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And as we pull into a shady-looking bar, the parking lot dim and the outdated brick building covered in graffiti, I know I never would’ve ended up here.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