The Darkest Part

by Trisha Wolfe

  Nodding to myself, I pull in a breath. “I need some advice, or an opinion . . . something from someone who might see a bit clearer—” possibly saner “—about Holden. And me.”

  “Hmm.” A beat. “That boy loves you.”

  Her words catch me off-guard, and my jaw falls open. I think I even stutter something.

  “You know that, right?” she asks. “Like, loves you, loves you. He’s in deep. I think you could hock all his shit on EBay and he’d fall to his knees and give you head.”

  A laugh escapes me. “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Oh, I am. But anyway, what’s the deal?”

  With another deep breath, I dive in. Tell her everything, as unbiasedly as I can (though I may call him a dickhead a couple of times). And I know I’m spilling my heart out all over the phone, and to someone who I only just met. But for whatever reason, I trust her. There’s an honesty about Melody, an easiness I envy, and I feel she might shed light where the darkness clouds my thoughts.

  There’s a long pause after I finish. I wonder if I’ve lost connection, or after I admitted to seeing and talking to my dead boyfriend she hung up. Holding the phone away from me, I look at the screen. Still connected. “Mel?”

  “I’m thinking,” she says. “All right. I’m going to lay this out pretty simply, so be prepared. I know you’ve had the worst kind of run lately, but I think you need to hear it. And by the way, I am sorry for your loss.”

  A lump forms in my throat. I wasn’t expecting the sentiment from her. “Thanks.”

  “Okay. No arguing. Just let me wax poetic.” She pauses, and I imagine her cracking her knuckles. Like she’s about to verbally dig into my ass. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

  I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, “What?”

  “Emily Dickenson. The girl was brilliant, and she once wrote that to someone. I think it actually went like, ‘the heart wants what it wants.’ But whatever. It’s pretty fitting for your dilemma.”

  I feel my face scrunch together in confusion. “But . . . that’s it? I don’t understand. How does that—”

  “Look,” she interrupts. “I’m not going to debate whether you’re really seeing your boyfriend or not. Hell, I’ve seen tons of crazy shit on the road. So I choose to believe anything’s possible.” She pauses. “And personally, I’m not really sure dickhead was really such a dickhead back in the day. I think he probably had his reasons for being a douche. Doesn’t excuse it, but still. That aside, he obviously still cares about you, or he wouldn’t be there now.”

  I open my mouth to argue, to tell her that he’s doing all this for Tyler, but snap it shut. Somewhere in the back of my mind, her words ring true. Plus, she said I couldn’t argue.

  She continues. “It doesn’t boil down to whether or not you should be taking your meds. Though I don’t think it would hurt in your case, just to see what happens. Shit, could be a lot of fun. I hear some of that antipsychotic junk packs a freakin’ awesome buzz.”

  “Mel, please,” I say, and she laughs.

  “All right. Anyway, so yeah. Take ‘em, don’t take ‘em. But figure out what your heart wants, because when you do, you’ll have your answer.” She pauses again, and I think she’s done, but she quickly continues. “If Tyler is your one and only, no matter how many pills you pop, he’ll be there for you. But if Holden owned your heart before, and you think he can again, then the shit will work itself out. Like I said, the boy loves you. It’s just up to you to ask your heart what it wants. And then listen.”

  “Huh.” That’s my brilliant response. “Are you one of those genius types that no one sees coming?”

  My phone beeps, and I pull it away just as I hear her tell me to check my messages. Opening the text, I laugh as a pic of Melody winking at me pops up on the screen.

  HOLDEN

  I don’t know who Sam’s been talking to, but when the conversation ends and she drops her phone into her bag, she looks up with a lighter expression. Much lighter than when she stormed out of the hotel room threatening to mace me.

  I breathe a little easier through the thick, hot air pressing on me.

  I’m hanging back next to a crafts shop. Giving her space. Like she needs. But I wasn’t going to let her take off on her own in a city she doesn’t know. Stalker or not, she’s still my responsibility. Hell. I can keep telling myself that, keep trying to convince myself that it’s all about protecting her during this trip. But if that were true, last night never would’ve happened.

  I’m far more dangerous to her than anything or anyone else.

  The backup plan failed. Big time. Not that I thought it would go any smoother, but I was hoping that . . . I don’t really know. Maybe that after she nearly drowned, she’d see reason. It’s time for her to admit the truth. She’s sick, though. And forcing her to take her meds isn’t going to help. She has to first admit something’s wrong. I was hoping she was at that point.

  Chalk it up to the twelve-step program, but that thing helped me get my shit together.

  Only, what the hell happened back at the pool? Was she reliving a fight they had before? I don’t believe for a second my brother’s ghost is really here. But I heard their talk, and I’ve seen Tyler get rip-roaring pissed and lose his cool over a lot less. Especially when it came to Sam.

  Tyler had issues, and I used to worry that he’d inherited the asshole gene from our dad. But I’m trying hard to believe he never hurt Sam. Never wanted to see her hurting the way she is now.

  I shake my head. No, I can’t go there. One, he’s not here. Two, he was not our dad. And three, he’d never hurt Sam.

  If I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it.

  I push all my doubts into the pit of my stomach, letting it fester there along with the hard ball of guilt I’ve been building up for years. I won’t think ill of my brother’s memory. He had one slipup with the redhead, but that doesn’t mean anything. Just that he was a young, confused guy.

  As she stands and looks around, I press farther behind my creeper corner. She starts walking, and I follow. I know exactly what she sees when she halts. I spotted it while I was watching her on the phone, and knew she’d head there at some point.

  Sam walks into Hawthorn Galleries. The artist in her couldn’t pass it by. I smile to myself, despite everything. And when I reach the display window highlighting abstract paintings, I know I’m going in there, too.

  There’re only a handful of people inside, and I spot Sam easily. She’s standing in front of a life-sized painting of a Victorian man. The painting is limited in shades of browns and grays. She tilts her head as she studies it, then she wraps her arms around her stomach. Lost in contemplation.

  I have the sudden and overwhelming desire to walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her. Pull her close, feel her breathing against me, as we both admire the piece. In some alternate reality, maybe that could happen.

  Not this one.

  Instead, with shame marching my feet forward, I close the gap between us, stopping a safe distance away. “The artist picked an awesome palette,” I say, and her frame noticeably tenses. “A little tantamount of Walt Kuhn, but less intense.”

  My words hang in the air. I’m sure she won’t respond until, “I think it’s more comparable to Frans Hals, but I can see Khun, too.” She unlaces her arms and sinks her hands into the back pockets of her jean skirt. It’s adorable and sexy and makes me want to hold her even more.

  “But,” she continues. “I wouldn’t hang it on my wall.”

  I smile. “Huge creepy guy staring at me? I guess I wouldn’t either.”

  This could turn ugly. If I say the wrong thing, or even if Sam decides she’s sick of this game and lets her anger rip, then we could end up exploding right in the middle of an art gallery. But right now, I have to take the chance. And it’s safer in public.

  As she moves on, looking over the paintings, I follow, keeping a few feet behind. Letting her lead and hav
e her distance. When she stops at a painting near the corner of the room, I move a foot closer to her.

  “What do we do now?” I ask.

  She doesn’t look at me, but I see the strain in her facial muscles, crimson coloring the tip of her ear. At least I know she’s really considering my question.

  “How’s your hand?”

  I blink, and look down at my knuckles. Red and swollen. Flexing my hand, I say, “Fine. That was just . . . blowing off steam. I didn’t even hit it hard.” And that’s true. But by the time we make it to our final stop, I might be going home as one big, battered bruise.

  She sighs. “All right, good. Then for starters, we get the hell out of this city.” My eyebrows draw together as she turns to face me. “Not that I don’t like it here. I think I could spend a week visiting all the galleries and getting lost in art. And I’d love it. But apparently”—she begins walking toward the front of the shop. I trail her—“there’s this badass chick band playing in Wichita that Biker Melody says we can’t miss.”

  So that’s who she was talking to. I’m surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t be. She probably needed another girl to talk to, and after what I outted about her mom, she wasn’t going there. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s spoken to any of her friends.

  She opens the glass door and glances back at me. “Are you in?”

  She’s holding the door open, hovering between the gallery and outside. Her question is more than just asking if I’m down for seeing a show—more than wondering if I’m onboard for continuing this trip. As she stands there, door wide open and paused between two places . . . We’re at a crossroads.

  I can walk through that door with her, accepting whatever crazy she dishes out. Or I can allow that door to close—and let her go.

  Before she gives me another moment to consider my decision, she steps outside. The door begins to shut. In slow motion, I watch it closing. Separating her from me.

  I push through and step beside her.

  “What time’s the show?” I ask.

  She turns and looks up, her face guarded. “Early.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Let’s go,” I say, and her expression opens up, turning curious. “I can’t say no to badass chick bands.”

  A hesitant smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t comment, just starts toward the hotel.

  After we’ve walked nearly the whole distance back in silence, she says, “I’m driving.”

  My mouth pops open. The words right on the tip of my tongue. But I roll them around in my head before I allow them to leave my mouth. “Are you sure? I’m rested. So I’m fine to drive.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m driving, Holden. I want to. And what’s more, I need to.”

  I don’t tell her that no one drives my truck but me. Truth is, if any other girl told me she was driving my truck, I’d laugh in her face. I don’t know any girl who can drive a manual transmission . . . correctly. And I’ve put countless hours into my engine.

  But Sam? I’ll try to be a little less sexist for her. And she’s right. She needs to take this step. For whatever reason, despite what went down in the hotel room, I can see she wants her life back. I don’t know what Biker Melody said to her, but I can almost see the old Sam trying to break through.

  As we turn the corner into the hotel parking lot, I glimpse my truck and sigh, scratch the back of my head. “Do you know how to drive a stick?” I ask. I pray to the auto gods. I pray hard.

  She laughs. “Yes, Holden. I can drive a stick. My Scion is a manual.” She shakes her head.

  “What? It’s a legitimate question, don’t you think?”

  “Boys and their toys.” She slants her eyes my way, a full smile lighting her face, and something warms in my chest. In that alternate reality, I’d have scooped her up and kissed the shit out of her. A girl that can drive a stick and a truck? Beyond hot.

  I push my worry down, deciding I can’t wait to watch her drive. I just hope my poor neglected libido can handle it.

  Once we’re back in the room and packing up the clothes we tossed around in a flurry during our fight, I spot the meds on the bedspread. She’s looking at them, too.

  I know the way I approached it was wrong, but I’m not wrong in wanting her to take her meds—for wanting her to get better. I can’t take that moment back, but I can hope that maybe something good comes out of it. I don’t want to toss them. If I put them in the bag, will the shit hit the fan all over again?

  I’m accepting that I can’t be the one to help her. Fine. She doesn’t want help from me. But I won’t accept her ignoring her psychosis altogether. After this trip, I will be there for her, and this time, I won’t avoid. No matter what. As a friend, or whatever she needs.

  She must see the discomfort on my face. I’m probably an open book as I stare down the pill bottles. With a heavy sigh, she picks them up. “I’ll carry these in my bag.”

  A shred of hope lightens my shoulders. “Okay,” I say. “That’s fine.”

  She shrugs. “I doubt it’s a good idea to flush them here.”

  And just like that, the weight crushes me. Schooling my features into a neutral expression, I nod and say, “You’re not supposed to. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Take them back home and give them to your doctor.” My chest constricts with every word I force out. But I’m not going to win this battle with her. And, it’s not even my place. She was right on that front.

  I’m not sure where my place is. I know where my deranged self wants it to be. But again, that’s in some other reality. One where my brother is still alive. Where five years ago I stood up to him and told him the truth—that I loved this girl. That even though he loved her, too, we should let her make her own choice.

  A reality where our father wasn’t an abusive monster, and I didn’t suffer a world of guilt, trying to do anything and everything to give Tyler a semblance of normal.

  Where I could’ve been with Sam.

  But it’s stupid to even fantasize about that. We’re in this fucked up reality, where I’ll take any scrap Sam’s willing to give me of herself and cling to it like the pathetic fool I am.

  As she shrugs her pack onto her shoulder, I grab my bag, then surprisingly—because just an hour ago, I thought I’d blown any chance—we head out of the room. Together.

  Once we’re checked out and walking toward my truck, a wave of sickness crashes over me. Oh, baby. Here we go.

  Sam peeks at me and laughs. “Relax. I won’t grind the gears.”

  My stomach clenches just hearing her say grind and gears in the same sentence. “I’m not worried. I trust you.” I look at her and let the full meaning of my words sink in.

  She doesn’t look away. My heart tightens as she holds my gaze a moment longer before she’s forced to look where she’s walking. Again, I have no idea what Biker Chick said to her, but when I see her, I’m going to hug the crap out of her.

  With an internal groan, I hand Sam my keys. “Please, please, be gentle.”

  She rolls her eyes and unlocks the door. Sliding behind the wheel, she smiles. It floods me with warmth. My truck is pretty badass. She reaches over and unlocks my door, then as I climb in, she pushes in the clutch and turns the ignition.

  My truck rumbles to life. And to my utter relief, it doesn’t sputter or choke out. I glance at Sam. Her hands are gripped tightly to the steering wheel, her gaze staring ahead. As if talking herself into it, she nods and places a shaky hand on the skull shifter knob.

  Against my inner voice screaming that I shouldn’t touch her, I extend my hand and lay it over hers. “You can do this.”

  Her eyes meet mine before I feel her shift into first. Giving her a lopsided smile, I say, “It’s all yours.”

  She pulls out of the parking space, perfectly if not a bit hesitantly, then smiles, her dimple making an appearance. Without a doubt, I wasn’t talking about the truck. This girl owns my heart.

  And it scares me shitless.

  SAM

&n
bsp; Holden is really trying to be cool. Like me driving his truck isn’t about to make him rip his hair out. He’s run his hand through his dark layers about fifty times since I got on the highway. And he’s never worked that lip ring so hard.

  A triumphant smile spreads across my face as I press back into the seat. I’m still a bit nervous, but after the first ten minutes of minor panic attacks (it felt like more than one), the fight or flight adrenaline coursing through my veins finally stopped pumping. Now I’m on a high.

  I used to love driving. Whenever I’d have a bad day—after I botched a test or had a fight with Tyler, or just needed to think—I’d hop into my car and just drive. Blast the stereo and get lost.

  Sure, there weren’t a lot of places to drive around the island, but it was the action. The going. Being away from the world in my own place where no one could bother me.

  That is, until Tyler’s hit-and-run. Dr. Hartman tried to analyze it, saying my fear was normal. A car had taken Tyler away from me, and of course I’d be fearful of cars now. It was logical and rational, and what’s more, expected.

  Earlier, the idea had just hit me.

  As much as I’m doing this trip for Tyler, truth is, I’m doing it for me, too. I’m tired of being scared. Sick of living in fear. I’m doing this to set Tyler free, yes, to help him to cross over—but deep down, I know it’s about more.

  I need to cross over, too.

  Into the living.

  I hate thinking that Dr. Hartman might have had a tiny point during our last session. When she said I needed to learn to live my own life away from Tyler. In a way, I get what she was saying. I’ve always thought of Tyler and me as one. He was always by my side. We did everything together.

  Except for the time when I was with Holden. That was the only moment I thought of myself. Wanted something all for myself, despite Tyler.

  The irony that I’m again with Holden isn’t lost on me. And I could spend thousands of dollars in Dr. Hartman’s office, sitting in her little blue chair, trying to figure out what it all means.