by Roni Loren
“I did a poison test on all the food and made you a plate for after you’re done.”
She snorted. “A poison test?”
“Yes. It was important to try each thing…you know, for the good of the crowd. Did you know they have tiny cheesy biscuits?”
She laughed. She’d learned quickly that Shaw could out-eat a pregnant lady. All those hours training people at the gym required a lot of fuel. She tried not to hate him for being able to eat whatever he wanted. “The biscuits are Kincaid’s recipe.”
“That’s a keeper,” he told Kincaid, who had turned to face them, a pleased smile on her lips.
“Thanks,” she said. “And y’all are sickeningly cute together. I can barely stand it.”
But the words were delivered with a sappy smile. Taryn stuck her tongue out at her friend. “You matched us. It’s your fault.”
“Yes, I totally did.”
Behind Kincaid, Taryn caught audience members glancing her and Shaw’s way, trying to hide their obvious curiosity. She ignored them. The story had broken on a local news website that a Long Acre survivor and the shooter’s brother were a couple and were heading up a campaign to raise funds for a school program. Gossipy non-news sites and conspiracy-theory message boards had sensationalized the story and tried to stir up shit, but both she and Shaw had learned it was best to ignore idiots on the internet. They’d also gotten phone calls and emails from the press for a few weeks, but the attention had blessedly slacked off. There was always new news, fresh scandals.
The only thing that still hurt was the strained situation with her parents.
They’d gone radio silent, and that saddened Taryn every time she thought about it. She’d spent her whole adulthood seeing them at least weekly and having a close relationship with them both. Now there was a huge blank space in her world. One of the biggest things in her life had happened—she was going to have a baby—and she couldn’t talk to the person she wanted to talk about it with most, her mother. Her mom and dad had no idea they were going to be grandparents.
Beyond her desire to have a relationship with them, Taryn was worried about her mother, but she couldn’t do anything about it if they weren’t ready to talk to her. She wasn’t going to push them. She’d left a voice message telling them she was always willing to talk. That was all she could do. Be open to them. Still, their lack of response had hurt.
Shaw gave her a squeeze. “You ready for this?”
Taryn nodded. “Yep. I’m proud of what we’ve put together. We’ve done the best we know how to do. We’re swinging for the fences.”
“Seriously,” Kincaid said, crossing her arms. “If this doesn’t bring the money in, then people have no hearts. We kicked that Sarah McLachlan animal video’s ass. And that was a tough ass to kick.” She pointed to the crowd. “I expect tears. Hand-wringing. And wallet-emptying. Anything less and these people will have to deal with me.”
Shaw chuckled softly against Taryn’s ear. “Sometimes your friends scare me.”
Kincaid put a hand to her hip. “You better be scared, big guy. Top-notch treatment for this one, or you’re going to have to face all of us. Be afraid.”
Taryn snorted. “She is small but mighty.”
Shaw lifted his palms. “If I treat her like anything less than a queen, you have the right to throat-punch me.”
“Throat-punch?” Kincaid smirked and cocked a brow. “I aim lower, honey, just so you know.”
Shaw hid behind Taryn. “Ouch.”
Taryn laughed. “Yeah, don’t wrong this one. Remind me to tell you about a certain guy in high school, a wandering eye, and a car full of dog food.”
“It was more than his eye that wandered,” Kincaid said flippantly. “Now, get yourself ready to inspire and amaze. You’re on in three minutes.” She gave a little wave and walked off to check on things.
Taryn turned in Shaw’s arms. “You sure you want to stay for this? It may be…hard.”
In the longer video, they’d had survivors do testimonials. Even knowing the stories, Taryn had sobbed watching the rough cuts Liv had sent her. She’d had to fight not to lose it when she gave her own testimonial. She couldn’t imagine what it was going to be like for Shaw to see all these people talk about losses his brother had caused.
He looked down at her and kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s supposed to be hard. That’s okay. I avoided anything having to do with Long Acre for a long time, but I need to be here for this. Seeing this program get into schools is important and personal to me, too.”
She let out a breath, still worried for him but also relieved to have him there with her. “Okay, then let’s do this. Save me a spot in the front row.”
Shaw gave her a quick kiss and then left her to go find their seats. She smoothed her suit jacket and then took her note cards out of her pocket. But after glancing at them briefly, she put them away just as quickly. She didn’t need this to be rehearsed. That was the mistake she’d made with the school board, speaking from an intellectual, scientific place—the safe place where she was just a professor reciting statistics, the place where she didn’t have to feel every bit of her grief. Tonight, she needed to be Taryn, not Dr. Landry. She knew what she wanted to say, and she needed to say it from her heart.
When the lights dimmed, Liv stepped out from backstage and up to the microphone to introduce her. Taryn turned, smiled, and walked up to the stage with her heart firmly attached to her sleeve. For so long, she’d protected that thing like it was the Hope diamond. Safe. Guarded. Lonely. She’d first started to unlock that vault when Liv, Rebecca, and Kincaid had come back into her life, but Shaw had helped put in the final numbers to that code. They’d taught her something she never would’ve believed before—that vulnerability was a superpower. Tonight, she had to wield that superpower with all her might.
She stepped behind the podium, took a deep breath, and looked out to the audience. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me to see so many of you here. Maybe you already know I’m a professor and that I’ve spent years studying this topic, but tonight, I’m standing in front of you not as the expert but as a survivor, pleading for your help. It’s been many years since I walked the halls of Long Acre High and a long time since that horrible night, but something like that never leaves you. The loss never leaves you. The news cycle moves on, but we are the ones left behind to deal with it.”
The audience was quiet, all eyes trained on her. She took a breath and went on.
“It changes who you are. The pain is always there. The people we lost never come back.” Her throat tightened. “Every day, I think of my younger sister, Nia. Every day, I miss her. I miss who she was, and I mourn who she could’ve become. That was stolen from her. It was stolen from me and my family. All of us who were there that night or who are connected to someone who was there walk around with holes inside ourselves, wounds that can never be healed. And I’d like to say it was a freak incident, that it was a one-time thing, that we were just unlucky, that no one else will have to walk around with these gashes ripped into them, but I can’t. I can’t because we are not alone in this grief. Since Long Acre, there have been so many more tragedies just like it that most of us have lost count. Every few weeks, another group of kids and teachers gets membership in a club no one wants to be in—the victims, the survivors, the traumatized, the grieving. Or worse, the perpetrators.”
She took another breath and caught Shaw’s gaze in the audience. “It’s time not just to say ‘enough’ but to do something. Not after the next tragedy. Not during it. Now. Before it happens again. Kids are hurting. Growing up is tough. But these tragedies don’t happen in a vacuum. Kids may be born with certain vulnerabilities, but they aren’t born killers. We are not helpless. We need programs in our schools and community that don’t just step in when it’s too late. We need all children to have access to supportive mentors, to mental health services, to their
community, to each other. We need to connect them to activities that will give them confidence and a sense of pride and belonging.
“We are most at risk when we are alone. Isolation breeds dark and dangerous things. Love and connection combat that.” She swallowed hard. “Love goes a long way. So I hope you’ll watch these stories and help me and the other survivors spread the information so that we can do something now. Doing nothing is no longer an option. Doing nothing is saying that we think this is okay. It’s not okay. We have to fight.” She put her hand to her belly without thinking.
“I don’t want my children to walk into school wondering if they’re going to make it home that day or if they’re going to become an only child overnight. I don’t want my children to ever feel what I and the people in these videos have felt. I hope you’ll join me in writing an ending to this story because none of us wants to see a repeat of it ever again. We have seen it far too many times already. Thank you.”
Taryn gripped the edge of the podium, feeling emptied out and laid bare, but when the applause started, she let herself breathe. She looked to Shaw and her friends, and they had the proudest looks on their faces, which just made her want to cry. Luckily, before she could lose it onstage, the lights went dark and the videos started. The opening guitar chords of the first song she’d written since she was a teenager filled the auditorium as the short video played.
She’d written “Nia’s Song” in the RV on the way back to Austin. After all the failed attempts at writing something before then, the words to the song had come to her unbidden on the road trip home, the lyrics coming from a place of healing, not a place of grief. Hope you like it, baby girl. She made her way back to her seat, took Shaw’s hand, and let the tears fall.
The intro video finished and the testimonials started. At some point, Taryn closed her eyes, listening to her classmates’ stories and leaning on Shaw. But after the first three survivors’ segments, the sound of a familiar voice had her eyes popping wide. She sat up straight as Shaw’s image filled the screen. She glanced at him, but he was looking straight ahead, his jaw tight.
She looked back to the screen, listening as Shaw’s segment began.
“My name is Shaw Miller, and fourteen years ago, my younger brother, Joseph, walked into senior prom with his friend Trevor and opened fire. I’m not here as a survivor, but I am here to tell you that I don’t believe my brother was born a murderer. When we were growing up, he was just a regular kid. He could be funny and annoying and sweet and smart. He could be all the things we all are sometimes. He could beat all my family at Monopoly. He loved the beach. He could win all the hardest video games.” On-screen, Shaw looked down at his hands, gathering himself.
“He also had things going on that we didn’t see because we weren’t paying close enough attention. Because we weren’t there enough. I realize now that he felt ignored. He felt slighted. He felt less than. I was not an involved big brother because I was too wrapped up in my own dreams. When he accused my parents of favoring me, I told him, ‘Maybe you should do something worth noticing.’” Shaw looked right at the camera, pain in his eyes. “Then, he did.”
The audience gasped, and Taryn’s chest squeezed tight. Shaw had confided in her the words that had haunted him for so long, but she never imagined he’d ever go public with them. She gripped his hand harder.
“Every day since then, I’ve blamed myself for what I said, for what I contributed to Joseph’s state. But I realize now that it was one small piece in a very big puzzle that created the monster Joseph became. If something like Dr. Landry’s program had existed back then, maybe Joseph would’ve had more of a chance, more people in his life to help. Families fail sometimes. Brothers let down brothers. Sometimes a dangerous turn in a person is so quiet that no one notices. We need to put as many safety nets as we can in place so that kids don’t fall through the cracks. Please join us in our fight. Don’t let there be another Joseph.”
The segment ended and Taryn looked to Shaw, her heart filling with so much love for him that she thought it might burst. His darkest secret, the one he’d protected most preciously, was now on display because he thought it would help sway people. He’d done this for her and for the program. He’d given her everything he had to give. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek, breathing him in. “Thank you. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, baby.” He gave her a soft smile. “Thank you for giving me the courage to say it. I needed to do that. I feel…better.”
She understood. Secrets smothered. They were both ready to breathe some fresh air.
“You’re amazing,” she whispered.
“You’re my favorite,” he whispered back.
She leaned back in her seat and watched the rest of the fantastic presentation Liv had edited. Everyone sitting around Taryn had tears in their eyes. But Taryn didn’t feel that sadness. All she felt was hope. And when the audience exploded with applause at the end, she felt…complete. For the first time since she’d started this journey, the ever-present anxiety smoothed out. She’d done it. This was going to work. She didn’t know how she knew, but suddenly, she had no doubt.
She’d kept her promise to her sister and her family.
This program would happen.
A few people came over to talk to her, congratulate her, and offer donations, but when Shaw ushered her toward the exit to give her a break and a chance to eat, two familiar faces were standing at the back of the room.
Taryn’s steps stuttered, and Shaw froze next to her, reacting to her sudden shift in mood. Both her parents had tissues in their fists and wet cheeks. How long had they been there? “My parents,” she whispered.
Shaw tensed. “Oh, I—”
Before he could say more, Taryn felt her feet moving forward, and she dragged Shaw with her until she was standing in front of them. “Mom. Dad,” she said, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Taryn,” her father said, voice thick. He looked like he’d aged another five years since she’d seen him last.
Taryn smiled tentatively. “Hi, Daddy.”
Shaw was still at her side, his hand on the small of her back. He cleared his throat. “I’ll give y’all a minute.” He turned to Taryn, his eyes saying a lot. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
But before Shaw could step away, her mother’s hand shot out and landed on his arm. “Stay, young man.”
Shaw glanced at Taryn, and when she gave a little nod, he stayed put.
“What are y’all doing here?” Taryn asked again, overwhelmed by the sight of them.
Her mother, who was wearing a pretty flowered dress but a drawn expression, took a visible breath. “Your father heard that you were giving this presentation, and he thought we should come. For Nia.”
Taryn looked down, the words cutting her hope down. Her mom didn’t want to be here. “Right. For Nia.”
Her mom let out a heavy sigh. “And for you,” she said finally. “Your father is smart. He knew how I would feel if I saw this, saw you, speaking. Singing.”
Taryn’s attention flicked to her mother’s face.
“You did an amazing job,” her father said quietly. “You…you have made us so proud, cher.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Daddy…”
Her mom’s stern expression finally broke. “Your presentation was amazing. And that song… I didn’t know you could write something so beautiful. It was…just right. I’m so sorry I accused you of not caring about Nia.”
Taryn rolled her lips together, emotions welling up.
“I know how hard you’ve worked for this, how much you’ve given up.” Her mother’s gaze flicked to Shaw briefly. “And maybe that’s why I was so angry that you were risking all of that for a man.”
Taryn laced her fingers with Shaw’s.
“But we miss you, honey,” her mother admitted. “And your father… W
ell, he reminded me that he wasn’t exactly my parents’ favorite choice either.”
“That’s putting it mildly, love,” Taryn’s father said. “They thought I was a goofy coonass from the bayou looking to use your mother for her smarts and her money. Plus, I was about a hundred shades paler than they were hoping.”
Her mother smacked her father’s arm. “Emmett, please. You know it was not about you being white. The accent did scare them, though. I think they pictured me moving to the swamps and raising gators for a living.”
Her father snorted derisively and turned back to Taryn. “The point is, hearing that you were with this young man was difficult, but we both realized that we’re judging someone without knowing him. I wouldn’t want to be compared to my brother. We’re nothing alike.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “And we have raised you to be a strong, intelligent woman. I can’t imagine you’re easily tricked.” He eyed Shaw. “So if this man means something to you, then there must be something to him.”
Joy was swelling in Taryn’s chest.
“And after seeing that video, young man,” her mother said, looking at Shaw, “I think we jumped to conclusions that we shouldn’t have. That was a very brave thing for you to do.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Shaw said, voice gruff. He quickly glanced at Taryn before looking back to her parents. “And I know this is complicated, but I love your daughter and plan to do everything in my power to make sure she’s happy.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “I’m sorry for all the pain my family has caused yours.”
Her mother stared at him for a long moment and then she straightened, rising to her full diminutive height. She put her hands out and took one of Shaw’s between hers.
A rush of nerves went through Taryn.
But her mother gave his hand a squeeze and said, “I’m sorry for your loss as well.”
Shaw blinked, clearly shocked, and then dipped his head. “Thank you.”
Taryn couldn’t take it any longer. She stepped forward and threw her arms around both her parents, something cracked inside her gluing back together. “I’ve missed you guys so much.”