The Darkest Part

by Trisha Wolfe

  My pulse hammers against my veins as a memory covers my vision. I’m suddenly chilly, the rain soaking my hair—but warm arms cradle me . . . soft, strong lips caress mine.

  I fasten my eyes shut. Then opening them, I look up into Holden’s face.

  “Well,” I say, inching backward. “Tats are supposed to mean something. But mine doesn’t,” I add quickly, and watch as he flinches, my words hitting him like a punch. “I’ve just always loved dead trees. Always loved drawing them.” I shrug, layering on my nonchalance.

  A muscle ticks in his jaw as he grits his teeth. Sinking his hands into his jean pockets, he schools his features into a calm expression. “Later, Sam. Please take care of yourself.” He nods once before leaving.

  I’m left standing near the pond, shaken at his abrupt dismissal.

  As I walk home alone, the darkness creeping along with me, I trace my thumb over my tattoo. Remembering.

  HOLDEN

  Shifting into a lower gear, I take the curve fast and hard. I can feel the tires drifting over the asphalt, burning the tread. I wish I could rub out my memories as easily as I can burn up a pair of tires.

  Sam looks bad. She’s never been girly, not one to really care about her appearance all that much, but she’s never let herself go like this. Always had her hair dyed, hiding the blond beneath. Used to wear a nose ring—the one Tyler used to give her shit for. And she’s always dressed like the artsy person she is. Or was.

  It’s the one thing we had in common when we were younger. She and Tyler were exact opposites. He was all about impressing Dad—trying to gain his approval. Following in his footsteps to be a lawyer, dressing the part, all preppy and clean cut. Which was fine. It suited him. And somehow, it even worked for him and Sam. Opposites attract, I guess.

  But Sam and I . . . We were different. We didn’t joke around like she and Tyler did. They were the same age and always had an inside joke to laugh at. There was a silent understanding between us, though, being able to draw beside each other, no words, just the scratching of pencil on paper. Our conversation. Our music.

  And when I looked into her eyes, getting lost in that color that doesn’t have a name on any painter’s palette, I saw intensity. Fire. I knew I was going to get burned, but like the dumbass that I am, I leapt.

  The dark road stretches endlessly before me, and I crank my stereo, trying to blast away the memories.

  FIVE YEARS AGO

  We’ve been leaving each other messages in our paintings for weeks. We share the same art teacher, but not the same class. Sam’s freshman art block is in the morning, and my junior art class is my last block of the day.

  I check her canvas before I dive into my current project. Yesterday, it was just an orange sky with a hint of stars in the falling twilight. Today, it’s finished. And staring back at me is a black dead tree. Its branches gnarly and bare, casting a shadow over two hidden figures. Embracing.

  My heart jumps in my throat.

  Finding my easel, I place my canvas on it and study my palette. I have to answer her, but fuck. How? She’s going to stop by after the last bell to put her canvas away. That’s when she’ll read mine. It’s our routine.

  It started out as a game, just two artists having a hidden theme in the same art class. But somewhere, somehow, it turned into more.

  As I bring my paintbrush to the canvas, I begin blending a setting similar to hers—an orange sky with a tree. My answer to whether or not I’ll meet her. When I start on the couple, my hand twitches and I slip. “Dammit.”

  “Mr. Marks,” Ms. Snyder snaps. “I’m all in favor of expression, but let’s keep the profanity out of the classroom.” She raises her brows.

  When my painting is complete, it’s a version of Sam’s, only abstract. A bit derivative of Van Gogh, but this isn’t about my talent. It’s expression, like Ms. Snyder said. Expressing my feelings for Sam, and what I wish we could be. She’ll be able to see the message. Two people meeting secretly under a dead tree . . . embracing.

  I push my easel up against the wall and leave right when the bell rings. Tyler’s waiting by my car as I hustle into the parking lot. He picks up his book bag near his feet and threads it over his shoulder.

  “Thought you had practice today,” I say, my nerves causing my voice to sound off. I clear my throat and unlock the Honda.

  Tyler’s forehead creases and he points to the sky. “It’s about to rain, dude. Coach canceled. Something about a severe tropical storm.” He shakes his head. “He was pissed.”

  As I slide behind the wheel, I curse under my breath. Sam’s going to be out by that tree, in the storm, waiting for me. I should call this off.

  “You wanna go by The Shack?”

  I look at Tyler. “What about the storm?” I need to drop him off and call or text Sam. It’s awkward, talking to her over the phone or even in person after our secret language. Hell. It’s always been awkward.

  It’s not that I never wanted to talk to her before—it’s that I couldn’t. I’ve always sucked at talking, at expressing myself. And because of that, we were never close. Not that I didn’t want to be. But when we started sharing paintings . . . and I found a way to tell her everything I’d kept bottled up . . . my feelings exploded over the canvas, like a never-ending color palette bearing my soul.

  I wish I could just send her a painting and she’d understand.

  If we do this, it changes everything.

  And looking at Tyler now, I’m not sure either of us are ready to hurt my brother. Even though Sam doesn’t feel the same way about him, Tyler’s been in love with her since grade school.

  My gut twists. I’m the biggest shit.

  “There isn’t crap to eat at home,” he says. “Come on. You know how they always blow storms up. A hurricane hasn’t hit us since the eighties or something, and they still evacuate the island every season.”

  “Look,” I say, turning the key in the ignition. I grip the wheel. “I have something I need to do, but I’ll swing by real quick. Run in and out.”

  Tyler eyes me, but just says, “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  After I pull up to the house, I look around for Sam, thinking she’ll change her mind and show up here, like she does most days. But when Tyler gets out of the car, he again gives me a weird look.

  “Did you see Sam after school anywhere?”

  I shrug. “No.”

  With that, he slams the car door and heads for the house.

  The sky overhead is dark. Ink-swollen clouds blot out the sun. The wind picks up, swaying the tall pines in our yard. The creaking sends a thrill through me, making me anxious.

  Sam’s different than other girls. I can’t fuck this up.

  I back out of the driveway. With a determined huff, I pump the clutch and shift into first, gunning the engine. I park a little ways down from the nature trail that runs behind both our houses. Sam’s parents and mine moved into the plantation around the same time—and never moved again. Both our parents just used to vacation here; it’s a resort island. But that’s how it is. Tourists come and go, eventually deciding to stay. Then never leaving again.

  Hilton Head is like a black hole. It just sucks you in.

  And that’s another thing, another reason why this is so messed up. I’m leaving right after first quarter next year. Because I failed a grade in middle school, they put me on this fast track program to graduate early. And I worked my ass off to do it. To get the hell out of here.

  I’m older than her by almost four years. Three years and nearly nine months, to be exact. Probably not a big deal when we’re older, but right now, I feel like a creeper for what I’ve allowed to happen between us. Though, I could stop it now. It’s not too late.

  Tyler wouldn’t have to feel betrayed, and I wouldn’t have to figure out how to keep a girlfriend in high school while I’m trying with every fiber in my body to get away from this place.

  I’ll always come back for Tyler and Mom, but I can’t have anything here that will stop me fro
m getting out permanently. The guilt over leaving Tyler with him eats at my soul. But I have to believe it will get better—when I’m not here to piss him off all the time.

  Shit. I exhale heavily when I glimpse the first raindrops on the windshield. I’m lost in my thoughts and staring out the window for what feels like forever. I look at the time on my phone.

  Sam’s tree is down the wooded trail, next to the golf course. It’s tucked away and doesn’t look like it’s a part of anything surrounding it. It’s the one place that’s all hers—that she doesn’t share with Tyler. Where she draws, listens to music, paints.

  I know about it because I found her there after she ran away when she was seven. Her parents had a big fight, and she told me and Tyler that she was going to live at Nickelodeon. I followed her, scared that she’d get lost in the plantation, staying a safe distance behind so she wouldn’t see me.

  She did, though. And we ate cookies and drew together under the tree for hours until night came, and then I convinced her to go back home, telling her that Nickelodeon had monsters. Probably mean, but hey, I was ten. I was kind of a little shit back then.

  I bang my head against the steering wheel, keep it there, and close my eyes. I should leave. Back out and turn around right now. Sam will be hurt, but she’s fourteen. She’ll recover. She’ll curse me and call me out for the ass that I am . . . but it’s the right thing to do.

  I’m still a shit, though. A selfish one. I see her vivid eyes in my mind, feel the softness of her skin as I accidently brush her arm, and I want to go to her. I want her. I want it all. All of her.

  The rain pours down, the sky opening up and releasing bolder-size raindrops, like it’s trying to stop my pursuit, send a message. Jerking my keys out, I stuff them in my pocket and stare ahead.

  I open the door and run.

  Rain is coming down in sheets, battering me as the wind sends it sideways. I yank the back of my shirt over my head by the collar, trying to guard against falling pinecones. Wind tears at my bare stomach. I pull my shirt straight and tuck the front into my jeans to shield my skin.

  There’s no way she’s out here in this. She wouldn’t be . . . not for me. But when I turn the corner of the trail, I catch sight of a white T-shirt. And then Sam, her back flush against the black bark of the tree.

  Her head is lowered as she stares at the ground. My breath catches in my throat. The rain continues to beat the crap out of me, obscuring my vision, but I don’t blink as I take in her drenched body. Her white T-shirt. Fuck. I’m so fucked.

  As if she can hear my thoughts, she looks up. A hesitant smile slides across her beautiful face, and like the lightning striking above, electrifying the air, my heart kick starts. I’m breathing again.

  My feet race across the root-covered path, and when I reach her, I swallow hard. Rain water drips down her face, rolling over her full lips, and her black hair is slicked back. Like she just got out of the shower. I try to keep my gaze from drifting lower, but dammit. Her white shirt clings to her body, teasingly revealing the fact she’s either not wearing a bra, or she’s wearing a really thin one.

  I’m instantly sporting a semi. I give myself a mental punch to the gut, clearing my thoughts. I don’t know how to start this. My mouth is dry, and if I had any words in my empty head before, they’re long gone. Maybe I misread her paint—

  Her arm snakes around my neck, pulling my shirt off my head, and I realize—like a dumbass—I’m still holding it above me. Her other hand goes to my stomach, and I suck in a sharp breath at the feel of her warm skin through the material. Her body presses against me, and it’s so delicate, fragile. She’s shaking. I want to hold her tight. Feel every bit of her.

  “What are we doing?” she asks, releasing a small, timid laugh.

  I swallow again. “I don’t know . . . but whatever it is, I don’t want to stop.”

  Heat blazes in her eyes, desire. And I try to remind myself that this is Sam. My next door neighbor, and the girl I’ve known since she was in diapers. But she’s far more mature than her years; she sees things clearer than anyone I’ve ever met—is more sultry than any woman I’ve ever seen.

  Shutting down my brain, I brush a wet lock of hair from her cheek. She gasps at my touch and bites down on her lip, and it’s my undoing. Gripping her soaking shirt, I pull her to me and press my lips to hers.

  It’s soft and questioning, us trying to figure out our beat. It’s nervous and unsure, but as her mouth parts to welcome me in, I dip my tongue inside the hollow of her mouth, taste the sweetness of her. When she matches me, her tongue sliding over mine, mingling, heat scorches the back of my throat. My pulse quickens as a tremor rocks me.

  She shivers in my arms, whether from the cold or the kiss, I’m not sure. But all I want to do is make her shiver more. And then warm her. I bend at the knees and grasp her thighs, lifting her into my arms. Something primal is taking over—driving out any hesitation. She latches her arms around my neck, locking her legs around my waist.

  I’m moving us forward or backward . . . I don’t know. But I feel the tree bark against my knuckles at some point, and I press Sam against it, her body molding to mine. Our kiss becomes crushing and hungry, and I’m suddenly desperate, scared for it to end.

  I’ve never opened myself up to anyone like this, especially a girl. I’ve made out with them and other things. Hell, I’m a guy. But with Sam . . . I know I’m vulnerable now. I can feel her reaching in and taking up residency in my soul.

  It’s painful and pleasurable and scary as hell.

  Thunder cracks above, the rain beats down, but we’re lost beneath a black dead tree—feeling alive.

  SAM

  I lie still, my eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the night and trying to block out my own brain. It’s useless. I know Tyler is here. I can feel him lurking in my room, and it’s pretty shitty that I’m pretending to be asleep. But I can’t look at him right now. Can’t talk to him.

  Before—when we were in high school—it was difficult to be around him after what happened between Holden and me. Tyler and I were only friends, though. It was different then. I honestly felt that my romantic life was none of his business; I shared everything else with him. But there was always the guilt.

  Seeing Holden today . . . it’s stirred up memories and feelings I buried long ago. And Tyler can read me better than anyone. I don’t want to lie to him if he asks me what’s wrong. But there’s so much wrong lately it’s hard to choose from, so maybe I don’t have to lie at all.

  The important thing is Holden is determined to find who took Tyler away from us.

  If I could help, if I knew anything at all, I would stomach being around Holden to see justice done. I just wish there was a way. And that I didn’t fear so much.

  The truth is, Tyler might be hanging around because he needs resolution. I’ve thought this every day since I first saw his spirit. If the police discovered who was driving that car, it might free Tyler from this plane. It could be his unfinished business.

  I’m a horrible person. I know this. I’m conflicted—wanting to see the person punished for what they did, and not wanting to. I’m just not ready to say goodbye.

  A thought hits me hard and I bolt upright in bed. Tyler jumps to his feet, my plush beanbag chair not shifting or making a noise as he rises. It still weirds me out.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I nod, letting my hair fall around my face to hide my expression. “Just had a dream.” Okay, so now I am a liar.

  Tyler kept a journal. I don’t think Holden knows about it, and Tyler doesn’t know that I know about it. But one night when I was staying at his residence apartment, I saw him writing in it when he thought I was in the bathroom. I thought it was endearing—not many guys keep a diary—and I never mentioned it. Letting him have that secret for himself.

  But if there’s any chance that Tyler’s accident wasn’t an actual accident, then maybe something in that journal could help. I feel slimy just thinking about rea
ding his personal thoughts. But it may be the only lead in his case. And like Holden said, if something new doesn’t present itself, the police will file his hit-and-run away, never discovering the person who sped off that night, leaving a dying Tyler bleeding on the road. Leaving a ruined girlfriend and family behind.

  I know it’s the right thing to do—regardless of my own selfishness.

  “Tyler,” I say, my voice throaty. “I need something from you.”

  “Anything,” he says. The shadows conceal most of his features, but his aura—the white light surrounding him—reveals the concern etched on his face.

  “You kept a journal, didn’t you?”

  His face pales, the glow of his aura dimming. “No. I didn’t—”

  “I saw you. Writing in it.” I push myself off the bed and slowly approach him. “I think we should read through it together. To see if maybe—”

  He waves his hand. “Sam, I’m right here. Don’t you think if I had any clue about who hit me that I’d tell you?”

  I’m taken back. “How did you know that’s why I even wanted it?”

  He huffs out a long breath. “I know how your mind works. Holden’s here, and you saw him today. He hasn’t moved on yet.” His eyes level me. “He can’t accept that it just happened, that there’s no ulterior motive. Sometimes bad shit just happens, Sam.”

  “Right.” I shake my head, thinking that maybe I’m more transparent than Tyler. “But . . . he’s your brother. He just wants to help you. The way I do.” I step closer, wishing I could hold his hand, comfort him. “Don’t you want whoever did this to be caught? Maybe there’s something in there that you can’t connect, but someone looking in from the outside can. Something off, a link. Please. Just let me try.”

  He turns his back to me and drops his head.

  “Tyler . . .”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  A chill creeps over me. “How can you not know?”

  He drives a hand through his hair, his shoulders tense. “I’m starting to . . . forget things.”

  Panic grabs my chest, squeezing. My gaze flicks around the room, as if I can find an answer in the dark.