another line.
He started writing it in middle school, and I had no idea his father . . . I can’t even think it. Anger tears through me, making my hands shake. How could their mother do nothing? How could Tyler, during all the years we knew each other, hide the abuse from me? How could I have never seen it?
My mind drifts back, remembering every bruise, broken bone, missed school day, extended vacation, and I’m so ashamed at my selfishness. At my parents’ selfishness. Being so caught up in our own lives that we never saw what was obvious. But Tyler, even from a young age, was so good with words.
He never batted an eye when I asked how he got hurt, just recited off a list of believable explanations every time. And he was a boy. I mean, boys get hurt. They’re rowdy and outgoing and tough . . . and now I feel like I’m just making excuses.
I peek above the top of the book at Holden. He’s staring straight ahead, his fingers bouncing on top of his thigh to the beat of the music. He’s changed the CD, and we’re now listening to Radiohead.
In the journal entry, Tyler writes about the time Holden got caught stealing a bike, and how their dad, instead of making Holden return it and apologize and then grounding him (like a sane parent would do), forced Holden to ride the bike for hours and hours. He drove his car behind him, beeping the horn whenever Holden tried to take a break, Tyler in the passenger’s seat.
And when Holden was too exhausted to go on, their dad chucked the bike in the woods. Then he took a too-tired-to-defend-himself Holden home and whaled on him. Tyler says his dad never left suspicious marks, always inflicting pain in a way that could be easily explained away. He was involved with law enforcement before he became a lawyer, and he knew how to hurt without leaving evidence.
My stomach lurches. Through the saliva coating my mouth, making it difficult to do anything past hurl, I manage to say, “Pull over.”
Holden eases off the gas and glances over. “What’s wrong?”
“Please.” I breathe through my nose and shake my head. “Just pull over for a minute.”
“Hell.” He steers his truck toward the shoulder of the road, then pops the emergency brake and turns on the hazards. “Sit up,” he instructs as he slides across the seat.
After quickly tucking the book and journal under the seat, I push myself up, and one of Holden’s arms slips around my waist as he pulls the door handle with his other hand.
“I can walk,” I say, but he’s already lifting me into his arms.
He bounces out of the truck and carries me a couple steps before setting me down on the grassy roadside. I slump to the ground, and he leans over, sweeping my hair from my shoulders and holding it against my back. Before I can protest, I bend at the waist, and the contents of this morning’s breakfast expel from my stomach with a harsh wretch. “Please don’t watch,” I get out before another wave hits.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. “Did you eat something bad?”
I shake my head, swallowing past the gag. “I don’t know.” But I do know. And I’m not sure I can ever look at him the same way again.
After the last of my stomach is on the ground, I sit back on my knees. Holden brushes my hair against my back and then stands.
“I’ll get you some water.”
I rub my hands over my face, into the sockets of my eyes, wishing I could erase the images Tyler’s words put there. And when I open my eyes, Tyler’s standing across the ditch, a knowing look on his face. His brow furrows and his eyes pale. I shake my head, over and over. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t know whether he’s angry that I read his journal, or that I dragged his brother along on this trip. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. It doesn’t change how I feel about him, only pangs my heart with so much regret.
In a blink, he’s kneeling beside me. “I never wanted you to know. To look at me like—” He turns his head away, his jaw locked hard.
Without thought, I reach out, trying to touch him. Dammit! “Tyler, I love you. I could never think anything bad about you.”
“I’m not weak,” he grits out.
“You’re the strongest person I know. What he did? When you were just a kid? He’s the weak one. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.” I lay my hand atop my thigh, gripping my legs because I can’t touch him.
Finally, his eyes meet mine, and the brown of his irises is so clear. I can see the woods through them, and I just miss the deepness of what I used to look into. “It’s right that you know. I should’ve told you before.”
“I wish you had,” I whisper.
A sad smile mars his face. “Just know . . . I love you.” He looks down at the ground. “I’m tired, Sam.”
Footsteps sound from behind me, Holden’s boots crunching the gravel. Tyler begins to fade, and it’s like a knife to my heart.
“Sam?” Holden hands me the water bottle from over my shoulder.
“Thank you.” With a steadying breath, I push to my feet, my gaze still cast on the emptiness Tyler’s presence left behind.
Once we’re back on the road, I can’t stomach the thought of reading anymore of Tyler’s memories. I know there’s something in there that’s going to test me, and I’m scared to find out what.
Pulling both feet onto the seat, I hug my legs to my rocky stomach. “How far away are we?”
Holden glances at the time. “About an hour.”
“Really?”
He chuckles. “I drive fast.”
It’s only been three and a half hours. “No shit.”
“You feeling better?”
I nod. “I think it’s just been a while since I’ve been in a car, for like, more than ten minutes. I can’t remember the last time I was on a road trip. Probably carsick.”
He turns down the volume on the stereo even further. “Rachel mentioned that you don’t drive anymore.”
Of course she did. Along with telling Mr. Marks (who I don’t think I can ever be around again—not without taking a bat to his head) every detail of my medical history, my mother’s also been talking to Holden. She doesn’t know what happened between us. Just thinks he’s a friend, my boyfriend’s brother, and our neighbor. I wish she didn’t gossip so much. But I guess it’s just part of living on the island. People can’t help themselves.
And that’s why Tyler had to be so secretive. I can’t imagine how scared he was as a boy. Terrified of what his father would do to him if anyone ever found out.
I run my palms over my thighs, my hands shaky. “I’ve been having panic attacks.”
He nods like he gets it, and I wonder if he does. After all what his father did to him and put him through, I can’t imagine what he’s suffered. What he still must be suffering. The long-term effects of abuse.
Tyler wrote that Holden, being the older sibling, always tried to divert their father’s attention, always tried to take the blows for his brother. So he got the worst of it for a long time. Now all of Holden’s issues in school—the fighting, failing a grade, the vandalism, the drugs—make sense. He needed an outlet for his rage.
And their mother? How did Shannon cope? The journal says she was beaten, too. Not to the degree the boys were, but enough for Tyler to write about her getting hit. I can’t help wondering if any of Holden’s rage was directed toward her—the woman who was supposed to love her kids more than anything, but who didn’t protect them. Or if he just felt helpless against it all.
I look over at Holden. Study the strong profile of his face. His tight grip on the steering wheel. The furrow between his eyebrows. Fighting the urge to ask him questions I know he’ll refuse to answer, I force my gaze away. Regardless, I’ve opened Pandora’s Box, and there’s no closing it.
In just under an hour, we’re pulling into a Best Western near the Talladega Superspeedway.
“We’ll check in first, then if you want, watch a race. Or we can do that tomorrow if you’re not feeling it.”
“I’m up for it,” I say. “I think getting out in the fresh air will be better than sitting in a hotel room.” My mouth pulls into a tight-lipped smile. It feels off, like I’m trying to force myself to be polite because of what I now know. This complicates so much. I need to get my mind off of his past, our past, their father. Everything.
After he parks and we grab our bags, we head toward the entrance. There’s nothing special about the hotel; it’s like every roadside hotel I’ve ever seen. But just the fact that I’m so far away from home makes it seem more exciting.
Once we’re at the check-in counter, Holden looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Two rooms?”
My mouth pops open. “I, uh. Yeah. I’ll get mine. You can get yours.” I pull out my small cross-body bag from my pack, but he waves his hand.
“I got you.” He turns his attention to the portly blond woman behind the counter. “Two rooms, single beds. Next door to each other, if you have them.”
