The Darkest Part(29)

“I never expected anything in return,” I continue, palming my swelling cheek. “But if you’re going to be with Sam, don’t you think she deserves the truth? Don’t you think she needs to be aware that you could decide to just check out? That’s not fair to her.” I want to take back the words as soon as they leave my mouth. “Fuck, Tyler. I didn’t mean it.”

“Fuck you.” He’s shaking now. “I’m not the twisted one, getting into fights and breaking into places, and getting stoned to deal with my issues. That’s you. I had one messed up moment. One. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever do anything to hurt her. Not like you will.” His eyes narrow. “What the hell can you possibly offer her?”

We’re both messed up, and neither one of us deserves someone like Sam. But the damage is done, and the guilt I’ve been feeling since I decided to leave home—leave my little brother behind—comes flaring back with a vengeance.

And he’s right. I won’t be here to give Sam what she deserves, what she needs from a boyfriend. And Tyler is losing the only protection he has, the only one he could ever count on. I’m taking that away from him by leaving. Now I’m threatening to take away the only other thing he loves. That makes him secure.

His Sam.

At least if he has her, I know she’ll take care of him, won’t let anything happen to him, and he won’t be alone. And Tyler being here now, punching the hell out of me, gives me hope that he’s at least fighting his own battles now.

I hold up my hands. “You win, bro. You’re right. I don’t really give a shit about her.” Each word I force out feels like razor blades slicing my throat. “I just want to get the hell out of here.”

Tyler’s eyes widen, and for a second, I think he’ll call me out on the lie. But he only nods once before he leaves. No other words between us.

I slam my palms on the desk, then snatch out the drawing. Sam’s jewel-like eyes, that’d I’d been trying so hard to capture, stare back at me, her mouth inviting—the moment right before I kissed her.

I ball the drawing up and throw it in the trash.





Sam

My eyes tear as I bite down on my lip, trying to cause physical pain to distract the ache gripping my heart.

The words in Tyler’s journal are ripping a hole through me. I’m not sure I believe him now, that he couldn’t remember where it was. He didn’t want me to read it, to know this. I shift the paperback higher, hiding the journal between the pages, and read another line.

He started writing it in middle school, and I had no idea his father . . . I can’t even think it. Anger tears through me, making my hands shake. How could their mother do nothing? How could Tyler, during all the years we knew each other, hide the abuse from me? How could I have never seen it?

My mind drifts back, remembering every bruise, broken bone, missed school day, extended vacation, and I’m so ashamed at my selfishness. At my parents’ selfishness. Being so caught up in our own lives that we never saw what was obvious. But Tyler, even from a young age, was so good with words.

He never batted an eye when I asked how he got hurt, just recited off a list of believable explanations every time. And he was a boy. I mean, boys get hurt. They’re rowdy and outgoing and tough . . . and now I feel like I’m just making excuses.

I peek above the top of the book at Holden. He’s staring straight ahead, his fingers bouncing on top of his thigh to the beat of the music. He’s changed the CD, and we’re now listening to Radiohead.

In the journal entry, Tyler writes about the time Holden got caught stealing a bike, and how their dad, instead of making Holden return it and apologize and then grounding him (like a sane parent would do), forced Holden to ride the bike for hours and hours. He drove his car behind him, beeping the horn whenever Holden tried to take a break, Tyler in the passenger’s seat.

And when Holden was too exhausted to go on, their dad chucked the bike in the woods. Then he took a too-tired-to-defend-himself Holden home and whaled on him. Tyler says his dad never left suspicious marks, always inflicting pain in a way that could be easily explained away. He was involved with law enforcement before he became a lawyer, and he knew how to hurt without leaving evidence.

My stomach lurches. Through the saliva coating my mouth, making it difficult to do anything past hurl, I manage to say, “Pull over.”

Holden eases off the gas and glances over. “What’s wrong?”

“Please.” I breathe through my nose and shake my head. “Just pull over for a minute.”

“Hell.” He steers his truck toward the shoulder of the road, then pops the emergency brake and turns on the hazards. “Sit up,” he instructs as he slides across the seat.