The Darkest Part

by Trisha Wolfe

  Now, this trip is even tainted. When Holden had fallen asleep under the oak, I thought I could skip ahead in the journal, look for something near the end that might give us a clue if Tyler’s hit-and-run wasn’t simply an accident.

  Holden’s main purpose, I’m starting to think, is finding out who was driving that car the night Tyler was hit. The only evidence there has ever been is what the few witnesses claimed they saw: a small red car driving away. That’s it. And even when I’d upset Holden, bringing up his past, he put that aside to keep going on this trip. I wanted to find something that could help him on his quest.

  When I read that Tyler kissed that girl—everything turned red around the edges. I flung the journal under the seat and shouted until Tyler appeared. I didn’t care if he used up every last bit of his energy to manifest in the daytime. I was confronting him.

  In life, Tyler would’ve fought back. Would’ve yelled and screamed and matched me in every verbal blow. But this version? All he can do is claim he can’t remember. He has no memory of the redhead. No memory of that night, other than when he let me hold him after the news of his mother’s death hit.

  That’s more frustrating than if he admitted he’d fucked her. I can’t even rail at him, take out my hurt and feel justified because what made Tyler, Tyler . . . is disappearing.

  How the hell am I going to keep this up?

  Fine. He didn’t sleep with that girl. That woman. Whoever. (I want to pull my hair out!) And I knew going in that I’d discover things that would test me. All I can do is keep going. I shouldn’t have skipped ahead in the journal. I need to read everything. Everything that lead up to how Tyler got to that place. I have to understand, at least, how and why. How we got there. And it will probably kill me, but there’s no turning back now.

  Forward or nothing at all.

  “We’re here,” Holden says as he pulls into a parking spot and puts the truck in gear, popping the e-brake. “Just off the corner of Beale Street.”

  We’re parked in a garage under a Hampton Inn. A hard lump forms in my throat as I reach for Tyler’s map. But I made a promise, and no matter what happens on this trip, I owe it to Tyler to keep it. If Holden can push his hurt and despair and emotions aside for this, so can I.

  I locate Beale Street on the map. “Because partying like a rock star is a must.” Despite myself, I laugh. “He wanted to hit every bar on the strip, but mainly BB Kings. And learn how to . . . juke?” I laugh again. “Something about juking.”

  Pushing a fist into the palm of his other hand, Holden pops his knuckles. “BB Kings is blues. Tyler didn’t listen to blues music. And what the hell is juking?”

  I shrug. “He also didn’t party like a rock star. But I guess we’ll find out.”

  He cracks a smile. “I think I get it.”

  I raise an eyebrow, hoping he’ll let me in on the know, but he just smiles wanly and jerks his head. “Come on. Let’s check in. I need to rest for sure before this.”

  As we step out, the warm air, city noises, and chaos of Beale Street engulf me. A thrill hits my blood, and I feel alive. Free. And remembering Tyler’s past, his abusive father, the expectations for him to become a lawyer—always doing what was expected of him—I think I get it, too.

  This trip, one that Tyler had been planning since middle school, was a form of escapism the average person takes for granted. With a pang, my chest aches deeply. Was the redhead an escape, too? Did I put unreasonable demands on him that he had to run into her arms? I don’t want to blame myself. And I know I’m just feeling self-pity. But there was so much festering beneath the Tyler I thought I knew. I can’t help but blame myself for not seeing it.

  And a horrible, painful thought hits me. We hadn’t slept together since before that night. Was it because he felt too guilty? Maybe he was working up the courage to tell me before he could be with me again. Or maybe he was trying to end things.

  I was so oblivious to everything else, maybe I just couldn’t see what was really happening. I can’t think about it anymore. I just can’t.

  With a heavy sigh, I decide (for now) to put my hurt pride and feelings aside. With forward momentum, I walk ahead, toward the hotel, and plan to party like a rock star.

  For Tyler.

  At the check-in counter, I don’t even try to pay. Holden already has his wallet out and is requesting rooms.

  “I’m sorry,” the guy behind the counter says, tapping away at his keyboard. “There aren’t any available rooms next to each other.” He looks us over, waiting.

  Holden’s expression darkens. He said at the last hotel he didn’t want us far apart. Some manly thing he has going on where he feels more in control, able to sense danger, and can get to me quickly (again, Douchebag Superman). Because I need rescuing, apparently.

  I turn toward Holden and shrug. “I’m a grownup if you are.”

  This gets a clipped laugh from him. “All right.” He nods at the guy. “One room, two beds.”

  A tingling sensation travels through my body, and I immediately tamp it down. Once I got over Holden in high school, and knew that I could love Tyler fully—for him and not a rebound—I never had any residual feelings about Holden.

  Truth is, I didn’t have to worry about it. I never saw him after he left the island, and loathing for the asshole I thought I once cared for took precedence. But now . . . I don’t understand why these old feelings are bursting through the dam. Like they were never really done, just on hold.

  No matter what Tyler “almost” did, I feel disgusting. I’m not like that. I’m a one guy kind of girl. But I can’t deny that, when Holden lets me in past his walls, like at the oak . . . I want more. More of that Holden he apparently has locked away.

  We exit the elevator on the fourth floor and find our room easily. When I step inside, I’m instantly drawn to the window. “Wow.” It overlooks part of Beale Street, and the buildings of the city stretch on, high against the light skyline.

  I turn back around as Holden tosses his bag at the foot of the bed. He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m going to go clean out the truck. So it doesn’t get funky.” My cheeks flush, remembering my discarded food that got tossed in during my meltdown.

  “You want me to help?”

  He shakes his head. “No. You rest up.” He turns to go, but pauses at the door. “Are you hungry? I saw a food court near the lobby. I could bring you back something. Or we can wait and grab something later.”

  “I’ll wait,” I say. “But thanks.”

  He nods, not making eye contact, then leaves. The door’s audible click makes me flinch, and the silence that follows is thick and consuming. I look out the window again, my thoughts banging against my brain as I watch people walking along the sidewalks.

  “You’re still in love with him.”

  Tyler’s voice startles the shit out of me, and I turn and grab my chest. “Hell.” I take in deep breathes before his words register in my mind. “What are you talking about?”

  He looks stricken, his features pulled into a wounded expression. “I never used to scare you.”

  His words blanket me in shame. “I just have a lot on my mind right now.” I leave my meaning open.

  Taking two steps closer to me, he nods, understanding. “I can’t erase the past. And I can’t even give you an explanation. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. It’s not good enough. But know that I am sorry, Sam.”

  “I know.” And I do. “Look, it’s too soon to do this again. I need . . . I don’t know. Let’s leave it in the past. For now.”

  He soundlessly slips his hands into his pockets. His aura is even more faded in the dim lighting of the hotel room. “That day in your room, months before we officially got together, I knew why you were crying.”

  My chest constricts. I don’t want to relive that either. “Let’s not, Tyler.”

  “You always had a thing for Holden. And I was willing to wait. To be patient.” He smiles. It’s sad and heartbreaking. And I always thought, in the back
of my mind, that he had to have known. I was just too much of a coward to confess any of it to him.

  I take a step toward him. “I was meant to be with you.”

  His smile stretches, pulling at my heartstrings. “Oh, I know,” he says assuredly, cocky as hell.

  I can’t help it. I laugh.

  “But,” he says, moving another fraction of an inch closer. “Tell me that you only loved me. That I was the only one you were meant to be with.”

  “Tyler . . .” My voice breaks.

  “You and Holden were so much alike. Even after we were together, I think you were still fighting it. Maybe more than me.”

  “Dammit. Stop. I crushed on him when I was a kid. I loved you. You were always there for me, no matter what. You were my best friend. We shared everything. Holden—” I jerk my head sideways, annoyed I’m even having to explain this. Not sure I can.

  “Is a douchebag?” Tyler offers.

  I burst out laughing, and hear the key card enter with a beep before Holden walks into the room. He stops and stares at me, still in a fit of laughter. His eyebrows raise.

  “Do I want to know?” he asks.

  Tyler gives me a sad smile before fading away. I look down, and then up at Holden. “Your brother called you a douchebag.”

  One of those rare, true smiles forms on Holden’s face. “He knew me.”

  HOLDEN

  “Just water?” I ask Sam. Since being seated at a corner table in BB Kings, she’s been quiet. Distant. Even though I didn’t make a big thing about walking in on her, again, having a moment with her ghost version of my brother.

  I’m learning to roll with the punches.

  “Uh, yeah,” she says. “I think I drank enough last night. Still have a bit of a headache.”

  “And this is how you party like a rock star?”

  She sighs. “I’ll make up for it. Later.”

  The waitress raises a pen to her pad, and I say over the bass-filled music, “One beer and a Coke. Keep the water coming.”

  Sam smirks as the waitress bounces off. “Caffeine will help,” I tell her.

  She rubs her temples. “A dose of pain meds would be better.”

  “Want me to run and get you some?”

  Her eyes finally find me, and the look on her face makes me uncomfortable. Like she’s trying to piece something together. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  She goes back to checking out the bar, and I go back to checking out her. She’s wearing a tight black shirt that hangs off her shoulders, a dark denim skirt—that nearly made my heart leap out of my chest when she walked out of the bathroom—and her hair is tied back in a low ponytail.

  I sigh and turn my attention to the blues band on the small stage. The high ceiling and low rafters with silver piping running along the walls makes this place feel like an abandoned warehouse. The band’s doing a raw, moody cover of You Rock Me, and the lyrics are eating a hole right through me. Being with Sam here, now . . . I can almost forget about all the shit that’s happened up to this point. Almost forget knowing that, this thing that’s got her mind all jacked up, it might never get better.

  But she’s so damn hot tonight. I want to forget.

  Walking down Beale Street, trying to take in the sights and people, all I could do was stare at her. And I think she noticed. She’s uncomfortable now, shifting in her seat. Avoiding looking at me. I don’t know if she and the version of my brother in her head worked everything out, and that’s why she was laughing back at the hotel. Or if she’s really just jumping on the crazy train—

  I only know that being around her these past few days is like reopening an old scar with a dull knife, and then dousing it with salt and vinegar. I haven’t allowed myself to be around her—really be around her— in years. And the memories I have of this girl, along with being across from her now, are making my heart race and my body heat. All I know for sure is that I want her back. The old Sam.

  The one who couldn’t go a day without painting or drawing. Who didn’t care what others thought of her dark edginess, because she loved her scene and who she was. The one who, despite everything that was messed up about our hometown, saw right through the pretentiousness to the beauty of the island—made it somewhere I wanted to be.

  I can’t have her, though. I couldn’t have her then, and I can’t now. She still belongs to Tyler. She’s making sure of that, too. By not dealing with his death in a healthy way, she’ll never heal and be able to be with anyone else.

  She’s not meant for me, but I can hope that, by the end of this trip, she’s able to move on. Because she deserves to be happy. With whoever she can find that can do it for her.

  The waitress sets our drinks down, pulling me out of my disturbing thoughts. “Your food order is coming right out.” She smiles, and I nod at her.

  After we devour our barbeque, I toss my napkin on the empty plate. “All right,” I say. “Not that I don’t appreciate the blues, and not to disrespect my brother’s memory”—Sam looks up at me; her nose ring catches the flashing lights—“but I’m not feeling this place anymore.”

  Her mouth parts, her face contorting like she’s about to argue. But then she smiles, the tiny dimple beside her mouth making an appearance. My chest tightens. “I would have totally told Tyler this place is lame.”

  That’s my girl. “All right then. We’re out.” I hold out my hand, and she only thinks about it for a second before she allows me to help her up.

  Beale Street reminds me of a smaller, cleaner, slightly less beaten down version of New Orleans. That’s not to say it’s not dirty. Or smelly. It is. The street is blocked off at both ends so that people can roam with abandon. The sides of the old, worn-down buildings are lit up with colorful, flashing signs, and music flows into the street from the bars and clubs.

  Sam points at something, and I watch a shirtless guy running down the middle of the street. He flips and tumbles and flips again, all the way down the stretch of pavement. We pass a group doing some kind of dance. Their movements limber and smooth, moving to the beat of the hip-hop music tumbling from a club.

  I stop when I realize Sam’s no longer beside me. Wheeling around, I see her watching them. “What . . . you want to dance?” I ask, hoping like hell she says no. I mean, I can dance. Some. Just don’t want to in the middle of the street. Or to hip-hop.

  “I think that’s what Tyler was talking about.” She nods to a kid as his hands weave through the air, his body following suit as his feet glide over the pavement.

  “Juking,” I say, finally making the connection to what’s written on the map. I look up at the flashing sign that reads “Club 152” along the three-story building. Then read the poster taped to the glass. “Juking competition, second floor.”

  Sam waggles her eyebrows. “Is this my dare or yours?”

  I laugh. We decided that at each stop, one of us would fulfill Tyler’s wishes. No matter how out there. This one? It’s all hers. “I downloaded Talladega Nights and got us into the raceway.”

  “Fine. Lame ass.” She pulls me along toward the club.

  My chest loosens, the vise-like hold that’s been squeezing it since Mississippi finally releasing its death grip. I love seeing her like this. Daring. Sultry. Sane. As far as I can tell, she’s not hearing or seeing Tyler. Right now.

  A bit of remorse hits me. I don’t want her not to love my brother. Or to give him up. Not at all. But I can’t believe Tyler would want to see her this way. That if he really could contact her, he would tell her to stop punishing herself.

  I think as the big brother who always looked out for him, who always tried to give him everything and anything to make him happy, I have a right to that opinion. I’ve at least earned that much.

  As we pass through the entryway, bass hits my chest with a rattling boom. A black light flickers in the small waiting room, and a huge black guy with muscles bulging from his tank asks for our IDs. He stamps both our hands—Sam’s with an underage sad face; mine with a legal smiley face—the
n we enter the club.

  And it’s like every club I’ve ever been to anywhere. Dark. Crowded. Loud. A disco ball spins in the center of the high ceiling. A huge flat screen projects a rapper singing the song currently pumping over the sound system. Multicolored strobe lights swirl over the dancing throng.

  I take the lead, holding on to Sam’s hand as we weave through the gyrating bodies. Finding a less crowded spot, I turn to her. “Want a drink?” I shout over the music.

  She nods. Her eyes are taking in the club, her body stiff, her facial muscles tense. I doubt she’s been out at all—to a place like this—since before the funeral. And the anxiety of being around so many people at once, I’m sure is playing havoc on her nervous system.

  Hesitant to leave her alone, I glance around. “Come with me.”

  Without a fight this time, like when I tried to walk her to the bathroom—which was, admittedly, kind of creepy—she tags along behind me. The bar is surrounded by so many bodies, I can’t find where the drink line begins. But after about five minutes, we inch our way up to the bar top.

  I order each of us two drinks from the chick bartender in a black halter. I don’t want to wait in this line again. She quickly checks my stamped hand, and I’m relieved Sam is behind me, out of sight. When the girl places my drinks on the bar, she winks. “Twenty dollars, baby.”

  Sam appears by my side and, with her unstamped hand, lays twenty-five dollars on the counter. “Here ya go, hunny.”

  My lips twitch, trying to fight back a smile. The bartender gives Sam a curt smile and picks up the money. As I take my drinks, I feel like any guy who has two girls getting rowdy over him. A god.

  When we make our way back through the crowd to our spot, it’s no longer ours. Sam wiggles her tiny body through the throng and spots a free table. She points overhead, one drink sloshing.

  I use my height to muscle through, clearing a path toward the table. I set my drinks down. “Shit. Catty much?” I say to her.

  She shrugs, but offers nothing in her defense. I’d like to pretend she got a little jealous, but I’m not delusional. She’s wound tight, and that bartender presented an easy target.