The Darkest Part Read online

  “Holden,” I say. “I can pay for my own.”

  He doesn’t respond. Just hands over his credit card to the woman when she tells him she has two available rooms next door to each other.

  “Fine. I’ll get it the next time.”

  His lips twitch into a slight smile. “Just take your room key.”

  As we walk through the hallway toward our rooms, I say, “You didn’t have to do that. This trip was last minute for you, so I don’t mind paying for stuff.”

  “I’m not a broke hoodlum, as hard as that is to believe.” He glances at the numbers along the doors and stops when he reaches ours. “I have some money saved. And besides, I cost you your train ticket. I’m sure it wasn’t cheap.”

  I tilt my head. “True, but still. It was unexpected. I’m sure you don’t want to spend your savings on me.”

  Slipping his key card into the reader, he says, “I’ve got a good job and I’ve never taken any of my vacation time. I’m due for some time off, and I have plenty to blow.” He tosses his bag into the room, then he looks at me and extends his hand. “Let me check out your room first.”

  I feel my forehead crease. “For what?”

  “Monsters.” He winks.

  HOLDEN

  The Best Western kicks the shit out of The Island Getaway Inn. I haven’t been in a decent bed, meaning mine, since I left my apartment in Atlanta. Stretching out, I toe off my boots and tuck my hands behind my head.

  The gauze bandaging my left hand is loose and annoying. I go ahead and remove it and inspect the cut. It’s red and sore, but healed over. Thinking of Sam’s tee tucked into my bag, still stained with my blood, I feel my brow crease. I don’t know why I kept it. With a heavy exhale, I put my hands back behind my head and close my eyes, hoping to get some rest before Sam and I head out.

  Spending four and a half hours with someone isn’t a huge ordeal. Spending four and half hours with someone closed up in the cab of a truck? A whole other story. I have a feeling by the end of this trip, Sam and I are either going to work through our issues or want to kill each other.

  Maybe both.

  Unable to turn off my brain, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pull up the browser. I Google the Talladega Superspeedway and click the first link for their website. Scrolling through the site, I find their number and jot it down with the pen and notepad next to me.

  Performing these mindless actions keeps me from thinking about what I witnessed after Sam got sick on the side of the highway. She was having a conversation with an invisible person. I stood there, water bottle in hand, battling a mix of confusion and fright. I’ve never dealt with someone who suffers from delusions, or psychosis. I’m not sure I’m capable of handling it right.

  So I didn’t handle it. I ignored it. That’s easier than asking questions.

  It would only make an already stressed situation that much more strained and complicated. I doubt she wants to divulge the information, anyway.

  I didn’t dive into this completely unprepared, though. Before I tracked her down at the train station, I contacted Rachel and asked for all the sordid details of Sam’s condition. What her doctor suggested would be the best way to behave around her, and what to do in case of an emergency. I’m sure Sam would be furious if she knew I’d talked to her mom about it behind her back, but desperate times and such. I don’t want to chance anything with Sam.

  Glancing at my bag, I remind myself that I have a backup plan if things get bad. I just hope I don’t have to resort to it—that this trip will help her overcome her grief, and her mind can heal. Maybe she needs to be able to say goodbye to Tyler on her own terms. Or maybe she just needs to release whatever guilt she’s harboring over his death.

  As much as I miss my brother, I’ve let him go. That’s not to say I’m not battling my own demons. I’ve dealt with all the regret and anger and frustration . . . but not always in a healthy way. The first two months after his death were the hardest. Harder even than dealing with my mother’s. But now, right this minute, I’m burying my guilt. As long as the world accepts that Tyler was killed by a hit-and-run, I can move on.

  I have to.

  I should’ve tried harder to be there for Sam, though. I knew she was struggling, but I let her push me away. I let her, because it was easier to avoid. But I’m here now. And as difficult and painful as it is to be around her, I’ll deal. If she needs me to take the guilt so she can free her mind of her demons, I can do that.

  I’ve locked mine up in my nightmares where they can torment me, but I’m not haunted. Not afraid my brother will appear.

  Maybe I should be.

  I blow out a heavy breath and dial the number to the speedway. We need to have some fun. Stat.

  I haven’t stopped since I hung up with the guy from the speedway. Screw rest. I don’t want to see the disappointment in Sam’s eyes.

  Working up my courage, I knock on her room door.

  After a few seconds, “Who is it?”

  I told her to keep the door bolted after I checked that there were no creepers hanging out in her room. I’ve watched those shows; I know the deal. Of course she just rolled her eyes. Obviously, she’s watched them, too.

  “Me.”

  She unlocks the door and fans a hand, welcoming me in. As I walk past, I inhale the scent of strawberries and something else, some kind of girly fragrance. It’s the smell of her body wash and shampoo. I smelled it the whole way here and it drove me crazy. It’s even stronger now. Her hair’s wet and combed straight over her shoulders, and she’s dressed in a simple black tee and yoga pants that hug her hips and thighs nicely.

  Her eyes narrow as she notices the laptop tucked under my arm.

  “Good and bad news,” I say, setting my computer on the bed. “It’s the off season. We won’t be able to catch a race, but they said there’s a practice run tomorrow, and visitors can watch.”

  She crosses her arms as her lips purse into a tight frown, and I can’t help but notice she’s not wearing a bra. Shit. Clearing my throat, I look away.

  “What’s the computer for?” She walks to the bed and sits, pulling her legs up to block my view of her chest. Good.

  “I downloaded Talladega Nights. Thought since we can’t catch a race, we could watch the inspiration for this stop.”

  She smiles, and warmth prickles beneath my breastbone. I haven’t seen a sincere smile from her in years. I forgot how her lips curved, revealing the tiny dimple beside her mouth. I immediately want to make her smile again.

  “And”—I jog to the door and grab the pile of food I left in the hallway—“dinner. Or vegging out food. Whichever you prefer.” I hold up the Chinese takeout and the grocery bag of junk food I picked up from the store across the street.

  “Wow,” she says. “And you accomplished all this while I was in the shower.”

  “You apparently take really long showers.”

  A hint of red touches her cheeks, and she reaches out. “Give up the chocolate.”

  Digging through the plastic bag, I find the Hershey bars and the Pepto-Bismol. I hand her both. She looks at the medicine, her eyes studying the label. “Thanks.”

  I nod. She’s still staring at the pink bottle, her thumb running over it, like picking up stomach medicine is the most thoughtful gesture. It makes my chest tighten, and I have to break the heavy silence.

  Flipping my laptop open, I say, “I assume you’re a Ricky Bobby fan.”

  She snorts. “Do I lose cool points if I say no?” Her eyes peek up at me as she fiddles with the Hershey wrapper. Before I can return a quip, she says, “Tyler watched it at least once a month. I never got why.”

  I shrug again. I’m real smooth right now. “He’s a dude.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “I knew there was a secret.”

  Our banter is easy and light, but there’s a slight tension snapping at the air, creating a tangible wall between us. And when she says secret, my insides twist. I can’t reveal Tyler’s darkest parts to he
r. Or mine, for that matter. I can only be here for her while she works out the mess in her mind. I just hope that it doesn’t tear me down in the process.

  I’m not as immune to her as she is to me.

  After setting up the laptop on the bed, I grab a box of Chinese takeout and a plastic spork—can’t believe they still make these—and plop down on the other side of her. “Sure you don’t want to eat real food first?”

  “Blasphemy.” She shakes her head and takes a bite of her chocolate bar.

  I stuff a huge sporkfull of Sesame Chicken into my mouth to keep from smiling.

  During the movie, my gaze occasionally drifts to her. She braids her hair, two long tails over her shoulders. Fidgets with her nails, like she’s trying to keep from biting them. It used to be a habit. Then she shifts positions, from sitting to laying on her stomach, her ass kicked up at me. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my hands over my face.

  I’m such a fucking masochist.

  When the movie finally ends, I spring off the bed like it’s on fire. I can’t be in the same room as her any longer and maintain chivalrous thoughts. As if I’d ever had them about her to begin with. Maybe if I beat my head against my room wall for the rest of the night, by morning I’ll be straight.

  I quietly pack up my computer and then grab a bag of potato chips.

  “Holden.” Sam’s voice is questioning, and I look up, finding her pressed against the headboard, her eyes locked on something over my shoulder.

  Turning around, I spot the box on the dresser. When I look back at her, her eyes are on me. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want to sit in here by myself.” She tucks her legs into her body. “We should go out and do something.”

  “I’m up for that.” And up for anything that doesn’t involve being closed off in a small room with her. I need fresh air; her scent is clinging to me, torturing me. “Where do you want to go?”

  She pushes off the bed and stalks toward the box. “I have an idea.”

  SAM

  The tree line of Logan Martin Lake graces the pink and amethyst sky like mountains. Dipping low and rising high, the dark pines stretch endlessly across the shore. Houselights dot the twilight, and docks reach over the water. The night air is a balmy mix of Alabama’s hot summer and the lake’s humidity, caressing my skin with a warm, light breeze.

  I walk the shoreline, my hands clamped tightly to the picture box, as Holden trails behind at a distance. He was quiet on the ride over. I don’t think either of us spoke a word. I’m not sure he’s ready for this part of the trip. I’m not sure I’m ready.

  But taking in the scenic beauty, I can’t think of a better place to spread Tyler’s ashes while we’re here. It’s close to the speedway, and I feel like if Tyler and I had taken this trip together, we would’ve ended up here. We would’ve watched the sunset, and kissed under the stars.

  I feel like such a cheesy romantic right now. And my heart aches at the moments we didn’t get to experience together. All the lost memories we’ll never get to make.

  After we parked, Holden asked if I wanted to do this alone. And maybe I should have said yes. But I believe Tyler would want his brother to be a part of this. I glance around, hoping Tyler will appear. I want to tell him . . . so much.

  Holden has stopped walking, and I find a sandy spot to plunk down on near the lake. The sounds of water lapping and crickets, and the distant noise of traffic from the freeway, pull me under. And all I can do is cling to Tyler’s box.

  “Do you remember,” Holden says, his voice low, like he’s trying not to disturb the tranquility of the lake. “When we were kids. That day my mom took us to Hunting Island? When my dad was away on business, and we were driving her crazy because it was too hot to go out and play.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Shannon was ready to ship us off to a third world country.”

  I don’t look at him, but I can feel his hesitant smile. Hear the happiness mingling with the sadness in his voice. “Tyler loved those big puddle things on the beach. I don’t know what they were called, but all the kids always played in them. And even when we were tired and ready to go, and Mom was screaming, Tyler kept playing.” He settles down on the bank beside me and rests an arm over his knee. “This is a good spot, Sam. He’d like it here.”

  My throat grows thick as a burning begins behind my eyes. I swallow hard to keep from tearing up.

  Tyler, where are you?

  I swallow again, and look down. Run my hand over the satin box. I’m not ready.

  Holden’s hand covers mine. “Let me help.”

  Unable to speak, the lump knotting in my throat, I nod. Holden stands and reaches down for me, and with a deep breath, I accept his hand. A cool wind circles us, and I watch as strands of his dark hair whip around his eyes. The lowering sun casts his face in shades of shadowy grays and purples.

  Putting the box between us, I take one corner as he takes the other. We lift at the same time, and then I hold the box out and lightly move it back and forth. The breeze catches the loose remains, picking them up and swirling them into the air, then out over the lake.

  I feel a hot tear roll down my cheek.

  Holden places the top back over the rest of Tyler’s ashes, pulling the box from my trembling hands. His gaze is far away as he looks at the sunset-glittering lake, and I wonder what he’s saying to his brother. I wonder what secrets are between them—the ones I’ll never know.

  And I wonder if Tyler is lost in his limbo right now.

  I pray the buoyancy of the lake will call to him, lifting him out of the darkness.

  As we walk toward Holden’s truck, night blankets the sky. He stuffs his hand in his pocket. “I could use a drink. You game?”

  I haven’t had a beer or any other alcohol in over five months, since before Tyler died. My last being at a party where Leah talked me into downing Jell-O shots and then dancing with her on a table. I smile to myself. “All right. I’m game.”

  Even though Holden claims he’s never been to Alabama before, he handles the roads like he’s lived here his whole life. He seems to know how to find everything, and I’m starting to be grateful that he talked (more like coerced) me into doing this together. I wouldn’t have been able to visit the lake traveling by train.

  And as we pull into a shady-looking bar, the parking lot dim and the outdated brick building covered in graffiti, I know I never would’ve ended up here. “Uh, are you sure about this?”

  He chuckles. “It’s fine. In Atlanta, I’ve gone to shows at some really seedy places, and the people are harmless. Looks can be deceiving. And a place like this, they’re less likely to card you.” He glances at me, a smirk tugging up one side of his mouth. He bites his lip ring before he continues. “You’re safe with me, anyway.”

  Trying to ignore the tingling sensation that grabs my stomach, I open the door and hop out. A low boom from the music within vibrates the front door as we approach, and it doesn’t look like there’re any lights on in the place. Holden holds the door open for me, his arm stretched high above my head, and I walk in.

  Holy shit. It’s an effin biker bar.

  Tough-looking guys wearing leather jackets and wife beaters with tattoo-sleeved arms are hunched over a dark wood bar. A couple of girls with bandanas in their hair wearing short, formfitting skirts and jeggings so tight they should be outlawed, are dancing near a jukebox. Or grinding each other near a jukebox. And other dark-clad bikers are gathered in the back around pool tables.

  Smoke clouds the air, rolling in waves under green plastic, low-hanging lamps. The scent of beer, cigarettes, and body odor crowds my nose.

  “Holden,” I say, hoping he’ll catch the apprehension in my tone. “Did you know . . . ?”

  He turns toward me and cocks an eyebrow. “That this was a biker bar?” I nod. “I saw the bikes parked along the side of the building. That’s how I figured out it was a bar.”

  He’s obviously missed where I’m concerned about the “biker” part and not “bar.”
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  Placing his hand on my lower back, he guides me toward the high, wraparound bar top. The stools are low, and when I sit, my height makes me feel awkward. Unable to prop my elbows on the counter like Holden, I tuck my hands under my thighs, trying not to look anyone in the eyes.

  The bartender slides a beer toward one of the bikers and then tosses his table rag over his shoulder before he nods at Holden. The guy’s huge, his muscled arms covered in tats.

  “Two Jack and Cokes,” Holden says, dipping his fingers into his back jean pocket to pull out his wallet. Then he turns to me. “That’s okay, right?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I smile. Truth is, I’ve never been a big drinker; I wouldn’t know what to order. Tyler wasn’t either, and when we did go to parties, Leah mostly fed me shots despite Tyler’s pouting. They got along for the most part. But Tyler hated Drunk Leah.

  Holden returns my smile with a gorgeous one of his own. “I didn’t want to get my ass kicked for ordering some fruity drink.” He winks.

  And just like that, the tightness gripping my chest eases. I’m surprised when the bartender sets the drink in front of me without asking for my ID, and I try to act cool. Twenty-one cool. And once I down about half of my drink, the warm beginnings of a buzz helps ease the rest of the tension.

  I eye Holden, because it’s safer to stare at him than anyone else, and mentally trace the outline of the tattoo peeking from beneath his T-shirt collar. In a truck, it’s hard not to notice the person next to you. And I’ve already memorized the tattoos on his arm. The band, a compass, and a beautiful bird that covers his elbow and wraps around to the middle of his forearm. It’s done in abstract. Which makes sense. Holden’s always loved abstract.

  Before I realizes it’s left my mouth, I hear myself say, “What’s the tattoo of on your chest?”

  His forearm flexes as he grips his tumbler. With a deliberate, slow movement, he sets the glass down on the bar. “Tribal art.”

  I laugh. “Bullshit.” He’s an artist. There’s no way he sketched out some lame ass tribal tat to have permanently inked on his body. He’s such an amazingly talented artist, too. Not taking into account the beautiful work on his arm, with just the inspired black flames he designed for his truck (seriously, I’ve never seen a fire design look so real), I can only imagine what’s underneath his shirt. And with that thought, my face blazes, and I’m thankful for the dim lighting.