by Trisha Wolfe
So this is life now. My talking to Tyler when he appears, living every second of my day just waiting to hear his voice, while my family copes with having a nut-case as a daughter.
That’s okay, though. Because I have a plan again. It’s just been altered some. But I have a purpose. A forever. And if I can still somehow have that forever with Tyler—I’ll take it.
Whether in life or death.
“Sam!” my mother calls from downstairs. “You have a visitor.”
Shit.
Spinning, I glance around, searching for an escape or an excuse out of seeing whoever it is. I’ve effectively avoided all our friends from school and my best girlfriend Leah. And it’s probably her. She stayed with me the first week after Tyler’s funeral, but once I realized other people drove Tyler away, I started making excuses to be alone.
Like I do now.
“The shower?” Tyler materializes and points toward the glass-encased walk-in.
“Good idea,” I say, smiling. “Want to join me?”
A slow, sexy smile hikes the side of his face. “You know it.”
I turn the dial and then strip off my clothes. Probably not a bad idea, anyway. The musty smell of body odor and faded detergent engulfs me, and for a second, I’m embarrassed at how I’ve let myself go. But since I spend most nights awake with Tyler (his presence is strongest at night), I’m just too tired to be bothered with all the maintenance crap.
Sliding the glass door open, I fling myself into the shower with a yelp, and quickly adjust the temperature to warm. Tyler laughs. “Sh-shut up.”
As the water rains down in a wide spray drenching my hair, Tyler appears before me. I’m tempted to reach out and caress his stubbled cheek, the way I always did when we took showers together. But my hand halts mid-air. I fist my fingers and drop my arm.
I just wish he could touch me.
He must sense my frustration, because his brow wrinkles, pain etched in the lines of his face. But true to Tyler, he doesn’t allow those emotions to own him. He purposefully scans his gaze over my body, a smile replacing his frown.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. And with a subtle movement, he lifts his hand toward my face.
I close my eyes and summon the memory of his touch.
“I want to see you content . . . satisfied, Sam.” My eyes snap open. Content. “Be my hands. Touch yourself where I touch.” His translucent fingers skim my arm, working their way down.
I nod and close my eyes again.
“Look at me,” he says. “Don’t shut me out.”
I do as he says, and when his hand moves across the sensitive skin of my hip, my fingers trail it. Roaming lower, I caress myself, working my body into one pulsing heartbeat—mine and Tyler’s combined.
And when the cresting pleasure takes me, I stare into his eyes. I fall against the tile, shaking. As always, after the release, the tears come. The shame. It never used to feel this way with him.
He kneels next to me. “Don’t . . .”
“Please leave,” I say.
Hurt flashes in his dark eyes. “You want me to go?”
“Not forever . . .” I hang my head. “I just need a moment.”
When I look up, he’s gone.
“That was a nice trick,” my mother says as I hit the bottom stair.
I flinch. Moving fully into the foyer, I say, “You’re always saying I should take better care of myself.”
She shakes her head and returns to the kitchen where she pulls a tumbler from the open-faced cabinet. Then she reaches for the vodka. “You could start by fixing your hair, if you want a starting point.”
With a scowl, I reach up and run my fingers through my slick hair. A thick blond streak running along the middle of my scalp reveals my natural hair color. The same ash-blond as my mother’s. I’ve been dying it black since the first day of ninth grade, and it doesn’t even look Goth or Emo. I have naturally dark eyebrows and fair skin, and with my strange yellow-green eyes, it just works.
“It wasn’t Leah,” she says. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about the person I just avoided. This surprises me because Leah is the only one who might bother to come around. Everyone else has moved on, even Tyler’s family. Or what’s left of it.
Mr. Marks is still seeing his girlfriend (I think they’re even engaged now), and they go yachting on the weekends. She helped him through his son’s death, just like she did Shannon’s, his wife. And Holden . . .
“It was Holden,” she adds.
I freeze in the kitchen entryway. Ice forms in my stomach, and my hands tremble. “I’m going for a walk.”
Her mouth parts, like she’s going to say something else, but I turn and head for the front door. I’m sure I’ve just shocked her speechless. Normally, I don’t choose to leave the house. It takes force and a lot of threats about calling my doctor and her “team” to intervene to get me out anywhere other than my sessions.
But I suddenly need fresh air. It’s too closed-in, too stuffy in the house. And I don’t want to take the chance that Holden might come back.
I find the worn path around the pond, the same path I walked daily all my life. The path that leads to Tyler’s house. I’m not going there. It’s the last place I want to see. But the path is familiar. My feet find it without even trying. Habit.
The crickets sing around me, and for a second, I’m confused. I didn’t realize that it was almost night. I stop and glance around, then decide to plant myself right where I am. The pond is dark and placid, static. The sky and pines reflecting on its surface. Like two skies, one on top of the other.
Running my fingers over the long grass, I fall back into a memory.
FIVE MONTHS EARLIER
The smell of gum and wood polish assaults my senses, and slow background music with sad violins fills the air of our community church. Flowers are everywhere. The music lowers as the pastor takes his place at the podium. A blown-up black and white portrait of Tyler is propped next to an altar that holds his urn.
A closed casket was out of the question for Mr. Marks. If his son couldn’t have a proper funeral with a viewing, then he couldn’t stand the thought of burying him that way either.
Mr. Marks said Tyler’s face was beyond repair, the pavement having shattered nearly every bone. It was no longer his son.
I drop my head into my palms, unable to look at the urn anymore. Soon, I’ll have to go up there and talk. Talk about Tyler. And me. About his life, and how it was cut short. How it’s unfair, but how even in death, his memory lives on, encouraging us to live—the way he did.
It’s all written on a tiny piece of paper that my mother tucked into my cardigan pocket. She knew I was unable to write it myself, unable to find any words. She wrote it. Just one more thing I’m indebted to her for.
And I want to say all of it—to honor his memory. But the cruel irony is that he was my strength. My focal point in the chaos. The world is spinning off its axis, and I don’t know how to do any of this without him.
The pastor is talking, but my ears only hear the whoosh of my blood. The jackhammering of my heart. The room tilts, the annoyingly bright glare of the sun-drenched windows a mockery, a direct contrast to the mood within the church. I brace my hands on the pew, preparing to go up. Glancing around, I locate the exit. I don’t remember standing, or walking. But suddenly I’m pushing through the doors.
Running.
I don’t stop until the fire snaking up my calves reaches my chest, and I collapse. Little puffs of white fog leave my mouth as I pant, trying to catch my breath. Crawling toward a bench, I keep my head down. I feel like I’m going to lose my stomach. But then a pair of black combat boots catches my sight and I stop.
I look up at the guy seated on the bench, his head bowed into his hands. Holden.
Fury and grief and pain and every other emotion I’ve kept buried since I got the call of Tyler’s death comes rushing to the surface. And I’m on my feet and storming toward him.
“Y
ou bastard—”
His head jerks up. Mouth parts. Eyes squint. “What?”
Every nerve in my body is flaring, firing off in loud pops that pulse in my vision. My limbs tremble with restraint. “Where were you? Tyler said he was supposed to meet you. That you were supposed to hang out that night.” I take a ragged breath. “But you weren’t with him. Why?”
I haven’t seen Holden Marks since he left right after he graduated high school. And when he bounds up and moves toward me, I remember just how much taller he is than Tyler. How much taller than me he always was.
He towers over me now. I tilt my head back to look into his face and notice the trace of a tattoo on his neck, just peeking out against the collar of his black button-up. His dark hair falls forward, nearly covering his icy blue eyes. He draws in his bottom lip, pulling his lip ring into his mouth. Something passes over his face quickly, almost too quickly to discern. But it was there. Confusion, maybe.
“I was supposed to meet Tyler,” he says. It’s a statement, him repeating my words back to me, but there’s a question in it. As if he’s only saying it to give himself enough time to form a real answer. “I was supposed to be . . . and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sam.”
My anger vanishes. As quickly as it was triggered, it disappears, leaving me reeling. The cold air is suddenly biting. I know, somewhere in the depth of my soul, buried beneath the hurt and anguish, it’s not Holden’s fault. But damn it. I need someone to blame. Things like this, horrible tragedies, they have to have a reason why. Something or someone has to be the cause. Because I can’t go on in a world where horrible things happen for no reason at all.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Holden says again, and I break.
My knees buckle, and gravity pulls me downward. Only Holden reaches out in time to catch me before I hit the ground. His arms encircle me, cradling my body against his, as I’m wracked with sobs. His embrace is familiar, eliciting memories from too long ago.
His hand strokes my hair, and I’m ashamed that I’m allowing him to comfort me. He’s just lost his only brother, not more than half a year after losing his mother. I should be consoling him, standing by while he cries and shouts about how life isn’t fair.
Pushing against his hard chest, I back away. “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I have to go.”
“Sam . . . don’t. It’s okay.”
His hand reaches out for me, but I don’t look at him as I turn and head in the opposite direction. I don’t know where. Just away.
I meant what I said. But somewhere deep down, I still blame him for not being there to protect his brother that night. And I always will. It’s as much his fault as it is mine.
SAM
The crickets’ chirring grows louder, ringing in my ears like a siren. They cancel out the heavy footfalls I don’t hear until too late.
“I hear you dropped out of school.”
Holden’s deep baritone startles me and I almost turn around. Catching myself, I force my gaze to hold the last bit of sunset over the pond.
It’s more than blaming Holden for abandoning Tyler—more than being near someone who reminds me of the boyfriend I lost. We haven’t really talked since I was a freshman in high school, after our falling out.
And since then, something’s happened to not only him but all the Marks’ men. After Shannon’s death, everything changed. Tyler and I, we always told each other everything. No secrets. Since we were scribbling with chalk on our driveways and eating dirt just to see what it tasted like, we shared it all.
But Tyler was keeping something from me. I could sense it. Something that had to do with his mother’s death. I never pried, though, because losing her was the worst thing that ever happened to Tyler. A darkness entered him after the night Holden picked up their mother from a restaurant and she never made it home. Tyler never got past it. Neither did Mr. Marks.
He never forgave Holden. Even though the police report stated Holden’s blood alcohol level was well below the legal limit, and he was never convicted, Mr. Marks disowned his son, forbidding Tyler to contact him.
Tyler was meeting Holden in secret the night he was hit by that car. Holden’s birthday had been the week before; he’d turned twenty-three. Tyler said his brother was only back for a night, just long enough for them to celebrate. Before that, they hadn’t seen each other in just over six months. As hurt and as angry as Mr. Marks was, I was shocked he wouldn’t allow his son to attend his own mother’s funeral.
So I can’t help my overactive brain being suspicious. The fact that both Shannon’s and Tyler’s deaths involved Holden in some way makes me nervous to be around him despite our past. I’m not sure what to say, or how to act. I’m the only one who knows Holden was in town to meet Tyler. I never told that to the police officer who questioned me. I didn’t want to upset their father more. But now, being so close to him and my nerves on edge, I question whether I should have.
Only . . . I guess at the time, I was battling with myself. Wondering if reporting it would’ve been some form of revenge on Holden. Our secrets and past are too sordid, confusing the shit out me even now. I didn’t want that on my conscience. And I didn’t want to betray Tyler’s trust.
But it seems my conscience is heavy with doubt and guilt no matter what.
I pluck a long blade of grass from the earth and begin weaving it into a braid with the other two in my hands. Not looking at Holden, I ignore his comment about college and ask, “Where are you staying?” I know it’s not at his father’s house.
He settles on the bank a few feet from me. Out of my peripheral, I take in his long legs covered by dark jeans. Black Dr. Martens, gray thermal, and the black and blue tattoo banded around his wrist. “At a motel. Island Getaway Inn, or something like that.”
I nod slowly, and the silence stretches out like the pond before us. If he thinks he’s obligated to check up on me, then I should relieve him of that responsibility right now. Of all the times Tyler’s come to me, he’s never mentioned his brother. “If you’re in town because of me . . .” I trail off, searching for the right words. “For Tyler. I’m fine, Holden. I know you don’t want to be here, so you can go back to your life. Mine’s all right, okay?”
I can feel his gaze on me. “I’m here checking up on the status of the case.” I do turn to look at him now. “But yeah, I did want to see how you were doing.”
“Do they have any leads?” I ask.
Holden’s dark hair is strategically messy, one side of his nearly black bangs falling alongside his light blue eyes. He still has a lip ring, a silver circular barbell, and he works it between his teeth. He holds my gaze and doesn’t look away. I’m the first to break the staring contest when he finally says, “Nothing new. But I want to keep on them, or else they’ll drop the search soon.”
“They make phones for that.” I hear the venom in my voice.
“Yeah, but it’s easy to dismiss someone over the phone.”
I swallow hard, thinking of all the times I had my mother make an excuse for why I couldn’t take his calls. He has to understand just how hard this is for me. How difficult it is not only dealing with his brother’s death, but the fact that we have a history—a messed up history. It’s just awkward to be near him.
He releases a heavy breath. “You still don’t remember if Tyler said anything else that night?”
I shake my head. “Just that he was going to see you. But, maybe you should tell that info to the police.”
My stomach quivers as Holden’s face goes as pale as his eyes. “Have you told anyone that?”
“No,” I say, making my voice hold strong despite the tremble in my body. “No, I haven’t. Tyler didn’t want your dad to know he was seeing you, that he was going against him.”
With a forced exhale, Holden runs a hand through his dark hair. “I’m not sure how angry that’d make him.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t want to see my brother’s memory possibly disgraced because of me.”
I know he’s right, and i
t’s why—even against my better judgment—I’ve never told anyone. For Tyler. I’m not doing anything for Holden. I feel a tickle on my arm and look down to swipe a mosquito away. “Look—”
“Sam—”
We both stop talking. I fan my hand, prompting him to go first.
“I know we weren’t as close growing up as you and my brother,” he says, and a pang hits my chest. “But I’d like to think we were still friends . . . on some level. I have to make sure that you’re okay. That you get the help you need.”
Embarrassed anger rises up within me. Has my mother told him about my doctor visits? About my “major depression with psychotic features?” I don’t think I could handle him knowing. “I just need time alone, Holden. I’m not your responsibility.”
“Yeah, you kind of are.” My head snaps around, and he’s standing up, then stepping closer to me. “After our mother died”—pain flashes across his face—“Tyler made me promise to watch out for you, if anything should ever happen to him. A death makes people think of their own, and he loved you more than anyone. I promised him.”
I stand and brush loose grass from my backside, keeping my sight on the pond. I’m sure Tyler wouldn’t have asked that of him had he known the truth. “Just find whoever hit Tyler, Holden. If you’re really here to help the police with their investigation, then help them. I’ve told you everything I know, and now I want to be left alone.”
I spin, but his hand grasps my wrist, halting me. He immediately releases it, and his hand clenches into a fist. “When did you get that?” He nods at the tattoo on my wrist.
Reflexively, I clamp my hand over the inked tree, its trunk starting just above my palm and the thin, wiry branches reaching up and out toward my forearm. “When I turned eighteen. It was my birthday gift to myself.” My face flames, and I can’t meet his eyes.
Silence hums in the air, charged. It presses against me.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice raspy. “It suits you.”