The Darkest Part(46)

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s not a reason to love them. A reason to have one tatted on your body. I call bullshit.”

Hell. “Anyway, I found I could mess them up. And I was pretty pissed off about it. Then I found that old dead tree near our houses.” I keep my eyes on my sketch, away from his. “It was my first piece that I was proud of.”

I’m leaving out a lot of that story, and I hope he doesn’t catch on. But he’s just too fucking clever for his own good.

“I remember that.” A knowing grin slides across his face. “You had just ran away from home”—he chuckles—“and we drew together. I helped you with your tree draw—”

As he cuts off, my hand freezes over the page. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s made the connection. My grip on the charcoal tightens almost painfully, and I’ve stopped breathing. After the way he looked at me this morning . . . after the way he reminded me how very unimportant I am to him . . . having him piece together this part of me is like playing connect the dots with a razorblade on my soul.

Keeping my gaze lowered, tracing my charcoal over the same branch, over and over, I say, “Yeah. You helped me sketch my first tree. You taught me how to draw.”

He doesn’t respond, and his probing gaze is unnerving. I wish I could hear his thoughts. No, maybe I don’t. Deciding the conversation is over, I go back to shading in the bark.

After a moment, Holden sits up, wraps an arm around his knee. His other arm stretches behind him to support his weight. I try not to look at the shaded blue flames engulfing a compass on his inner forearm. “So in some way,” he says. “I’m a part of your tree obsession.”

I clamp my eyes closed. My mortification is complete. When I open them, he’s staring at me—almost through me. As if I’m becoming more transparent by the second. “Yeah. In some distant, obscured kind of way. I guess you are.” And in all the ways that count.

He tilts his head, like he’s trying to read me. Runs his tongue over his lip ring. “And so all the paintings of dead trees? It’s just because of that one. Some tree we found when we were kids. There’s something more there. There has to be.”

“Fuck, Holden.” I glare at him. “What do you want?”

His pale blue eyes puncture me. “The truth.”

I shake my head, aggravated. Does the truth even matter anymore? I blow out a breath. “I love them because even through they’re dead, they’re not,” I say, my anger conquering my nerves. “Something beneath the surface goes on living. They’re dark and ugly to most people, but I look at something that’s supposed to be hideous and see something haunting and beautiful. Something that’s supposed to be used up and discarded . . . to me, is wanted. Needed. It’s the start of something new.” I suck in a breath, my chest quivering. “Now, will you drop it?”

And like that stupid little girl who crushed on the artist boy next door, who fell in love with his artwork, who wanted to draw something to impress him . . . I feel raw and exposed. That day he tore my heart out, he didn’t just hurt me. He destroyed me. I couldn’t draw or paint or even think about sketching for months.

Getting the dead tree tattoo was for me. To remind me of who I am. Not Holden. I had invested so much of myself in loving him that I had to find myself again. I had to fall in love with my artwork and trees and everything all for me, apart from him. And I did. Eventually, with Tyler’s love, someone who loved me completely and openly, I was able to find myself buried beneath the dumb girl who desperately wanted the wrong brother.

When Holden reaches out and takes my hand, my breath stills on my lips. He wraps his strong fingers around my arm and turns it over. His thumb traces the desolate, inky branches on my wrist.

“I don’t know about dead trees,” he says, his voice deep, guttural, like friction against my skin. “But I do remember learning something about the heartwood.”

I try to ignore the many, sudden tremors that quake just beneath my skin where his fingers caress, and keep my voice steady. “The dead part of the tree?”

He nods slowly.

“It’s the darkest part,” I say, and a mock laugh tumbles from my mouth. “I can relate. It’s dark, stubborn, callous, dead on the inside.” The wind picks up, sending my hair lashing against my cheeks. I don’t care how crazy I sound to him anymore. It’s true. Since losing Tyler, I’m just like my lovely dead trees.

Holden’s thumb pauses over my vein, and his arctic eyes find and hold mine. “That’s only one perspective. The way I see it, the heartwood is strong, beautiful, and resilient. It can fight off any outside threat that tries to invade, and in rare cases . . . is alive. It may be the darkest part, but a living heartwood is a force to be reckoned with.”