Heath’s voice drops in volume but seems to double in intensity as he leans toward me, his dark brown hair skimming his cheekbones. His gray eyes catch the reflection of the lights and seem to flash. “I don’t need you to pay for my truck.”
My skin ripples, chilled by the animosity rolling off him and rendering me mute. I’ve gotten used to hostility from people I know and even complete strangers. I welcomed it at first—what else could I do when people started saying horrible and vicious things about my brother and vile things about my parents and my then barely thirteen-year-old sister? My first instinct had been to vehemently defend all of us against every insidious—and at the time, I thought, wholly unfounded—speculation bandied about by people who used to smile at us when we passed in town. I didn’t let even the softer, sadder questions and concerns from my then friends penetrate my resolve, my infallible faith in my brother and his innocence. In a single month, from the night Jason was arrested through his first court appearance and later his arraignment, I stood tall, daring anyone to imply let alone say a bad word about my brother. His arrest was a mistake; the evidence was flawed or flat-out wrong. My brother wasn’t a murderer. I’d gladly make an enemy of every friend I’d ever had rather than believe for one second that my brother was capable of taking someone’s life.
And I did.
When my boyfriend at the time tried to get me to “face the truth” by reading some article he’d found online that supposedly contained leaked info from the police report, I snapped and it was the closest I’d ever come to hitting someone. The story of that incident quickly spread through our circle of friends, lending credence to the theory that homicidal violence ran in my family.
When Jason pleaded guilty, the crushing reality hit me. I’d been immobile in the courtroom that day, watching Jason’s final look at our sobbing mother before he was hauled away by the upper arm through doors where I couldn’t follow. I’d turned then, not wanting my brother to see the tears I could no longer hold back. While almost everyone around us rejoiced at seeing a killer brought to justice, I watched someone I loved more than my own life taken away in handcuffs after admitting to a crime I couldn’t conceive of, even as I had to accept that he was guilty.
It didn’t matter that I had friends who might have tried to console me afterward if I’d let them. I didn’t let them. I let the wary glances and the sad eyes roll off me without distinction until I no longer noticed any difference.
But I recognize the sharp distinction between Heath and everyone else. I’m not a story to him; I’m a nightmare, a personal one that neither of us can escape by crossing to the other side of the road. He doesn’t feel sorry for me, and he’s not afraid. I have no defense against what I see in his expression. He batters through without even trying.
He raises a hand to his head and half turns before facing me again, his strong jaw locks. “What made you think I’d want anything from you? That I wouldn’t rather walk for the rest of my life than drive a truck that you paid to fix?”
Pain blossoms in my chest, but I blink away the sting in my eyes. I’m not about to cry in front of him again. That was before, when I hoped he was capable of doing what seemingly no one else in our town could: look at me and not see my brother. “I was only trying to help.”
“You,” he says, forcing the word through barely moving lips, “don’t get to feel bad for me. And you sure as hell don’t get to use me to make yourself feel better.” He flings the money at my feet and turns to leave.
I almost turn away myself, ready to flee to where Daphne is parked a few dozen yards away, but I make the mistake of glancing beyond Heath to his truck. And I think of his brother and the fraction of pain I must feel compared to his.
“You can’t make me feel better,” I call after him, and it comes out in a voice much stronger than I’m expecting. I sound confident and strong when I couldn’t feel more opposite.
Heath halts and turns but doesn’t take a single step toward me.
I don’t blame Heath or his family for anything. They have every reason to despise everything associated with my brother, including me. I have to visit my brother within the confines of a prison, where ever-present guards close in if I try to so much as hold his hand. But the only place Heath can visit his brother is at a cemetery, where the closest he can get to touching Calvin is a headstone.
There is no comparison.
“There is no ‘better,’” I say, careful not to draw in too deep a breath lest it come out shaky. “I would never use you like that even if there were.”
Heath’s expression goes flat, and he looks so much like his brother in that moment that I feel as if I’ve got a broken bird trapped in my chest, fluttering desperately to free itself. “You saw me laughing yesterday,” I say. “I’d just learned how to drive stick, and that was the first time I didn’t stall. You saw that one moment, and I didn’t want you to think I don’t care, that life is just fine now. It’s not.” The bird is frantic now. If I look down, I might see my ribs shaking from the impact of its little body. “I think about my brother and your brother, and I know it will never be better.”
He stands there, looking a little ghostly in the light from the parking lot while emotions I can’t begin to decipher flit across his face. I can’t move my feet while he’s staring at me. Instead, I bend down and start gathering the money scattered on the ground. I’m moving slowly, grabbing one bill at a time. “I shouldn’t have paid for your truck repairs,” I say. I don’t know why I ever thought he wouldn’t react this way, thinking I was trying to absolve some of my own guilt or even Jason’s.
He doesn’t hesitate at all when replying. “No, you shouldn’t have.” He pauses then says, “I didn’t notice you were laughing yesterday.”
My gaze lifts and my heart considers following suit. “You didn’t?”
He shakes his head and I frown.
“But you looked so angry.”
“The last time I saw you was in a courtroom.” He doesn’t have to say more than that. My reaction, though different, was just as automatic when I saw him.
“You know you could have just had the garage refund my money. You didn’t have to track me down in person.”
“I know.”
“Did you want to yell at me that badly?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Again, there’s no hesitation. “Yes.”
I’m still in the process of reaching for the last bill. The bird in my chest makes one last attempt at freedom before collapsing into a motionless ball right below my heart.
A door bangs open behind me, and Jeff’s voice fills the nearly empty parking lot. “That’s what you said last time. Come on, Angel. One drink. It’s not that late.” The whiny/pleading tone in his voice cuts off when he sees me. “Brooke? What are you still doing here?”
My gaze shoots to Heath, but his truck hides him from Jeff’s view. Jeff was obsessed with Cal’s murder. He’d know who Heath is immediately. At the thought of his finding me and Heath together, nausea flares then subsides just as quickly. “I had an issue with the trash bags,” I say to Jeff as I gather up the last bill and stand. “But it’s fine. I’m leaving now.”
“Brooke.” Jeff says my name using the same tone you’d use if you were facing someone holding a loaded gun—a mix of fear and accusation. “What’s in your hand?” His gaze moves almost comically to the building then back to me. “Did you—did you steal that money from the register?”
CHAPTER 7
“What?” Incredulity forces the word out harsher than I’ve ever dared with Jeff. “No, I—” I start to say this is my money from my last paycheck, but technically it’s Heath’s.
Jeff’s eyes are so wide that I know he’s already convicted me in his mind. “How much did you take, Brooke?”
He could have slapped me and I wouldn’t have felt more dumbstruck. I glance at the money I’m holding then back at Jeff. “
Are you accusing me of stealing and then waiting outside so you could catch me counting it?” I’m trying to inject as much disbelief as possible into my voice, but Jeff’s opinion of my intelligence is apparently as low as it is of my morals, because he doesn’t even blink.
“Jeff.” I wait a few seconds to make sure he’s listening and not lost in some fantasy where he fires me and gets a special commendation from the police department for catching a thief. “You emptied the register. You counted the drawer, I even watched you do it.” I make the mistake of laughing. It’s a single sound, the kind meant to disarm and invite him to reassess, but instead Jeff’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead as if I confessed.
In the back of my mind, a note of panic starts to sound that makes me forget that Jeff and I aren’t alone in the parking lot.
“You left the door open.” My arm shoots out, pointing. “I could see into the office while I was resurfacing the ice. I wasn’t—” I fumble for the right word, but in my increasing agitation I can’t find it. “I have never stolen anything in my life.”
Jeff doesn’t say anything to me, instead directing his response to whomever he has on the phone, eyeing me like I might try to flee. “I’m not going to be able to meet you tonight after all. I’ve got a theft situation with one of my employees that I have to deal with.”
My breath exhales in a high-pitched, disbelieving huff. The real surprise isn’t Jeff accusing me of stealing—an offense he’d finally be able to fire me over—it’s that he hasn’t done something like this before.
He’s unbelievable. I have been an exemplary employee since the day I started working here, and he continues to make me feel like he’s doing me a favor by letting me clean toilets and take out the trash. He’s not. It’s a job I do because after all Jason’s legal bills, I can’t afford to pay for ice time without it, and I do it despite him treating me like the only difference between me and my incarcerated brother is time.
I think even my parents would understand me losing my temper in this situation, but I don’t. It wouldn’t do any good. If he wants to have a power trip in order to show off for whomever he’s got on his phone, me yelling will only make it worse.
“I didn’t take anything and I’d like to go home now.”
His entire body goes rigid. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it because you come from such a law-abiding family?”
I see spots. Blacks and reds bursting in my vision until Jeff and the parking lot are almost entirely gone. “I’m not a thief,” I say, but so quietly I might be the only one who hears.
He starts to pocket his phone then stops, glancing from it to me before puffing out his chest and placing his free hand on his hip. “You have two choices here, Brooke. We can go back inside while I recount what’s in the safe or I can call the police and let them deal with you. I’m guessing they aren’t going to be overly sympathetic once they hear that your last name is Covington. They might just decide to take you in and sort this out at the station.” Jeff makes a show of unlocking the door and opening it wide. “What’s it gonna be?”
It’s no choice at all, and Jeff knows it, but that doesn’t stop him from sighing audibly every few steps as I precede him back inside. The heavy metal door closes behind us and for a moment the darkness is so thick that it seems to sluice down my throat and into my lungs, but then the light comes on and I squint away from the brightness. We have to stop while he unlocks the door to the office.
“This is not how I planned to end my night, Brooke.” But he’s reveling in it. He opens the office door. “Inside. Now.”
I go willingly. There is no money missing. He can posture all he wants. I’ve done nothing wrong.
Knowing that and proving it to Jeff is easier said than done. He makes me watch as he painstakingly counts every bill from the day, laying them out in neat stacks on the desk. His hands start to shake when he nears the end. When he finishes and looks up to meet my gaze, my expression is stone-faced. Rather than offer me an apology, Jeff gathers up the money and begins to count again, licking his finger between each bill.
“I told you I didn’t take anything.”
He doesn’t even acknowledge I’ve spoken; instead he finishes his second recount and starts a third. It takes twenty minutes for Jeff to accept that I didn’t somehow pilfer the register he himself emptied and counted earlier. I’m convinced the only reason he relents is that he realizes how inept it would make him look if that were true rather than any actual belief in my innocence.
I deserve an apology. What I get is a shift cut.
“You can’t do that!” I say. The rink isn’t exactly close to my house. The three shifts a week he plans to drop me to will barely cover gas and car insurance, and that’s assuming I don’t come in to skate on my days off.
Jeff raises both eyebrows at me from the other side of his desk. “Excuse me?”
“José and I are the only ones who can drive Bertha—the Zamboni—and he’s not coming back after his hip surgery next week.” The words leave my mouth and relief floods me. José had been working at the Polar Ice Rink since it opened in 1965, and he was the only employee who refused to let me ice him out. He’s the one who taught me to drive Bertha, and for the first time since he told me about the surgery and him moving to Tampa to live with his daughter, I feel something besides sadness.
The smile Jeff returns causes mine to falter. “No, that just means I’ll be hiring another driver and maintenance worker.” His smile grows. “Of course, if you’d rather seek employment elsewhere, I won’t bring up the theft situation.”
“But I didn’t steal anything!”
Jeff purses his fat, baby lips in response. I’m not a violent person, but I know in that moment I could slap that look off Jeff’s face and feel nothing but satisfaction pulsing through me.
“I guess you have another choice here, Brooke. What’s it gonna be?”
CHAPTER 8
I’m brushing away an angry tear with the heel of my hand when I step into the muggy night air once again. Three shifts a week, less than thirty hours. It’s a forty-five minute round-trip to the rink. Assuming I don’t drive anywhere else or spend money on anything but gas and car insurance, how many days can I afford to come here? I’m throwing numbers around in my head when Heath walks around the front of his truck.
I slow for a second, then resume my pace. He could have said something to Jeff; a few words in my defense to explain the money and Jeff would have had to let me go. But he didn’t. He watched Jeff accuse and insult me, and he stayed silent.
I keep walking even when I see Heath moving in my direction. I shouldn’t care what he thinks of me. I shouldn’t care what anyone thinks of me, yet my eyes are stinging and the closer he comes the harder it is to keep them from doing more than sting. I reach Daphne a few steps ahead of him. I can’t make it any clearer that I don’t want to talk to him as I fit the key into the lock and turn it. Heath stops barely two feet to my left, watching but saying nothing. He’s not leaving.
“What?” I say, letting him hear the barely leashed anger in my voice. I shake my head a little before looking at him. “What?”
“Did you lose your job?”
I scoff and open the door so it’s between us. The last two times we saw each other, he couldn’t wait to get away from me. Now he’s standing there like I’ll have to hit him with my car to get him to move. I curl my fingers around the doorframe. “Is that what you want to hear? That I got fired?” I abandon my indifference, turning fully to face him. “Why are you still here? Do you need to yell at me more? Do you want to follow me home so you can yell at my family? What? Tell me!” My gaze flicks back and forth between his eyes, almost frantic where his is steady. “What do you want from me, Heath?”
He takes a breath, one so deep it stretches the cotton of his T-shirt. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“No?” I glance down at the
hand he has on my doorframe. I don’t think he was aware of putting it there, but he doesn’t remove it. “I didn’t get fired,” I say, watching his face and wondering if it can possibly be relief that crosses it. My stomach twists. I don’t even know why; I know only that I want to get away from the feeling.
“I don’t get you,” I say. “Before you acted like you were in physical pain just from sharing the same air as me. You don’t need a ride, and you’ve already thrown my money back at me. Looking at me makes you mad, and that’s the best-case scenario. Why are you still here? What else do you want? Just tell me, because this hasn’t been a great day for me and I really don’t want to be here when my boss comes back out.” I exhale the remaining air in my lungs, waiting, but all Heath does is stare at me with a frown that he can’t seem to fully hold. “Fine,” I say, starting to get into my car.
“Wait, damn it.”
I freeze in a half crouch, only this time I don’t think his clipped tone is directed at me. When I stand again, I see that his eyes are squeezed shut. I lower my gaze to the hand still resting my doorframe—no, not resting on it, holding it open.
“I should have said something to your boss. Earlier. I’m sorry.”
I’m afraid to breath. Heath Gaines just apologized to me, Jason Covington’s sister. It feels wrong on so many levels. I force myself to hold Heath’s gaze when he opens his eyes, and I say something that feels every bit as wrong as his apology. “Thank you.”
Heath tries to hide his flinch, but I see it. I feel it. After another moment, he lowers his hand from my door and takes a step back. “Did you say anything to your family about talking to me the other day?”
“Yes,” I say, remembering with a twinge of guilt the promise I gave my mom that I’m currently breaking. “Did you?”
“No.”
Smart. Or maybe he’s just kinder than I know how to be. “I shouldn’t have. My family doesn’t talk about...anything.”
Even If I Fall Page 4
