“This is all a joke to you?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. My breaths are short and heavy.
Holden’s gaze travels over me, so slowly, as if he’s trying to figure out something. His eyes come back to rest on mine. “No joke. I admit, when you first told me you wanted to steal some of my brother’s ashes, I did think you were a bit crazy.” He pinches his fingers close together, indicating the amount of my craziness. “But then, I don’t know. It seemed right. Like Tyler would’ve wanted it. And I wanted to do something for him.” He exhales audibly. “But this isn’t about his memory for you, is it, Sam? In fact, you haven’t even come to terms that Tyler is a memory yet.”
Anger wells in my chest. “Just because you heard some gossip bullshit on the island, don’t think that you have one clue about me.” I narrow my eyes. “Tread lightly, Holden.”
He rolls his shoulders back, bringing him to his full height. I have to angle my head back to look into his face. “Does Tyler talk to you?” he asks. “Do you see him now?”
His questions knock me off balance. I take in a couple of slow breaths, gathering my bearings. “And so what if I do? Are you telling me that it’s impossible?”
He presses his hands to his face, digging his fingers into his eye sockets. Then he drops them with a frustrated noise that rumbles from the back of his throat. “How the fuck did you know about our dad?”
And that question levels me. Shit. Shit shit shit. My dumb, drunk ass. I close my eyes, trying not to see his livid expression. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Tell me!” My eyes snap open and I flinch at his outburst. Holden’s chest heaves, his jaw flexed. “When did Tyler tell you?”
I step back, shaking my head. “Why does it matter when? ”
He advances, invading my personal space. “Because I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have a drunk, silly college girl letting shit like that slip when she’s wasted. Or some crazy chick spouting it off during therapy sessions.”
I don’t think. Reflexively, my hand flies out. But he’s faster, clamping his hand around my wrist before my palm meets his face. We’re locked together, my arm trembling, his body rigid.
He tosses my arm aside. “Trip’s over. I’m taking you home.” He turns his back to me and stuffs his computer into his bag.
“I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back.” My voice is weak, low. And the shame of blurting his secret—a secret that hurts him to the core—is eating away at my anger. “I promise, I’ve never breathed a word about . . . that . . . to anyone. I would never—” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I fucked up last night and said anything, other than I was stupid drunk. But I remember now when I said it. And it was because you were there. So close. And you were looking at me, and I saw my own pain reflected in your eyes. And shit, Holden.” I inhale a breath. “I just wanted you to know . . .”
At some point during my babbling, he stopped packing. His back is stiff and straight, his gaze away from me, on something else. The wall. The beach painting hanging above the headboard. I can see the tension in the corded muscles of his neck.
“You just wanted me to know what?” he asks. His voice is so soft, hollow. It cracks a seam down my heart.
With a determined breath, I suck up my pride. “I just wanted you to know that I was sorry I never knew the truth. Back then. That maybe if I had, then I might’ve understood your anger. You pushing me away. And I never would have let you.”
I see the moment my words hit him. His body loses its rigidness, and his shoulders slump. But he doesn’t face me. “I’m sorry I called you a silly college girl.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me, and I’m thankful he doesn’t say anything about what I just said—because I’m not ready. “Sometimes I am.” I note that he doesn’t retract calling me crazy.
“No,” he says. “I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry . . . for a lot of other things. I wish I could give you the explanation.” Before I can let him off the hook, telling him its ancient history, he continues. “We need to be at the speedway in less than an hour. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
And just like that, he throws up a wall between us. Locking me out.
Stuffing my hands under my arms, I don’t say anything else as I walk toward the door. There’s so much more that needs to be said. Like whether or not he’s going to confront his father. Has he ever confronted him? Whether or not he ever plans to press charges. I wonder if there’s a statute of limitation on child abuse. Why he’s so angry that I know now. What difference does it make when I discovered the truth?