The Darkest Part(45)

“No. Hollywood Undead is fine. One of my favorites,” he says, and I instead turn the volume down. “But even they can’t keep me awake at this point.” He checks the time on the dash. He’s been driving nearly two hours, half the distance to our next destination. Memphis, Tennessee.

“You drove, like, three times this long yesterday,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” He widens his eyes, blinks, and I can see the irritated red crowding the white from here.

It’s my fault, I realize. After my blurt last night, he must have sat up worrying over who I might tell, or who I might’ve already told. Guilt kicks me in the gut.

I open my mouth to offer to drive, and shut it. I’m no good for driving on this trip. Biting down on my lip, I fall back into the seat. I hear Holden groan again, deep and rumbling from the back of his throat. “Shit, okay. You’re not doing so hot. Why don’t we pull over in the next town so you can rest? Maybe we can go ahead and pick up something to eat, too.”

He rubs his forehead in thought. “Like a picnic?”

I nearly laugh. The thought of Holden and me having a sweet picnic is that messed up. “Sure,” I say. “Why not.”

We take the next exit and head toward downtown Fulton, Mississippi. Which, as I’m looking around, consists of one main road. Old brick homes litter one side of the street, while small businesses line the other. We pass a couple of motels, and Holden pulls into a McDonalds.

“This all right with you?” he asks.

“It’s fine. I didn’t really see anything else.”

“We could keep going. Look around.”

I shake my head. He’s tired and needs to sleep. “Big Mac, large fry, chocolate shake. Oh, and an apple pie.”

His head pulls back. “And where do you put all that?” His gaze purposefully travels over my frame. Heat splashes my cheeks.

“I’m not one of those girls who doesn’t eat. I like food.” I raise an eyebrow. “And besides, I’m still suffering some of a hangover. The grease will help soak up the alcohol.”

He laughs before placing our order. Once we’re back on the main road, I’m tempted to tell Holden that I can drive. At least in a small town, I might be all right. There’s not many cars on the road, and I might be able to pull it off for a few minutes. But he turns into a park near an old church before I can work up the courage.

I grab the paper bags while he rummages behind the seat. As I walk in the short yellow grass, I look up at the overcast sky. This place looks thirsty, and the dry grass could use a rain shower. I just hope it holds off until we’re gone.

Spotting an oak tree in the middle of the barren park not far from the playground, I head toward it. The tree is beautiful, with a massive dark trunk and huge, sprawling braches that reach into the sky. The lower ones droop and twist just above the ground. I imagine kids love to climb it. I’d love to climb it.

Holden walks up beside me carrying a blue and green plaid blanket. “Wow. Couldn’t have found a better place.”

I glance at him, feeling my brows pull together. “Didn’t know you loved trees so much.”

My comment ruins the moment, and I inwardly curse as his jaw tightens. With no response, he walks up to the huge oak and spreads out the blanket next to one of the low-hanging branches. I set the bags down, then run back to the truck.

I’m trying to keep a visual log of the trip, and sketched the speedway while we were there. I plan to transform the drawings into paintings when I get back home. And even though this technically isn’t one of Tyler’s destinations, the oak is too awesome not to sketch.

Maybe this stop can be one of mine. Or Holden’s. I can’t think of it as ours . . . he’s already tainted one of my favorite places that I used to consider ours. I won’t give him another.

Folding my knees under me, I place my sketchpad on my lap, as Holden digs his food out of the bag. He eats in silence while I sketch, pausing to sip my milkshake. The only sounds come from the birds crying and cicadas chirring, calling for the rain, and the branches creaking in the rising wind.

To keep the page from turning up at the corners, I put the sketchpad on the blanket and lean over it, blocking the breeze. Almost to myself, I mutter, “I wish there were more light.”

Holden balls up his burger wrapper and tosses the bag aside, then lies back, tucking his hands under his head. “What is it with you and trees?”

His question catches me off-guard, and my hand jerks. With an inward sigh, I erase the too-dark line. I shrug and blow away the eraser shavings. “I don’t know.” I begin sketching the branch again. “When I first started drawing, I actually wasn’t any good. I wanted to be, but I didn’t have natural talent.” Unlike some people. Holden came into the world wielding a paintbrush. “My first art teacher started me off on trees. She said they were simple, and I couldn’t really mess them up.”