The Secret (Magnolia Grove #4)

by J. B. McGee

  When I open the garage door as I’m pulling in the driveway, the front door opens, and lo and behold, out walks Heather. Instead of pulling the car in the garage, I park it right where it is and hop out. “Hey. Violet’s at the Spencer house.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I was heading there now. We had a miscommunication. For some reason, I thought we were meeting here.”

  Why would she have thought that? Why would Vi have said that? I was with her the entire day. She never acted like there was any confusion in regards to where we were going when we left the pool. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing her doing anything other than hanging all over Wells. When did they have this conversation? I furrow my brows. “Really?”

  “Yep. You can leave your car and ride with me if you want to come with. I can bring you both home. I’m thinking Cammie may be there.” She winks.

  Narrowing my eyes, I shrug. “Well, chances of that are pretty high since she lives there.” She’s lying to me. I’m not sure about what other than the fact that if she’d talked to Vi, she’d know my cock’s endured all the teasing it can withstand from Camellia Spencer today. “But thanks. I’m good,” I say for the sake of my friendship with Cam. I’ve strictly prohibited being around her anymore tonight because I’m pretty sure if she gets too close to me, I’m going to do something I might regret. I knew I had to get the hell out of that house when I was seriously considering picking her lock after she admitted to being naked in her room doing only God knows what.

  Heather smirks, like she can see straight through my façade. “Right.”

  “But if you wanna bring Vi home, that’d be awesome.”

  “Sure,” she says before walking away. “Bye, Holden.”

  “Later.” My mind drifts back to telling Cammie bye, about how hard it was. She’s right, though. Our game isn’t Chicken Fighting. That requires there to be an ‘us’. Us fighting against someone else, us against the world. No, we’re definitely Marco Polo. I need her to run in the opposite direction as fast as she can to keep me from catching her, from falling for her.

  There’s this lookout that’s right outside of Magnolia Grove. It’s a local hangout for kids. Jumping off will plunge you into a hot spring with a waterfall splashing in the distance. It’s beautiful. Violet loved this place. She’d ask me to drop her off up here. As I sit here on the hood of my car and watch the water do its thing, never ending, always being replenished with more, I shake my head. She was meeting Wells Fucking Spencer up here. I was just too caught up in my own crap to notice. And I couldn’t wait to get her out of my car, out of my way, out of my life for a few minutes. I swallow and let the tears I hold back when I’m around other people fall down my cheeks. There’s no one here. It’s just me.

  Because I skipped class for the first time today.

  Fuck the perfect attendance.

  Fuck school.

  Fuck everyone.

  It was like a blanket of plastic had been thrown over me, trapping me, suffocating me. I couldn’t pass Cammie one more time in the hall and have her look at me like today was going to be the day I change my mind.

  It’s not my decision. It’s her father’s. And if I tell her that, one of two things will happen: she won’t believe me and any hope I had that maybe we could get through anything together would come crashing down the way it did in that hospital conference room or she’ll believe me, be naïve enough to think we can take on the world at sixteen, and eventually end up resenting me for the wedge I put between her and her father. Blood’s thicker than water.

  Lying back on the hood, I stare at the sky. There’s not a cloud to be found for miles. Rays from the sun highlight thick bands in the atmosphere. Glancing back at the water, I compare the two. The rush of the water is soothing. The rays of the sun, even though it’s cooler because it’s winter, are soothing. Even though there’s a serenity to the falls and the spring, it’s tumultuous. The sun seems quiet, constant, and dependable. It shows up every day. But all it takes is staring at it for a second to be burned. If I jump into this spring, I could suck in a bunch of water and never come back up. That’d probably take a little longer than a second, but I bet I could do it. Would anyone care?

  Six months ago today, my biggest worry in the world was whether I should drive despite being on restriction or walk to the pool to be with Cammie, Brody, Amie, and Eddie. That was it. Well, and the confusion that comes from falling for your best friend—worrying about screwing it up to hell and back—and then losing her forever.

  Typical high school shit.

  By the end of that hot summer day, the friendship was pretty well ruined without me ever getting to taste her, to hold her in my arms the way I wanted, to follow through with my promise to check on her at the hospital.

  Instead, I made more promises. Just not to her. To Vi, my dying sister. The one who’d told me over and over things weren’t what they seemed, that she didn’t have an eating disorder. But despite that, I’d been on the Internet, searched her symptoms. She was a classic case. For that and for cancer.

  Letting the rays of the sun beat down on me, I yearn for the intense heat it causes, the scorching of my skin. I want to be branded by them. For what, I don’t know. It’s just like we were the same. I used to be constant, dependable, always showed up.

  But that’s the day that started the slow burn to sending my life up in flames. It’s as if I looked at the sun too long, and it set me on fire. Continuously, yet gradually, the flames have whipped at my soul. They’re burning me alive from the inside out. Every day is agonizing hell where I replay all the events over and over, wondering what I could have done to have forged a different outcome.

  But that’s not how life works.

  The words Mr. Spencer said to me play often in my mind—their truth haunting me. He was wrong about one thing—the magma, the lava boiling inside of me. Instead, it’s just fire. Like that’s less dangerous, or something. Maybe I want to believe it is. I only hit Brody for fucking with Cammie. It’s not like I murdered someone. But I wanted to strangle Mr. Spencer. Maybe not in that moment, but since then. Every day since then I’ve thought about what it’d feel like to transfer the pain ripping through my chest on an almost constant basis to him. To let him know what it’s like to go from being upstanding, beautiful trees in a forest that only help, that give life, to all of a sudden being this dangerous thing that’s out of control, the turmoil from knowing it’s never been destructive, but now it has this weapon. Flames whipping and whirling. And all it took was a little match to set it all into motion. Suddenly, the forest is feared. The forest may even be capable of murder. Am I capable of murder?

  I sigh. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not this person.

  Or am I?

  Six months ago, someone flicked a match my way—well, Cammie’s way—in the form of a fucking toy snake. And all I know is now that little fire, it’s raging. Everything in me is screaming, begging to lash out and burn someone, anyone, the way I’ve been burnt over the last six months. I scream out, the pain coursing through my body causing me to shake. What hurts so fucking bad is how I was disillusioned by myself. I thought I’d never hurt her, and every day I see her, I’m reminded of what a coward I am. So what that her father told me to stand down. If I cared, care, about her at all, I’d be before her at attention, devoting myself to her regardless of the consequences. But I’m a coward. It’s over, we’re over even though we never started, and I just need to accept that.

  I could jump in this spring, swallow a bunch of water, and let my body sink. Violet and I could be together. I never thought I’d say that sounded appealing to me until she started slipping away.

  Mr. Spencer would probably be happy to never have to worry about me again. Cammie would be sad for a while, but she’d find someone she deserves. She’d actually move on, which is more than I can say for her now. I don’t know that my father would even notice. It’s sad that Mr. Spencer, although the attention is negative, pays more attention to me.

&n
bsp; But my mother. I think she’d possibly crumble. I know she loves me. I just wish she could see how much I’m hurting. Maybe she’s not seeing it, though, because I’m hiding it.

  Fuck Mr. Spencer.

  I know there’s more than one way of extinguishing the fire, the pain. One way is by depriving it of oxygen. And that’s what I’d be doing if I jumped into that hot spring. I’d snuff out the oxygen supply. But another way is replacing it with something more powerful, heavier, like carbon dioxide. Someone, like my mother or Cammie, could breathe life and love and extinguish this. Love. It’s just love. That’s what I need. That’s what Violet made me promise to do for us both. Not to shut it out, to vow to never feel it again, to think I’m unworthy of giving or receiving it.

  Pushing off the hood of my car, I make my way to the driver’s side. After buckling in, I start the engine and race home. Maybe Mom’s embrace will be all I need to smother these feelings. Because I’m not sure I can take another minute. Glancing at the clock, I’m thankful enough time has elapsed that she probably won’t have a clue I actually skipped school. As freeing as it was, it was lonely, and I’m not sure I want to do it again. For the last six months, I’ve hung out with the alternative group. My entire wardrobe consists of black. Boots, jackets, shirts. I’ve never worn guy liner. That’s a bit much for me. Most of them smoke even when they’re at school, but I’m not into that, either. A few times, I’ve been tempted to puff in fire, blow out the smoke like a dragon. But it just seems wrong all things considered with Vi. For six months, I’ve been someone I’m not. If Mr. Spencer thinks those things about me, then other people probably do. And the biggest pleasure I’ve had since Violet passed away has been this fuck you to Magnolia Grove and what’s proper or acceptable.

  At the end of the day, though, this isn’t me. It’s not who I want to be. I want to go back to being a tree. Not a sun. Not a hot spring. Not a fucking volcano. Just a tree. It doesn’t even have to be a fancy one. Just one that maybe Cammie would like, that’d feel worthy of her company. That could shade her when the sun is threatening to burn her, that could provide a shelter in the rain, that would be sturdy for her to lean on when she’s sad. One that could breathe life into her, to give her oxygen when she’s running low. Yeah.

  I just want to be a tree. Her tree.

  The rest of the ride home, I ratchet my heart, escalating it along with all the hope I have left high in the sky—far away from the ground—from hot springs and waterfalls with my eyes away from the sun.

  As I round the corner of my street, my house comes into view. There are cop cars everywhere. Ev-er-y-where. No ambulances. No fire trucks.

  My heart sinks. What could possibly be going on here? Why hasn’t someone called me? My mind is racing with questions, wondering what to do next. I can’t even drive anywhere close to my driveway. It’s barricaded off. Do I get out and walk up? My fingers are on the handle before I can even give myself time to answer that question.

  Jumping out, I rush to an officer, running into his chest like it’s a brick wall. “That’s my house. What’s going on?”

  He gazes down at me through the clear shield of his helmet. I read the words across his chest. “S.W.A.T.”

  My stomach rolls. There’s this overwhelming feeling of doom, of dread. It’s nauseating and dizzying. “Where’s my mom?”

  The officer assesses me. “Stay back. Who’s your mother?”

  “Georgette Masters,” I say, running my hands though my hair, taking in my surroundings. A fire truck and an ambulance are on the opposite end of the street, the side that gives the fastest access to the shortest route to the hospital. And damn if seeing those doesn’t remind me of that day at the pool with Cammie, of Violet. There are guns pointing at my house, at the kitchen window. The garage is closed, so I can’t see if she’s in there. “And my dad. Where’s he?”

  The officer swallows. “You can’t come any closer.” He looks conflicted, and he’s yet to answer my question about my parents.

  “Please. Please tell me what’s happening.”

  He shakes his head, as if debating what to say next. “Is there someone you wanna call to come be with you?”

  The only person I can think about is Cammie, but I’ve been horrible to her. Why would she want to help me right now? And there’s no way in hell I’d subject her to this kind of danger. This is what I asked for when I alienated myself from all the people I love, from the people who love me. “No. Just my parents.” And it occurs to me that if my parents were available, he would have suggested I contact them. But he didn’t. My stomach sinks. A large lump forming in my throat prevents me from breathing, from swallowing, but not from speaking. “They’re in there, aren’t they?”

  His face twists as the realization washes over me, like he knows I know. He grips my shoulders. “Deep breaths. We’re doing everything we can.”

  But he doesn’t say it’s going to be okay. Blowing out a breath, I wonder for a moment if their protocol prohibits them from giving people false hope like that—by saying it’s all going to be okay. Then, I wonder how many other kids have driven up to this scenario. How did we get here? Six months ago, we were just a normal family with normal problems. And now, the thunder of a helicopter’s circling around my house vibrates in my chest, and it’s like I’m stuck in a bad dream I can’t wake up from.

  His brown eyes never leave mine. I don’t even know this guy’s name, but he’s strangely comforting. He tilts his head down, bringing it closer to me. “You. Are. Safe.” He nods as if he’s trying to reassure himself too. “And it’s okay to cry. It’s all right if you’re scared.”

  Nodding, I sniff. I’m not going to cry in front of this stranger, and I’m definitely not going to admit that I’m terrified I’m about to lose my entire family within a six-month span. “Okay.” Is all I say. But I’m beginning to hate that word. Because nothing is what it seems. Nothing is fine. Everything is broken, shattered, falling apart. Including me.

  Officer Tesi, that’s this guy who’s been a bit of a savior to me today, took me over to the command area. One of the guys in suits gives me a sad smile. “Hi, Holden. Can we call someone for you? We know this is contained to this location, but we want to keep you safe, free from witnessing the tough decisions we’ll have to make regarding your family.”

  “Did my father do this? Has he hurt my mom? Is she okay?” I don’t give a shit about anything else, really.

  “They’re both safe at the moment. We are in communication with your father to try to de-escalate the situation.”

  “Why is he doing this? Can I talk to him?”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and bobs his head from side to side as if he’s thinking about it, but the phone rings. He puts his hand up and shushes everyone. When there’s complete silence, he answers, pressing the button to put the phone on speaker. “Eddie? I’m glad you called back.”

  “I told her to leave.” He sounds frantic, delirious. “I didn’t want her to be hurt.”

  “You didn’t want her to be hurt, I know.” He pauses. “I’m here, Eddie. I’m listening.”

  It’s easy to picture my father pacing back and forth in the kitchen like he does when something’s on his mind. But it’s not easy to imagine any of this other scenario. I don’t know if he has a gun, but I assume he has some weapon to be in this situation. And, perhaps, that is the strangest part of all of this. I wasn’t even allowed to play with toy guns, to use my fingers as one, to pretend to shoot people. At first, as we were walking over to the command center, I wondered if it was possible they had the wrong house, but something deep down knew this was only my reality. No one else’s.

  “She says it was the fucking security system with video monitoring that brought you here. Only the very best security would do. Her idea, of course. Another bill to stack on the mountain of others.”

  This doesn’t even sound like my father. He’s barely taking a breath. There’s so much resentment. But I know it’s him because I heard their talk
, or shouting match I should say, months ago when he basically said the same shit. “She said the stupid thing alerted you. I just wanted to kill myself, to escape this hell. But she walked in, and the next thing I knew you all were swarming. So, looks like nothing in my life ever goes as planned. And here we are.”

  “Why do you want to kill yourself? What are you trying to escape?” the negotiator asks.

  My heart is beating so fast. I wish I’d left as soon as I found out about this and gone straight to Cammie, begged her to forgive me, and just let her envelop me in her arms until this is all over. I don’t want to be here. I definitely do not want to hear his answers.

  “I’m a terrible fucking person, that’s why.”

  “How so?”

  Dad blows into the phone. “I told her to leave. I told her I cheated on her with our dead daughter’s best friend. She didn’t believe me. She just stood there shaking her head. Again, and then you fuckers showed up.”

  I swallow back the bile that’s rushing up my throat. I don’t want him to know I’m listening, not until Mom is safe. But all I can think about is the time I came home and saw Heather leaving when it was just the two of them. I knew she was lying. I knew there was something not right. Could I have done something to prevent this? Is this my fault?

  The negotiator looks up at another guy then nods to me. I’m not moving. I’m not leaving. As much as this is torture, I’m listening to everything he says. If they want me out of here, I’m going kicking and screaming so Dad knows I heard all this shit. Or maybe they just want to use me, want me to talk to him? That’s much more logical.

  “People cheat all the time, Eddie. That doesn’t make you a terrible person.”

  “I’ve been sleeping with clients. I’ll fuck anything with a pussy,” he says with venom in his voice. “I didn’t care about that girl. She was just hot, ready, and willing to scratch my itch.”

  My stomach rolls. Why is he saying this stuff? Why is he doing this?