TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Wasteland

Chapter 2: Pieces

Chapter 3: Back

Chapter 4: Tree

Chapter 5: Dark

Chapter 6: Reflection

Chapter 7: Fallout

Chapter 8: Redemption

Chapter 9: Spark

Chapter 10: Follow

Chapter 11: Away

Chapter 12: Stakes

Chapter 13: Revelation

Chapter 14: Torture

Chapter 15: Float

Chapter 16: Dare

Chapter 17: Crash

Chapter 18: Falling

Chapter 19: Heartwood

Chapter 20: Faceoff

Chapter 21: Forward

Chapter 22: Almost

Chapter 23: Impulse

Chapter 24: Bury

Chapter 25: Shadow

Chapter 26: Aftermath

Chapter 27: Found

Chapter 28: Hunt

Chapter 29: Lost

Chapter 30: Nearer

Chapter 31: Conquer

Chapter 32: All

Chapter 33: Clarity

Chapter 34: Possess

Chapter 35: Break

Chapter 36: Flames

Chapter 37: Ghost

Chapter 38: Light

Epilogue: Six Months Later

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Works by Trisha Wolfe

THE DARKEST PART

TRISHA WOLFE

In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.

—Francis Bacon

SAM

There’s a universal truth. One that I never questioned. One that, when planning out the rest of my life, I felt confident was solid. This truth was my rock, my constant. And all the other bullshit didn’t matter.

Tyler Marks loved me.

He would always be there. By my side. The one beautiful certainty in my bleak existence.

My forever.

But then a cruel and bitter reality stole everything.

Only, I refused to accept it. When you’re so sure of something, when you trust in it, believe in it with your whole being, nothing can change it. Not even death.

And this alternate reality? The one where I sleep until three in the afternoon, don’t shower for days, forget to eat . . . garnering strange, pitying looks from my parents and friends when I’m caught talking to myself . . . . ? It’s just a temporary limbo I’ve stumbled into.

Everything is hazy and faded gray around the edges like a dream. Or a nightmare. One that I will wake up from and Tyler Marks will be there, his strong arms holding me. Comforting me. And the world will make sense again.

It has to.

With a half-hearted sigh, I sink farther into the too-soft chair, trying to become invisible—like the love of my life standing off to the right in my peripheral.

“Sam won’t begin to get better unless she starts taking her medication,” Dr. Hartman states seriously, her perfect manicured fingernails visible as she laces her fingers together on top of her lap. She tucks in her chin, her dark eyes looking up to pin my mother with a severe glare. “If you’re not helping her, you’re enabling her. Sam needs to be on her meds.”

My mother swats a stray hair from her vision and then crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “I’m not enabling her,” she says, and glances at me quickly. “She’s nineteen . . . almost twenty. I can’t force-feed her pills as if she’s a child. Don’t you think I want her to take them? But it’s her choice.”

Sure. My choice. As if I’d choose any of this. As if I’d choose to be sitting here right now, being talked about like I’m not even in the room. Technically, I am an adult and didn’t have to consent to “treatment.” And I really shouldn’t have allowed my mother to talk me into letting her come to this session. But no one really has control over any of their choices in life. They just find some measure of control in choosing from options after the fact.

Like the options I have now: take antipsychotic pills to treat a condition I don’t have, or continue to argue with my family and doctor, digging myself deeper into this limbo wasteland.

I couldn’t bear the worried looks anymore, though. The whispering when I walked into a room. My father nervous to even be around me, up and leaving for pretend business meetings because he can’t deal.

After my mother made the initial appointment to talk to a psychiatrist (behind my back), I was then strong-armed into “giving it a shot.” For them, I did, and was diagnosed with (let me make sure I get this right) major depression with psychotic features. That’s a mouthful.

I smooth my hair back toward the rubber band, feeling three-day old grease and tangles. I probably should’ve showered and actually dressed today—then maybe Dr. Hartman wouldn’t be as concerned.

Nope. That’s not true. I doubt my lack of hygiene fazes her. The fact that I’m seeing and talking to my dead boyfriend is why I’m here. I should’ve never let my parents know. I should have kept it to myself.

But when you’re fearful of even leaving the house, stuck inside watching reruns of Ghost Whisperer, it’s hard to keep something like that hidden. And, maybe I did think I was going a bit crazy. And maybe I wanted someone to tell me that I wasn’t. That’s not what happened, though. Now, I’m trapped in this situation with no way out.

I need an out.

“Dr. Hartman,” I say, and both my mother’s and my shrink’s gazes snap to me. “I’ll take my medication.”

My mother’s perfectly groomed eyebrows shoot up. “Really, Sam?”

I nod. “I don’t want to be sick anymore.” I don’t want to be here anymore. “I promise. I’ll really try this time.” I smile for good measure. It feels odd, foreign. Not sure when’s the last time I did so genuinely. I see Tyler flinch in the corner, and my stomach sinks. My fake smile falls.

Dr. Hartman watches me intently, her expression skeptical, but she decides to take my offer. “That’s wonderful, Sam. And you’ll see, in time, these visions will cease. You’ll be able to return to your life again.”

I didn’t take her for a liar. A wound-too-tight-control-freak-who-needs-to-get-laid maybe, but not a liar. Her words cause my fingers to curl into a tight ball, my unclipped nails digging into my palm.

Return to my life . . .

I glimpse Tyler out of the corner of my vision, his dirty blond hair beautifully disheveled, like always. His chocolate brown eyes brilliant despite his faded appearance. And his full, downturned lips, the knowing look on his face that screams there is no return.

This is my reality now.

He’s my only reality.

I died with him that day.

FIVE MONTHS EARLIER

“How about Wichita?” Tyler suggests as his index finger traces the map spread out on the bed before us.

I wrinkle my nose. “Wichita? What the hell’s in Wichita?” I study its location on the map. “Oh, no. Kansas? Wouldn’t they try to burn me at the stake or something?” My hand goes to my black hair and I scrunch my recently dyed pink bangs. Then I wink at him.

He chuckles. “It’s a city. A big one. I think your witchy ways are safe.” He kisses the star tattoo on my shoulder before marking Wichita with a highlighter. His lean, muscled forearms flex with the movement.

I smile. Tyler’s joked about my “Goth” look being “witchy” since I started dying my hair in high school. It’s neither Goth nor witchy, but he’s really cute when he says this, so he gets away with it.

And I’m relieved to hear him joking at all. After his mother died six months ago, I thought I’d never hear him laugh again. He’s taken it so hard. Has been in such a dark place, where I feared he’d never find his way out. Lately, I’ve seen glimpses of the old Tyler peeking through the pain. So I whip out my best witchy smile, hoping to bring him back to me, if only for this moment.

Since we haven’t been intimate for just as long, I’m hoping that changes tonight, too. Truth is, I haven’t wanted to pressure him. I almost roll my eyes. But yes, I haven’t wanted to pressure my nineteen-year-old boyfriend for sex. Because I know he’s struggling not only with his mom’s death, but the absurd amount of stress his father puts him under . . . but damn. We haven’t gone this long without sex since we were freshman in high school. I think I’m past blue balls.

I’ve been looking forward to this night for the past month, since his classes and interning at his father’s office have taken up most of his time. He works late hours on the island, and when we do have time to ourselves, he’s usually too tired to plan any part of the wedding. And with everything that’s happened, I haven’t pushed. Not even for a ring.

The honeymoon is a different story, though. Tyler’s been talking about traveling the country since before we were both walking. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But he’s been dying to do it for as long as I can remember.

I suggested we travel before we actually get married, but he doesn’t want that. He wants our trip to be special, to be the first time we see everything together, our start of forever. Only we have to set an actual date for the wedding first.

I was starting to feel like maybe he was second guessing it—us. Getting cold feet. We’re only nineteen, sophomores in college, but we’ve been together forever. In some form or another. Always together. Best friends since diapers. A couple since our freshman year in high school. Wrestling partners in elementary school when he wanted to run off and join the WWF.

I even turned down going to NYU so we could remain together in college. Tyler staying close to his father’s law firm guarantees a free ride through undergrad, with a stipulation that he joins Marks and Wilshire upon graduation.

Tyler’s going to make the best damn lawyer. No one can debate him, and he can argue circles around anyone. That’s why it really wasn’t a sacrifice on my part; I can get the same art degree at USC as in New York. Well, maybe not. Technically I’m majoring in Art Studio (not the same), but after graduation, I can do distance learning for fine arts classes not offered here.

Sometimes I question if it was really my choice to stay, wondering if he somehow talked me into it . . . He’s that good, to change someone’s mind without them even realizing it. But he loves me. He did leave it up to me, and would have supported my moving to New York. It’s only my nerves talking now.

We just need this night together so bad . . .

“It’s on our way,” Tyler says, bringing my attention back to the now. “And it’s just fun to say. Wich-i-ta. It reminds me of you, witchy and all. I officially declare it your stop.” He kisses my nose. “And besides, I don’t care where we go, long as we’re together. And as long as I get to do you in each place along the way.” He bites down on his lip and slaps my ass. My mouth falls open. “What? It’s going to be our honeymoon. You know we have to christen the hell out of every state.”

I can’t help it, I laugh. And hope that Tyler’s finally returning to me crests in my heart. “Why wait? I can think of a few things we haven’t tried right here in South Carolina.” Licking my lips, because I know that drives him crazy, I lower my gaze.

He groans and pushes the map off the bed. “You’re maddening, woman. Come here.” He flips me onto my back and moves above me, his knees parting my legs as he buries his face in my neck.

Wrapping my legs around his hips, I pull him closer and run my fingers through his already disheveled hair. “We’re really doing this.”

For the briefest moment, he stills. I feel him tense, and a nervous flutter seizes my stomach. But he quickly lifts up and smiles, the vise squeezing my insides releases me.

“We’re really doing this. Nothing can keep us from doing this.” His lips slowly find mine, and I open my mouth to his, tasting him. He breaths me in, deepening the kiss, as his hand caresses my bare thigh.

I didn’t bother changing out of my pajamas before he came to my residence hall apartment. My black booty shorts have little skulls with pink bows, and they make my ass look good. And my roommates are out for the night at some show that the whole campus has been raving about all week. It’s just us.

As his hand inches under my shirt, I suck in a breath. “I can’t wait to marry you, Tyler Marks.”

A groan rumbles in his chest, and his hand flattens against my stomach, stopping its progression. “Shit, Sam. I forgot.”

I lift up onto my elbows. “About what?”

He shakes his head and drives his hand through his hair as he sits back on his heels. “My brother’s in town, and I promised I’d hang with him tonight. I missed his birthday last week.” His brown eyes crease at the corners. “But I can cancel.” He bounds forward, capturing my arms and bringing them above my head.

My back hits the bed, and his weight presses me into the comforter. I revel in the feel of his strong body on top of mine for a minute before the guilt kicks in. I run my hands along his back. “You haven’t seen Holden in forever,” I say through my disappointment. “You should go.”

“Yeah, I should.” He exhales against my neck, a forced breath. Then he pushes up to look at me. “I can stop by later.” He dips his fingers beneath the elastic of my pajama shorts. “Pick up where we left off . . .”

I laugh. “No. I have an early class.” I sigh, hating that, again, I’ll go to bed without him. “I should probably pass out early anyway. Tomorrow?”

“You know it.” He leans in and kisses me long and soft.

After he slips on his shoes and jacket, I walk him to the outside corridor and lean against the doorway, hugging my arms around myself against the cold. “I love you,” I tell him.

With another groan, he pivots and races back toward me, scooping me into his arms, my toes grazing the floor. “Forever,” he whispers in my ear.

Those were his last words to me.

SAM

I stare down at the orange pill bottles on my bathroom counter. Run my fingers over the white prescription labels.

Celexa. Abilify.

Ignoring my reflection in the mirror, because I know he’s standing behind me, I press down on the childproof top and twist. The smell of plastic and new medication hits my nose, and I dump the pills into my hand. They’re white and small and oblong.

“You don’t need them,” Tyler says. “You’re not crazy, Sam. I’m really here. Those pills will just drug you into a comatose state where I can’t reach you . . . I need you, baby.”

Guilt pools in my stomach, twisting and churning. With a determined but shaky hand, I extend my arm over the toilet and slowly tilt my hand. The white pills trickle from my palm like a little waterfall, plopping into the water.

I reach over and flush.

Then I repeat the action with the antidepressant medication.

“What do you want, Tyler?” I’m a bit put out since my mom and Dr. Hartman have been extra tough on me this week. And Tyler popping up during my session today only makes it harder.

He doesn’t appear every day, and even on the days that he does, he doesn’t always speak. But his presence is constant. I can feel him everywhere. Even in my sleep. Unconscious.

Finally, I look up. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on the night of the accident. His white Polo shirt and dark denim jeans. His hair still mussed from my fingers when he kissed me for the last time.

I squeeze my eyes closed, then open them. He’s still there.

“Just you,” he says. “I always want just you.”

An ache builds in my chest and rises to my throat. “I’m here,” I whisper.

Then he’s gone.

Since he first appeared to me, three days after his funeral, I’ve researched every book in the college library, and Googled every phenomenon I could on life after death. It became an obsession.

When he started coming to me, I was frightened. Freaked out. But overwhelmingly happy, as if somehow everything that happened prior was just a bad dream and he was back. I was scared to try and touch him. Scared of what it would mean if I could . . . Scared of the returning heartache and feelings of loss if I couldn’t.

Then one day I worked up the courage. My hand passed right through him, and it was like he died all over again.

The day I heard his voice, I nearly shattered. It was the most beautiful sound, and I discovered that if I talked back, he would respond. We could have conversations again. I locked myself in my old room of my parents’ house and didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t leave, afraid that he’d leave, or that he’d forget me.

Eventually, my parents sought help. They’d given me, what they felt, was sufficient time to grieve. They thought it was time for me to go back to classes, at least, if not back to living on campus. I had to go on living, they said. Tyler would want that.

Would he really?

According to Tyler, that’s not true. He missed me, and he needs my presence to anchor him to this . . . whatever new reality between life and death where he exists. I hadn’t been there that night. I hadn’t been there for him. Maybe if I had been, he would still be alive now.

He needs me.

It’s what he always says. And if being here for him helps, then it’s what I have to do.

After months of arguing with my parents about school and life, and all the other bullshit they felt I should be doing, I cracked. I told them the truth. I can still see my mother’s shocked expression, feel it like a mallet to my gut. I terrified her.

So this is life now. My talking to Tyler when he appears, living every second of my day just waiting to hear his voice, while my family copes with having a nut-case as a daughter.

That’s okay, though. Because I have a plan again. It’s just been altered some. But I have a purpose. A forever. And if I can still somehow have that forever with Tyler—I’ll take it.

Whether in life or death.

“Sam!” my mother calls from downstairs. “You have a visitor.”

Shit.

Spinning, I glance around, searching for an escape or an excuse out of seeing whoever it is. I’ve effectively avoided all our friends from school and my best girlfriend Leah. And it’s probably her. She stayed with me the first week after Tyler’s funeral, but once I realized other people drove Tyler away, I started making excuses to be alone.

Like I do now.

“The shower?” Tyler materializes and points toward the glass-encased walk-in.

“Good idea,” I say, smiling. “Want to join me?”

A slow, sexy smile hikes the side of his face. “You know it.”

I turn the dial and then strip off my clothes. Probably not a bad idea, anyway. The musty smell of body odor and faded detergent engulfs me, and for a second, I’m embarrassed at how I’ve let myself go. But since I spend most nights awake with Tyler (his presence is strongest at night), I’m just too tired to be bothered with all the maintenance crap.

Sliding the glass door open, I fling myself into the shower with a yelp, and quickly adjust the temperature to warm. Tyler laughs. “Sh-shut up.”

As the water rains down in a wide spray drenching my hair, Tyler appears before me. I’m tempted to reach out and caress his stubbled cheek, the way I always did when we took showers together. But my hand halts mid-air. I fist my fingers and drop my arm.

I just wish he could touch me.

He must sense my frustration, because his brow wrinkles, pain etched in the lines of his face. But true to Tyler, he doesn’t allow those emotions to own him. He purposefully scans his gaze over my body, a smile replacing his frown.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. And with a subtle movement, he lifts his hand toward my face.

I close my eyes and summon the memory of his touch.

“I want to see you content . . . satisfied, Sam.” My eyes snap open. Content. “Be my hands. Touch yourself where I touch.” His translucent fingers skim my arm, working their way down.

I nod and close my eyes again.

“Look at me,” he says. “Don’t shut me out.”

I do as he says, and when his hand moves across the sensitive skin of my hip, my fingers trail it. Roaming lower, I caress myself, working my body into one pulsing heartbeat—mine and Tyler’s combined.

And when the cresting pleasure takes me, I stare into his eyes. I fall against the tile, shaking. As always, after the release, the tears come. The shame. It never used to feel this way with him.

He kneels next to me. “Don’t . . .”

“Please leave,” I say.

Hurt flashes in his dark eyes. “You want me to go?”

“Not forever . . .” I hang my head. “I just need a moment.”

When I look up, he’s gone.

“That was a nice trick,” my mother says as I hit the bottom stair.

I flinch. Moving fully into the foyer, I say, “You’re always saying I should take better care of myself.”

She shakes her head and returns to the kitchen where she pulls a tumbler from the open-faced cabinet. Then she reaches for the vodka. “You could start by fixing your hair, if you want a starting point.”

With a scowl, I reach up and run my fingers through my slick hair. A thick blond streak running along the middle of my scalp reveals my natural hair color. The same ash-blond as my mother’s. I’ve been dying it black since the first day of ninth grade, and it doesn’t even look Goth or Emo. I have naturally dark eyebrows and fair skin, and with my strange yellow-green eyes, it just works.

“It wasn’t Leah,” she says. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about the person I just avoided. This surprises me because Leah is the only one who might bother to come around. Everyone else has moved on, even Tyler’s family. Or what’s left of it.

Mr. Marks is still seeing his girlfriend (I think they’re even engaged now), and they go yachting on the weekends. She helped him through his son’s death, just like she did Shannon’s, his wife. And Holden . . .

“It was Holden,” she adds.

I freeze in the kitchen entryway. Ice forms in my stomach, and my hands tremble. “I’m going for a walk.”

Her mouth parts, like she’s going to say something else, but I turn and head for the front door. I’m sure I’ve just shocked her speechless. Normally, I don’t choose to leave the house. It takes force and a lot of threats about calling my doctor and her “team” to intervene to get me out anywhere other than my sessions.

But I suddenly need fresh air. It’s too closed-in, too stuffy in the house. And I don’t want to take the chance that Holden might come back.

I find the worn path around the pond, the same path I walked daily all my life. The path that leads to Tyler’s house. I’m not going there. It’s the last place I want to see. But the path is familiar. My feet find it without even trying. Habit.

The crickets sing around me, and for a second, I’m confused. I didn’t realize that it was almost night. I stop and glance around, then decide to plant myself right where I am. The pond is dark and placid, static. The sky and pines reflecting on its surface. Like two skies, one on top of the other.

Running my fingers over the long grass, I fall back into a memory.

FIVE MONTHS EARLIER

The smell of gum and wood polish assaults my senses, and slow background music with sad violins fills the air of our community church. Flowers are everywhere. The music lowers as the pastor takes his place at the podium. A blown-up black and white portrait of Tyler is propped next to an altar that holds his urn.

A closed casket was out of the question for Mr. Marks. If his son couldn’t have a proper funeral with a viewing, then he couldn’t stand the thought of burying him that way either.

Mr. Marks said Tyler’s face was beyond repair, the pavement having shattered nearly every bone. It was no longer his son.

I drop my head into my palms, unable to look at the urn anymore. Soon, I’ll have to go up there and talk. Talk about Tyler. And me. About his life, and how it was cut short. How it’s unfair, but how even in death, his memory lives on, encouraging us to live—the way he did.

It’s all written on a tiny piece of paper that my mother tucked into my cardigan pocket. She knew I was unable to write it myself, unable to find any words. She wrote it. Just one more thing I’m indebted to her for.

And I want to say all of it—to honor his memory. But the cruel irony is that he was my strength. My focal point in the chaos. The world is spinning off its axis, and I don’t know how to do any of this without him.

The pastor is talking, but my ears only hear the whoosh of my blood. The jackhammering of my heart. The room tilts, the annoyingly bright glare of the sun-drenched windows a mockery, a direct contrast to the mood within the church. I brace my hands on the pew, preparing to go up. Glancing around, I locate the exit. I don’t remember standing, or walking. But suddenly I’m pushing through the doors.

Running.

I don’t stop until the fire snaking up my calves reaches my chest, and I collapse. Little puffs of white fog leave my mouth as I pant, trying to catch my breath. Crawling toward a bench, I keep my head down. I feel like I’m going to lose my stomach. But then a pair of black combat boots catches my sight and I stop.

I look up at the guy seated on the bench, his head bowed into his hands. Holden.

Fury and grief and pain and every other emotion I’ve kept buried since I got the call of Tyler’s death comes rushing to the surface. And I’m on my feet and storming toward him.

“You bastard—”

His head jerks up. Mouth parts. Eyes squint. “What?”

Every nerve in my body is flaring, firing off in loud pops that pulse in my vision. My limbs tremble with restraint. “Where were you? Tyler said he was supposed to meet you. That you were supposed to hang out that night.” I take a ragged breath. “But you weren’t with him. Why?”

I haven’t seen Holden Marks since he left right after he graduated high school. And when he bounds up and moves toward me, I remember just how much taller he is than Tyler. How much taller than me he always was.

He towers over me now. I tilt my head back to look into his face and notice the trace of a tattoo on his neck, just peeking out against the collar of his black button-up. His dark hair falls forward, nearly covering his icy blue eyes. He draws in his bottom lip, pulling his lip ring into his mouth. Something passes over his face quickly, almost too quickly to discern. But it was there. Confusion, maybe.

“I was supposed to meet Tyler,” he says. It’s a statement, him repeating my words back to me, but there’s a question in it. As if he’s only saying it to give himself enough time to form a real answer. “I was supposed to be . . . and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sam.”

My anger vanishes. As quickly as it was triggered, it disappears, leaving me reeling. The cold air is suddenly biting. I know, somewhere in the depth of my soul, buried beneath the hurt and anguish, it’s not Holden’s fault. But damn it. I need someone to blame. Things like this, horrible tragedies, they have to have a reason why. Something or someone has to be the cause. Because I can’t go on in a world where horrible things happen for no reason at all.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Holden says again, and I break.

My knees buckle, and gravity pulls me downward. Only Holden reaches out in time to catch me before I hit the ground. His arms encircle me, cradling my body against his, as I’m wracked with sobs. His embrace is familiar, eliciting memories from too long ago.

His hand strokes my hair, and I’m ashamed that I’m allowing him to comfort me. He’s just lost his only brother, not more than half a year after losing his mother. I should be consoling him, standing by while he cries and shouts about how life isn’t fair.

Pushing against his hard chest, I back away. “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I have to go.”

“Sam . . . don’t. It’s okay.”

His hand reaches out for me, but I don’t look at him as I turn and head in the opposite direction. I don’t know where. Just away.

I meant what I said. But somewhere deep down, I still blame him for not being there to protect his brother that night. And I always will. It’s as much his fault as it is mine.

SAM

The crickets’ chirring grows louder, ringing in my ears like a siren. They cancel out the heavy footfalls I don’t hear until too late.

“I hear you dropped out of school.”

Holden’s deep baritone startles me and I almost turn around. Catching myself, I force my gaze to hold the last bit of sunset over the pond.

It’s more than blaming Holden for abandoning Tyler—more than being near someone who reminds me of the boyfriend I lost. We haven’t really talked since I was a freshman in high school, after our falling out.

And since then, something’s happened to not only him but all the Marks’ men. After Shannon’s death, everything changed. Tyler and I, we always told each other everything. No secrets. Since we were scribbling with chalk on our driveways and eating dirt just to see what it tasted like, we shared it all.

But Tyler was keeping something from me. I could sense it. Something that had to do with his mother’s death. I never pried, though, because losing her was the worst thing that ever happened to Tyler. A darkness entered him after the night Holden picked up their mother from a restaurant and she never made it home. Tyler never got past it. Neither did Mr. Marks.

He never forgave Holden. Even though the police report stated Holden’s blood alcohol level was well below the legal limit, and he was never convicted, Mr. Marks disowned his son, forbidding Tyler to contact him.

Tyler was meeting Holden in secret the night he was hit by that car. Holden’s birthday had been the week before; he’d turned twenty-three. Tyler said his brother was only back for a night, just long enough for them to celebrate. Before that, they hadn’t seen each other in just over six months. As hurt and as angry as Mr. Marks was, I was shocked he wouldn’t allow his son to attend his own mother’s funeral.

So I can’t help my overactive brain being suspicious. The fact that both Shannon’s and Tyler’s deaths involved Holden in some way makes me nervous to be around him despite our past. I’m not sure what to say, or how to act. I’m the only one who knows Holden was in town to meet Tyler. I never told that to the police officer who questioned me. I didn’t want to upset their father more. But now, being so close to him and my nerves on edge, I question whether I should have.

Only . . . I guess at the time, I was battling with myself. Wondering if reporting it would’ve been some form of revenge on Holden. Our secrets and past are too sordid, confusing the shit out me even now. I didn’t want that on my conscience. And I didn’t want to betray Tyler’s trust.

But it seems my conscience is heavy with doubt and guilt no matter what.

I pluck a long blade of grass from the earth and begin weaving it into a braid with the other two in my hands. Not looking at Holden, I ignore his comment about college and ask, “Where are you staying?” I know it’s not at his father’s house.

He settles on the bank a few feet from me. Out of my peripheral, I take in his long legs covered by dark jeans. Black Dr. Martens, gray thermal, and the black and blue tattoo banded around his wrist. “At a motel. Island Getaway Inn, or something like that.”

I nod slowly, and the silence stretches out like the pond before us. If he thinks he’s obligated to check up on me, then I should relieve him of that responsibility right now. Of all the times Tyler’s come to me, he’s never mentioned his brother. “If you’re in town because of me . . .” I trail off, searching for the right words. “For Tyler. I’m fine, Holden. I know you don’t want to be here, so you can go back to your life. Mine’s all right, okay?”

I can feel his gaze on me. “I’m here checking up on the status of the case.” I do turn to look at him now. “But yeah, I did want to see how you were doing.”

“Do they have any leads?” I ask.

Holden’s dark hair is strategically messy, one side of his nearly black bangs falling alongside his light blue eyes. He still has a lip ring, a silver circular barbell, and he works it between his teeth. He holds my gaze and doesn’t look away. I’m the first to break the staring contest when he finally says, “Nothing new. But I want to keep on them, or else they’ll drop the search soon.”

“They make phones for that.” I hear the venom in my voice.

“Yeah, but it’s easy to dismiss someone over the phone.”

I swallow hard, thinking of all the times I had my mother make an excuse for why I couldn’t take his calls. He has to understand just how hard this is for me. How difficult it is not only dealing with his brother’s death, but the fact that we have a history—a messed up history. It’s just awkward to be near him.

He releases a heavy breath. “You still don’t remember if Tyler said anything else that night?”

I shake my head. “Just that he was going to see you. But, maybe you should tell that info to the police.”

My stomach quivers as Holden’s face goes as pale as his eyes. “Have you told anyone that?”

“No,” I say, making my voice hold strong despite the tremble in my body. “No, I haven’t. Tyler didn’t want your dad to know he was seeing you, that he was going against him.”

With a forced exhale, Holden runs a hand through his dark hair. “I’m not sure how angry that’d make him.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t want to see my brother’s memory possibly disgraced because of me.”

I know he’s right, and it’s why—even against my better judgment—I’ve never told anyone. For Tyler. I’m not doing anything for Holden. I feel a tickle on my arm and look down to swipe a mosquito away. “Look—”

“Sam—”

We both stop talking. I fan my hand, prompting him to go first.

“I know we weren’t as close growing up as you and my brother,” he says, and a pang hits my chest. “But I’d like to think we were still friends . . . on some level. I have to make sure that you’re okay. That you get the help you need.”

Embarrassed anger rises up within me. Has my mother told him about my doctor visits? About my “major depression with psychotic features?” I don’t think I could handle him knowing. “I just need time alone, Holden. I’m not your responsibility.”

“Yeah, you kind of are.” My head snaps around, and he’s standing up, then stepping closer to me. “After our mother died”—pain flashes across his face—“Tyler made me promise to watch out for you, if anything should ever happen to him. A death makes people think of their own, and he loved you more than anyone. I promised him.”

I stand and brush loose grass from my backside, keeping my sight on the pond. I’m sure Tyler wouldn’t have asked that of him had he known the truth. “Just find whoever hit Tyler, Holden. If you’re really here to help the police with their investigation, then help them. I’ve told you everything I know, and now I want to be left alone.”

I spin, but his hand grasps my wrist, halting me. He immediately releases it, and his hand clenches into a fist. “When did you get that?” He nods at the tattoo on my wrist.

Reflexively, I clamp my hand over the inked tree, its trunk starting just above my palm and the thin, wiry branches reaching up and out toward my forearm. “When I turned eighteen. It was my birthday gift to myself.” My face flames, and I can’t meet his eyes.

Silence hums in the air, charged. It presses against me.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice raspy. “It suits you.”

My pulse hammers against my veins as a memory covers my vision. I’m suddenly chilly, the rain soaking my hair—but warm arms cradle me . . . soft, strong lips caress mine.

I fasten my eyes shut. Then opening them, I look up into Holden’s face.

“Well,” I say, inching backward. “Tats are supposed to mean something. But mine doesn’t,” I add quickly, and watch as he flinches, my words hitting him like a punch. “I’ve just always loved dead trees. Always loved drawing them.” I shrug, layering on my nonchalance.

A muscle ticks in his jaw as he grits his teeth. Sinking his hands into his jean pockets, he schools his features into a calm expression. “Later, Sam. Please take care of yourself.” He nods once before leaving.

I’m left standing near the pond, shaken at his abrupt dismissal.

As I walk home alone, the darkness creeping along with me, I trace my thumb over my tattoo. Remembering.

HOLDEN

Shifting into a lower gear, I take the curve fast and hard. I can feel the tires drifting over the asphalt, burning the tread. I wish I could rub out my memories as easily as I can burn up a pair of tires.

Sam looks bad. She’s never been girly, not one to really care about her appearance all that much, but she’s never let herself go like this. Always had her hair dyed, hiding the blond beneath. Used to wear a nose ring—the one Tyler used to give her shit for. And she’s always dressed like the artsy person she is. Or was.

It’s the one thing we had in common when we were younger. She and Tyler were exact opposites. He was all about impressing Dad—trying to gain his approval. Following in his footsteps to be a lawyer, dressing the part, all preppy and clean cut. Which was fine. It suited him. And somehow, it even worked for him and Sam. Opposites attract, I guess.

But Sam and I . . . We were different. We didn’t joke around like she and Tyler did. They were the same age and always had an inside joke to laugh at. There was a silent understanding between us, though, being able to draw beside each other, no words, just the scratching of pencil on paper. Our conversation. Our music.

And when I looked into her eyes, getting lost in that color that doesn’t have a name on any painter’s palette, I saw intensity. Fire. I knew I was going to get burned, but like the dumbass that I am, I leapt.

The dark road stretches endlessly before me, and I crank my stereo, trying to blast away the memories.

FIVE YEARS AGO

We’ve been leaving each other messages in our paintings for weeks. We share the same art teacher, but not the same class. Sam’s freshman art block is in the morning, and my junior art class is my last block of the day.

I check her canvas before I dive into my current project. Yesterday, it was just an orange sky with a hint of stars in the falling twilight. Today, it’s finished. And staring back at me is a black dead tree. Its branches gnarly and bare, casting a shadow over two hidden figures. Embracing.

My heart jumps in my throat.

Finding my easel, I place my canvas on it and study my palette. I have to answer her, but fuck. How? She’s going to stop by after the last bell to put her canvas away. That’s when she’ll read mine. It’s our routine.

It started out as a game, just two artists having a hidden theme in the same art class. But somewhere, somehow, it turned into more.

As I bring my paintbrush to the canvas, I begin blending a setting similar to hers—an orange sky with a tree. My answer to whether or not I’ll meet her. When I start on the couple, my hand twitches and I slip. “Dammit.”

“Mr. Marks,” Ms. Snyder snaps. “I’m all in favor of expression, but let’s keep the profanity out of the classroom.” She raises her brows.

When my painting is complete, it’s a version of Sam’s, only abstract. A bit derivative of Van Gogh, but this isn’t about my talent. It’s expression, like Ms. Snyder said. Expressing my feelings for Sam, and what I wish we could be. She’ll be able to see the message. Two people meeting secretly under a dead tree . . . embracing.

I push my easel up against the wall and leave right when the bell rings. Tyler’s waiting by my car as I hustle into the parking lot. He picks up his book bag near his feet and threads it over his shoulder.

“Thought you had practice today,” I say, my nerves causing my voice to sound off. I clear my throat and unlock the Honda.

Tyler’s forehead creases and he points to the sky. “It’s about to rain, dude. Coach canceled. Something about a severe tropical storm.” He shakes his head. “He was pissed.”

As I slide behind the wheel, I curse under my breath. Sam’s going to be out by that tree, in the storm, waiting for me. I should call this off.

“You wanna go by The Shack?”

I look at Tyler. “What about the storm?” I need to drop him off and call or text Sam. It’s awkward, talking to her over the phone or even in person after our secret language. Hell. It’s always been awkward.

It’s not that I never wanted to talk to her before—it’s that I couldn’t. I’ve always sucked at talking, at expressing myself. And because of that, we were never close. Not that I didn’t want to be. But when we started sharing paintings . . . and I found a way to tell her everything I’d kept bottled up . . . my feelings exploded over the canvas, like a never-ending color palette bearing my soul.

I wish I could just send her a painting and she’d understand.

If we do this, it changes everything.

And looking at Tyler now, I’m not sure either of us are ready to hurt my brother. Even though Sam doesn’t feel the same way about him, Tyler’s been in love with her since grade school.

My gut twists. I’m the biggest shit.

“There isn’t crap to eat at home,” he says. “Come on. You know how they always blow storms up. A hurricane hasn’t hit us since the eighties or something, and they still evacuate the island every season.”

“Look,” I say, turning the key in the ignition. I grip the wheel. “I have something I need to do, but I’ll swing by real quick. Run in and out.”

Tyler eyes me, but just says, “Yeah, that’s fine.”

After I pull up to the house, I look around for Sam, thinking she’ll change her mind and show up here, like she does most days. But when Tyler gets out of the car, he again gives me a weird look.

“Did you see Sam after school anywhere?”

I shrug. “No.”

With that, he slams the car door and heads for the house.

The sky overhead is dark. Ink-swollen clouds blot out the sun. The wind picks up, swaying the tall pines in our yard. The creaking sends a thrill through me, making me anxious.

Sam’s different than other girls. I can’t fuck this up.

I back out of the driveway. With a determined huff, I pump the clutch and shift into first, gunning the engine. I park a little ways down from the nature trail that runs behind both our houses. Sam’s parents and mine moved into the plantation around the same time—and never moved again. Both our parents just used to vacation here; it’s a resort island. But that’s how it is. Tourists come and go, eventually deciding to stay. Then never leaving again.

Hilton Head is like a black hole. It just sucks you in.

And that’s another thing, another reason why this is so messed up. I’m leaving right after first quarter next year. Because I failed a grade in middle school, they put me on this fast track program to graduate early. And I worked my ass off to do it. To get the hell out of here.

I’m older than her by almost four years. Three years and nearly nine months, to be exact. Probably not a big deal when we’re older, but right now, I feel like a creeper for what I’ve allowed to happen between us. Though, I could stop it now. It’s not too late.

Tyler wouldn’t have to feel betrayed, and I wouldn’t have to figure out how to keep a girlfriend in high school while I’m trying with every fiber in my body to get away from this place.

I’ll always come back for Tyler and Mom, but I can’t have anything here that will stop me from getting out permanently. The guilt over leaving Tyler with him eats at my soul. But I have to believe it will get better—when I’m not here to piss him off all the time.

Shit. I exhale heavily when I glimpse the first raindrops on the windshield. I’m lost in my thoughts and staring out the window for what feels like forever. I look at the time on my phone.

Sam’s tree is down the wooded trail, next to the golf course. It’s tucked away and doesn’t look like it’s a part of anything surrounding it. It’s the one place that’s all hers—that she doesn’t share with Tyler. Where she draws, listens to music, paints.

I know about it because I found her there after she ran away when she was seven. Her parents had a big fight, and she told me and Tyler that she was going to live at Nickelodeon. I followed her, scared that she’d get lost in the plantation, staying a safe distance behind so she wouldn’t see me.

She did, though. And we ate cookies and drew together under the tree for hours until night came, and then I convinced her to go back home, telling her that Nickelodeon had monsters. Probably mean, but hey, I was ten. I was kind of a little shit back then.

I bang my head against the steering wheel, keep it there, and close my eyes. I should leave. Back out and turn around right now. Sam will be hurt, but she’s fourteen. She’ll recover. She’ll curse me and call me out for the ass that I am . . . but it’s the right thing to do.

I’m still a shit, though. A selfish one. I see her vivid eyes in my mind, feel the softness of her skin as I accidently brush her arm, and I want to go to her. I want her. I want it all. All of her.

The rain pours down, the sky opening up and releasing bolder-size raindrops, like it’s trying to stop my pursuit, send a message. Jerking my keys out, I stuff them in my pocket and stare ahead.

I open the door and run.

Rain is coming down in sheets, battering me as the wind sends it sideways. I yank the back of my shirt over my head by the collar, trying to guard against falling pinecones. Wind tears at my bare stomach. I pull my shirt straight and tuck the front into my jeans to shield my skin.

There’s no way she’s out here in this. She wouldn’t be . . . not for me. But when I turn the corner of the trail, I catch sight of a white T-shirt. And then Sam, her back flush against the black bark of the tree.

Her head is lowered as she stares at the ground. My breath catches in my throat. The rain continues to beat the crap out of me, obscuring my vision, but I don’t blink as I take in her drenched body. Her white T-shirt. Fuck. I’m so fucked.

As if she can hear my thoughts, she looks up. A hesitant smile slides across her beautiful face, and like the lightning striking above, electrifying the air, my heart kick starts. I’m breathing again.

My feet race across the root-covered path, and when I reach her, I swallow hard. Rain water drips down her face, rolling over her full lips, and her black hair is slicked back. Like she just got out of the shower. I try to keep my gaze from drifting lower, but dammit. Her white shirt clings to her body, teasingly revealing the fact she’s either not wearing a bra, or she’s wearing a really thin one.

I’m instantly sporting a semi. I give myself a mental punch to the gut, clearing my thoughts. I don’t know how to start this. My mouth is dry, and if I had any words in my empty head before, they’re long gone. Maybe I misread her paint—

Her arm snakes around my neck, pulling my shirt off my head, and I realize—like a dumbass—I’m still holding it above me. Her other hand goes to my stomach, and I suck in a sharp breath at the feel of her warm skin through the material. Her body presses against me, and it’s so delicate, fragile. She’s shaking. I want to hold her tight. Feel every bit of her.

“What are we doing?” she asks, releasing a small, timid laugh.

I swallow again. “I don’t know . . . but whatever it is, I don’t want to stop.”

Heat blazes in her eyes, desire. And I try to remind myself that this is Sam. My next door neighbor, and the girl I’ve known since she was in diapers. But she’s far more mature than her years; she sees things clearer than anyone I’ve ever met—is more sultry than any woman I’ve ever seen.

Shutting down my brain, I brush a wet lock of hair from her cheek. She gasps at my touch and bites down on her lip, and it’s my undoing. Gripping her soaking shirt, I pull her to me and press my lips to hers.

It’s soft and questioning, us trying to figure out our beat. It’s nervous and unsure, but as her mouth parts to welcome me in, I dip my tongue inside the hollow of her mouth, taste the sweetness of her. When she matches me, her tongue sliding over mine, mingling, heat scorches the back of my throat. My pulse quickens as a tremor rocks me.

She shivers in my arms, whether from the cold or the kiss, I’m not sure. But all I want to do is make her shiver more. And then warm her. I bend at the knees and grasp her thighs, lifting her into my arms. Something primal is taking over—driving out any hesitation. She latches her arms around my neck, locking her legs around my waist.

I’m moving us forward or backward . . . I don’t know. But I feel the tree bark against my knuckles at some point, and I press Sam against it, her body molding to mine. Our kiss becomes crushing and hungry, and I’m suddenly desperate, scared for it to end.

I’ve never opened myself up to anyone like this, especially a girl. I’ve made out with them and other things. Hell, I’m a guy. But with Sam . . . I know I’m vulnerable now. I can feel her reaching in and taking up residency in my soul.

It’s painful and pleasurable and scary as hell.

Thunder cracks above, the rain beats down, but we’re lost beneath a black dead tree—feeling alive.

SAM

I lie still, my eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the night and trying to block out my own brain. It’s useless. I know Tyler is here. I can feel him lurking in my room, and it’s pretty shitty that I’m pretending to be asleep. But I can’t look at him right now. Can’t talk to him.

Before—when we were in high school—it was difficult to be around him after what happened between Holden and me. Tyler and I were only friends, though. It was different then. I honestly felt that my romantic life was none of his business; I shared everything else with him. But there was always the guilt.

Seeing Holden today . . . it’s stirred up memories and feelings I buried long ago. And Tyler can read me better than anyone. I don’t want to lie to him if he asks me what’s wrong. But there’s so much wrong lately it’s hard to choose from, so maybe I don’t have to lie at all.

The important thing is Holden is determined to find who took Tyler away from us.

If I could help, if I knew anything at all, I would stomach being around Holden to see justice done. I just wish there was a way. And that I didn’t fear so much.

The truth is, Tyler might be hanging around because he needs resolution. I’ve thought this every day since I first saw his spirit. If the police discovered who was driving that car, it might free Tyler from this plane. It could be his unfinished business.

I’m a horrible person. I know this. I’m conflicted—wanting to see the person punished for what they did, and not wanting to. I’m just not ready to say goodbye.

A thought hits me hard and I bolt upright in bed. Tyler jumps to his feet, my plush beanbag chair not shifting or making a noise as he rises. It still weirds me out.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod, letting my hair fall around my face to hide my expression. “Just had a dream.” Okay, so now I am a liar.

Tyler kept a journal. I don’t think Holden knows about it, and Tyler doesn’t know that I know about it. But one night when I was staying at his residence apartment, I saw him writing in it when he thought I was in the bathroom. I thought it was endearing—not many guys keep a diary—and I never mentioned it. Letting him have that secret for himself.

But if there’s any chance that Tyler’s accident wasn’t an actual accident, then maybe something in that journal could help. I feel slimy just thinking about reading his personal thoughts. But it may be the only lead in his case. And like Holden said, if something new doesn’t present itself, the police will file his hit-and-run away, never discovering the person who sped off that night, leaving a dying Tyler bleeding on the road. Leaving a ruined girlfriend and family behind.

I know it’s the right thing to do—regardless of my own selfishness.

“Tyler,” I say, my voice throaty. “I need something from you.”

“Anything,” he says. The shadows conceal most of his features, but his aura—the white light surrounding him—reveals the concern etched on his face.

“You kept a journal, didn’t you?”

His face pales, the glow of his aura dimming. “No. I didn’t—”

“I saw you. Writing in it.” I push myself off the bed and slowly approach him. “I think we should read through it together. To see if maybe—”

He waves his hand. “Sam, I’m right here. Don’t you think if I had any clue about who hit me that I’d tell you?”

I’m taken back. “How did you know that’s why I even wanted it?”

He huffs out a long breath. “I know how your mind works. Holden’s here, and you saw him today. He hasn’t moved on yet.” His eyes level me. “He can’t accept that it just happened, that there’s no ulterior motive. Sometimes bad shit just happens, Sam.”

“Right.” I shake my head, thinking that maybe I’m more transparent than Tyler. “But . . . he’s your brother. He just wants to help you. The way I do.” I step closer, wishing I could hold his hand, comfort him. “Don’t you want whoever did this to be caught? Maybe there’s something in there that you can’t connect, but someone looking in from the outside can. Something off, a link. Please. Just let me try.”

He turns his back to me and drops his head.

“Tyler . . .”

“I don’t know where it is.”

A chill creeps over me. “How can you not know?”

He drives a hand through his hair, his shoulders tense. “I’m starting to . . . forget things.”

Panic grabs my chest, squeezing. My gaze flicks around the room, as if I can find an answer in the dark.

“Is this why you’ve been coming to me more often?” I ask. I’m afraid to voice my real fear. That he’s starting to fade, becoming like the other ghosts I’ve read up on. I don’t think I can bear to watch him wander aimlessly, a lost soul.

My heart constricts as he turns toward me, his face pinched in worry. “When I’m with you, things are more vivid. I remember almost everything. My life. Who I am. Who I was . . .” He trails off.

I swallow. “Where do you go when you’re not with me?”

He shrugs. “Someplace dark. Full of shadows. Somehow, time doesn’t exist. I’m there for only a short while, and when I find you again, so much time has passed.” He looks at the floor. His shoe scuffs the carpet, making no mark. “And I remember less.”

Suddenly my head is light, my breaths coming too quickly. The room closing in. How can I be so selfish? With a shake of my head, I summon the nerve to go and grab one of my books.

Where the Internet was filled with accounts and speculations and ridiculous theories, it was in a small bookstore that I found the information I needed. I drop to my knees and pull out the collection of books from under my bed.

Pushing the pile over, I fan them out, and grab the one with a worn black cover and faded white lettering. The binding creaks as I open it, and the musty smell of old books hits my nose. Scrolling my finger down the table of contents, I find the chapter I’m looking for.

With a deep breath, I flip to the section labeled Intelligent Spirits.

I only skimmed the chapter before, not wanting to think about or know Tyler’s possible future. He’s nothing like other ghosts. He surpasses all other accounts of hauntings (I hate that word; makes what is happening sound creepy and not at all like what we are together). He’s Tyler. Just Tyler. Not an impression, or something left behind after a traumatic event. And so I never wanted to know any more than that. It was enough to know that he was really here, and that I wasn’t crazy.

“Sam?” Tyler’s voice pulls me out of my reading. I look up as he kneels beside me. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Nothing can take me away from you.”

An aching lump forms in my throat, and I swallow, trying to push all the grief and fear into the pit of my stomach. My eyes fall back to the book. The moon peeks through the curtains, washing the page in pale light. And when I read the very thing I fear, my hands tremble.

A specter can only continue to manifest itself as long as it has strong ties to the place, object, or person it’s haunting. Most are spotted one to four days after their death, but soon cross over into the “light.” Those who choose to stay on the earth plane, for whatever reason, be it refusal to accept their death, fear of leaving behind a loved one, or their unfinished business, are considered lost or wandering souls.

Manifesting requires an enormous amount of energy, and after a time, can become too difficult to achieve for the specter. If they never cross over, they become earthbound spirits. Their memories will fade, their essence will become more mist-like, as they diminish into a truly lost soul.

Some believe a darkness, such as another dimension, traps the souls, making it more difficult for the specter to manifest. It takes more energy to appear to the living, especially in the daytime. This is why most can only view spirits during the night. Flash photography can capture their essence struggling to appear, known as dark entities. Once they can no longer summon the will to manifest, they fade into the dark place, sometimes leaving behind energy that acts out in a residual haunt.

This is by far the saddest existence for a specter.

I slam the book and throw it.

Oh, God. This can’t be happening to him. I can’t let this happen to him. Tyler’s life was cut short. He lost everything and everyone. Now he’s going to fade into a nothingness. How can God let any of this happen? What the fuck is life for, then?

Before I realize it, I’m on my feet and pacing, my hands on my head, fisting my hair. Tyler’s saying something, but my ears are pounding in sync with the adrenaline claiming my body. I’m probably freaking him out. I have to calm down. I have to breathe.

“Sam—”

My head snaps up. “Why didn’t you tell me this was happening?” My tone is accusatory, but I don’t care. I feel like he’s hiding something from me, just like he’s hiding something about him and his brother. I can’t stand the secrets. We could have been researching this for the past five months—could have been prepared.

“Sam,” Tyler says again, his voice deep, serious. It centers me. “You remember that trip we were planning?”

I jerk back, confused by the sudden change of topic. “Our honeymoon?”

He nods, a thin smile forming on his mouth. “Besides leaving you, it’s my only regret.” He settles down on the floor, motioning for me to join him. I do. “You were right.”

“About what, Tyler?” My heart is being crushed in my chest.

He looks sheepish, young. Boyish. It breaks me. “We should have gone. During our last break, we should’ve just packed up and drove. I regret making us wait.”

And like a kick to the gut, the answer hits me. I don’t know whether to cry or scream or laugh.

As much as I’m not ready to say goodbye, as much as I’m going to miss him . . . I have to help Tyler cross over. Because buried in a deep, dark pocket of my soul, I fear he walked away from the light for me. And now I have to stop being selfish. I love him too much to let him fade away into nothing.

A tear slips down my face, and I brush it away harshly. Then I glance at my clock: 3:46.

“Come on. Time for bed,” I say, giving Tyler my best witchy smile.

His eyebrows hike. “Am I sharing your bed tonight, sexy?” I can’t help but laugh, and I need to. From here on out, I have to laugh and smile and love him until it’s time. Only then can I break.

HOLDEN

Son of a bitch.

I slam my fist on the counter, pissed. “What do you mean the case has been deemed inactive?”

The officer behind the counter stands, approaches, like she’s going to arrest me. I hold my hands in the air innocently. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just shocked I wasn’t informed, when I specifically asked to be the last time I was here. Please. He’s my brother.”

This last part softens her a bit, and her stiff shoulders relax. “Mr. Marks—Holden—I know how difficult all this has been for you”—she looks down at her folder, flips through—“but it’s been over a hundred days. We can’t keep a case like this on the top shelf unless there’s substantial evidence to follow. There’s no statute of limitation here, so we can always follow up on new leads. But without any evidence that proves your brother’s death was anything but a tragic accident, it will be filed as inactive for now. I’m sorry.”

My jaw tightens. “So that’s it? Did the investigating officer even ask around campus? Did they inspect all the red cars? Did they talk to everyone—?”

“Yes,” she says, cutting me off. “I assure you protocol was followed all the way. I wish there was better news to give you, but unfortunately, cases like this, hit-and-runs, often go unsolved. Maybe you should seek some help . . . for you to work through your—”

Tossing my hands in the air, I turn my back to her and head out of the station. I don’t want to hear yet another cop telling me to “seek help.” I heard it all through high school from them. About how I was a disturbed youth who needed a healthy outlet. Fuck it.

This isn’t about me. It’s about Tyler, and making sure they only discover what I want them to.

Looking up into the overcast sky, I release a strained breath, the tension flowing out of my body. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear from them—maybe that some bastard had gotten picked up and questioned, or that they had a suspect in custody. Yeah, that’s what I wanted to hear. But hearing the case has moved out of top priority, I suppose compared to the alternative . . . It’s for the best.

They can’t ever discover the truth.

A twinge of guilt stabs my chest, but I shut it down. Sometimes the truth is better left buried. No matter what, nothing will change anything between me and my father. Or me and Sam. There’s nothing here for me now. No reason to stay.

Opening my truck door, I decide to make one last stop before hitting the road.

My father’s house is just as pretentious as it was the day I left. A huge, gaudy, two-story plantation house with dark gray stucco exterior, black shutters and doors, two car garage, hot-red Beamer in the driveway.

He was already showing signs of a mid-life crisis before Mom died. Now he’s full-blown into one. If the car didn’t give it away, the hot little blonde with tits about to topple her over sauntering up the front steps with a Victoria’s Secret bag does.

It’s the worst cliché I’ve ever seen.

Still, I’m tempted to knock on the door, see his expression—see if he’ll slam it in my face. To say we didn’t get along as I was growing up is not even a comical understatement. But after I left, the distance actually helped our father/son relationship. If you can fucking call it that.

As much as he wanted me to go to college, I didn’t want anything from him. And there was nothing in me that wanted to please him. I found an entry-level position at a garage, and someone willing to take me under his wing. The owner was impressed with my skill level, and within my first year in Atlanta, I became a full-time body paint specialist.

My lowered Toyota two-door proudly displays my most recent work. Two-toned metallic silver, layered under black ghost flames licking the hood and sides. This isn’t exactly the job I’d pictured having growing up—I’d thought I’d be some studio artist—but I’m free to paint what I want. And I support myself. That’s what counts.

My father was proud of me, even if he didn’t actually say so. When I sent Tyler pics of the cars I’d painted, he saw them and claimed he was jealous that I got to work on badass cars for a living, while he was stuck in a stuffy office.

Despite everything, I thought we could mend whatever shit was broken. And I even fooled myself into believing we could be a normal family. Almost. Eventually. I was willing to try if it meant things got better for my brother. That is, until I came back for his nineteenth birthday. It was the first time I’d stepped foot on the island since I left, and it was like welcoming home a curse.

I blow out a heavy breath. Looking around, I decide I’m parked far enough back to chance a walk. I close the truck door behind me and then dip into the woods, finding the wooded trail easily.

For a minute, panic speeds my pulse. I don’t see it, thinking it’s been torn down. Or maybe it fell. It was ancient years back, and they might have cleared it away. But when I push through the brush covering the side of the trail, I spot the gnarly black dead tree.

Sam’s tree.

I’m not sure if she still comes here, but I pretend she does. It makes me feel close to her, like the rest of the shit that took place after we kissed never happened.

I brush my hand over the black bark, remembering the softness of her lips, the want in her eyes when she stared into mine. The tremble in her body, the mix of heat and cold as she pressed against me. Shaking my head, I spit a curse. I’m so fucked up. Being here again has got my head spinning.

I know she’ll work through her loss and grief over Tyler. Then she’ll find a good guy to settle down with, buy a home around here, have some kids. Probably work in an art studio.

I should just get the hell out.

As I take the long way around back to my truck, I come up behind my childhood home, and stop cold. Sam is walking through the worn path connecting our houses. I duck down, like a total stalker. And watch.

My forehead creases as I watch her wave her hands around, talking to herself. She spins and fists her hands on her hips. Then she says something else. What the hell?

Glancing around, I look for whoever she’s talking to, but she’s alone. Only she’s having a full-on conversion. With herself.

I’m torn if I should say something or not, try to snap her out of it. Like a sleepwalker, I’m not sure it’s safe to let her know what she’s doing. Instead, I watch as she shakes her head and then turns and starts toward my father’s house.

Every muscle in my body is tense and ready to act. I shift my stance, edgy, from foot to foot, talking myself out of going up there. When she presses the doorbell, I breathe out a curse. Fuck. She’s going in.

SAM

Tyler has been more prominent and demanding and here today than ever before. He’s worried about me talking to his dad. I know Mr. Marks can be intimidating. Hell, I was scared of him when I was a kid. He’s so huge and has that booming lawyer’s voice, always probing you for information instead of just having a normal conversation.

But that’s what he is. A lawyer. Tyler didn’t make me go around him much—actually, he kept me pretty guarded from his family life, preferring to hang out at my house until we were in high school. I think his dad embarrassed him. As kids, when we did play at his house, we used to place bets on how many minutes it would take before his dad started his interrogation. Like simply asking about how Tyler’s day went after school. It would start out simple enough, then he’d go all lawyer mode.

I haven’t seen him since the funeral. And I’m still ashamed that I couldn’t stand up and speak in front of Tyler’s friends and family. I wonder if he’ll mention it, and my hands slick with sweat.

Raising my hand to ring the doorbell, I jump as Tyler materializes before the door.

“Shit,” I hiss. “Tyler. Go away. I can’t talk to your dad with you hanging around. Please.”

His features screw up into a determined expression, and I can just make out the door through his translucent appearance. I’m worried about how much energy he’s exerting to be here.

“He’s not the same,” Tyler says. “Since Mom . . . and now me . . . he won’t listen to you, Sam.”

“I have to try.” With a forceful step, I walk through Tyler. No cold. No chill. No tingle. I believe it’s because I love him, because I knew him. The reason why I never feel him the way the accounts claim I should. I huff. All that Internet crap is just hyperbole.

I press the doorbell, and the soft chime of bells rings out. Then footsteps, echoing through the hallway, getting closer.

Running my palms over my jeans, then smoothing down any flyaway strands, I prepare myself to face Tyler’s father. But when the door swings wide, it’s not Mr. Marks. It’s his fiancé, Amber.

Her blue eyes go wide. “Sam.” Scanning my frame, her gaze comes to rest on my hair. Before I left my house, I tried to look as nice and clean and sane as possible. Apparently, I didn’t accomplish that. I absentmindedly touch my hair, thinking I should’ve worn a hat. Her voice and eyes soften. “How have you been?”

I smile. “I’m good, thanks. But I need to speak with Mr. Marks. Is he home?” I noticed his new Beamer in the driveway, but being here sends me back years, and I’m a kid all over again. Nervous and polite.

She matches my smile and widens the door. “Yeah, of course. Come on in.”

“Thanks.” I walk inside, and the scent of vanilla, ocean, and fresh wood hits me hard. I take an immediate step back. It’s what Tyler used to smell like. It’s the smell of his home. I bite back the sting of tears—I haven’t smelled him in so long . . .

“Sam.” Mr. Marks’ deep voice startles me from my thoughts.

Tucking a rogue strand of hair behind my ear, I force my feet to move past the entryway. “Hi, Mr. Marks.”

“It’s been a while,” he says. His dark eyes squint as he smiles.

Amber’s pink glossy lips press together as she glances between us, then she points to the kitchen, saying she’s going to finish logging her new recipe.

She leaves, and we stand there awkwardly. I’m not sure what to say, but then he motions toward the living room, and I quietly nod. I follow him past bookshelves that house photos of Tyler and Holden, and my heart tightens. I try to focus on why I’m here, thankful that Tyler isn’t lingering.

A surge of guilt rushes through me at how short I was with him. But my nerves are on edge, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this with him here. I just hope he didn’t exhaust himself with his attempt to stop me.

After a few minutes of polite conversation (he doesn’t mention my disappearance at the funeral, thank God), I suck in a breath and jump in.

“I’m actually here to ask your permission for something, Mr. Marks.”

I watch as his relaxed features shift, his forehead and the corners of his eyes creasing with concern. “All right. Shoot.”

“You know how Tyler always wanted to travel across the country,” I say, my fingers laced so tightly together I’m cutting off my circulation. “Besides football, it was all he ever talked about. Well that, and becoming a lawyer,” I add, hoping to quash some of the tension in the room.

He chuckles. “Yes, he did. His damn room is still covered in maps.” His gaze clouds, as if he’s envisioning a moment between them.

“And then once we were married”—I swallow; my mouth dry—“it was going to be our honeymoon. We had it all mapped out.”

With a furtive, tight-lipped smile, he nods. “He mentioned that.” He eyes me curiously. “But I’m not sure I’m following what this has to do with anything now.”

“Right, well.” Shit. Here it goes. “I’d like to be able to spread some of his ashes in the places he marked on our map, sir.” His face darkens, and I quickly push on, through my imploding nerves. “I want to fulfill his dream, his wishes, and take him on his trip.”

A long silence follows. And then, “No.”

I blink. My mouth parts, but I quickly snap it shut. My sinuses flare and my throat grows thick as the pain behind my eyes returns with the feeling I’m about to cry. I shove it down, replacing it with the only emotion stronger than hurt. Anger.

“I’m sorry. Just ‘no’?” I take a sobering breath. “It was really hard for me to ask this . . . and I feel like you should at least hear me out before making a decision. At least let me explain—”

“Your parents informed me of your condition,” he cuts me off. My shoulders slump, and any confidence I worked up before entering this room vanishes. I know exactly what’s coming next. “I’m sorry that you’re suffering, Sam. You’re like a daughter to me, and if there’s anything that Amber and I can do to help, just let us know. But this . . .” He takes a breath, running his hand through his thinning gray hair. “But this, I’m afraid, I can’t do. I’m not about to let you take my son’s ashes—”

“Just some—just a part of him,” I try.

“I’m not about to let you take any of them”—he presses on, unfazed by my plea—“anywhere. At this point in time, you’re not thinking rationally. And this just doesn’t seem healthy to me. He’s at rest now, Sam. We need to let him remain that way.”

My heart’s pounding in my chest, a cold sweat chilling my body. As mad and wounded as I am, it’s nothing compared to the shame starting to creep in. The distrusting gleam in his eyes, his harsh words, are making me feel like I’ve asked to have Tyler’s buried body exhumed. Have I? I’m not sure anymore. “I’m sorry I brought this up.” I look down.

“It’s all right.” He clears his throat. “Tyler loved you. And I know how much you loved him. You’ll always have a part of him, Sam. Nothing will change that or take that away. It belongs to you, but—” He shakes his head, clearly exasperated. “We’ll discuss this again later, and maybe then we can figure out something. Okay?”

Keeping my gaze trained on the dark hardwood floor, I nod.

Amber and Mr. Marks both walk me to the door. I only glance back once to wave and say goodbye before my feet are beating the path. I can’t get away fast enough.

But then, I don’t want to go home, either. Don’t want to face my mother after she told Tyler’s father about my condition. My limbs are shaking, and when I can’t run anymore, I’m walking fast on the nature trail.

Despite anything Mr. Marks said, regardless if it’s wrong for me to want to do this, I can’t stomach the thought of Tyler fading away. That he’s disappearing, and that he’ll become this lost soul. He deserves to be in a better place, wherever that is. Whether it’s heaven . . . I don’t know.

When I reach my destination, I fall against the dark bark, scraping my shoulder as I slide down into a fetal position. I haven’t needed the comfort of this place for a long time. Not since it’d become tainted with bad memories.

I need it now, though. And I hope Tyler lets me have this moment. That he doesn’t ask questions. Questions that I can’t answer.

As I press my back against the tree, I run my fingers over the tattoo on my wrist. This isn’t the first time a Marks’ man has made me feel . . . pathetic. It seems to run in their genes.

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

I’m primping. I’m being such a girl right now I could slap myself.

Applying another layer of burgundy lipstick, I blot, then fluff my hair in the mirror. When I saw his canvas today, I almost lost my shit right there in the middle of art class. After our kiss the other day, and how perfect our moment was, I was starting to think I fantasized it. That maybe I dreamt it, and Holden hadn’t really met me under my tree.

Actually, it’s more like “our” tree, ever since he found me there when I was little. But the other day was the first time he’s been there with me again after all this time. He has no idea that I’ve always gone back, thinking of him.

I press my hands to my cheeks, soothing the heat rising to my face.

My stupid crush was always just that. Swooning over my best friend’s older brother. Wishing that one day he’d notice I wasn’t a little girl under a tree anymore. And when we started our game, speaking within our paintings, I thought I was imagining that he was sending me messages about how beautiful I was. And different than any other girl.

Coming from anyone other than Holden, it would seem lame. Like cheesy lines. But weaved within the intricately drawn lines of his masterpieces, those words are art. Just like him. He’s quiet and talented and dark. Mysterious. Even though I’ve known him as long as Tyler, I’ve never really known him. He keeps to himself, and since he returned from boarding school, he’s been even more reclusive.

But when I look into his eyes . . . it feels like I do know him. Can see right to his soul, and he sees the real me when he looks back into mine. It’s so far past a crush now.

I’ve fallen in love with Holden Marks.

I shove away from my dresser and nod to myself in the mirror. Then I grab my art supplies’ bag and race out the door. In the back of my mind, a little voice is screaming at me, growing louder and shouting that when Tyler finds out about me and his brother, he’s going to be pissed. But I’m not going to listen to that voice.

I think Tyler’s always been a little jealous of his brother. Holden’s never been afraid to do what he wants. To be who he wants. Tyler says his dream is to be a lawyer like his dad, and I believe him—to some degree. But he’s my best friend. I know deep down that he wants to play football professionally. His dad would never hear of that, though. And Tyler’s too scared of disappointing him.

There’s been a constant rivalry between them, at least on Tyler’s part. I’m not sure Holden cares one way or the other. He’s focused on his art and getting off the island. He’s leaving early next year . . . and this is my last chance to show him how I feel. Make him see me as more.

As I hit the trail, another wave of guilt washes over me about Tyler. I’ll just have to give him time to accept this. I mean, we are best friends. Have been forever. If he really cares about me and what I want, then he’ll understand, eventually. I can’t back down now.

Turning the curve, I see Holden already there, his hands sunk into his jean pockets as he leans against the tree. A sudden dizzy spell hits, and I suck air into my lungs, summoning courage. He’s wearing his black combat boots and a black tee. He’s striking and gorgeous. Looking like the proverbial bad boy, but I know what’s underneath. I remember the feel of his lip ring as it grazed my lips, his hands gripping my wet T-shirt, his hard body pressed against mine. Heat flushes my face.

God, I’ve wanted to be with him forever, and I can’t believe this is finally happening. That it’s real. Our first kiss was so raw and sudden and passionate. I didn’t even think to try and capture it. I’m not sure that I could’ve if I’d tried.

I clutch my bag close to my chest. This time, I’m going to sketch Holden. Have something to keep with me. Something better than a picture.

I take a step closer, and as if he senses me, Holden looks up.

My heart stops.

His sad blue eyes catch me off-guard, the look in them haunting. I step forward, worried, having to know what’s wrong. And then I suddenly don’t want to take another step. Don’t want to know the reason behind his guarded expression. If I turn around now, I can keep our moment. Nothing will spoil it.

But I don’t. I move ahead, one foot after the other, until I’m right before him, looking up into the depth of his eyes. His hands are still in his pockets. He hasn’t touched me yet. My chest is tight, but somehow, I manage to be the first to break the charged silence.

“Hi.” I want to curl in on myself. It’s lame, but in that one word, I watch his face darken even more.

“Look, Sam . . . about the other day—”

“Don’t.” Another one syllable word. I squeeze my eyes closed, already feeling the burn of threatening tears. I’m scared if he says any more, I’ll break down, like a total girl.

He sighs heavily. Scuffs his boot against the ground. Shuffles something in his pocket. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what you thought was going on, or what was going to happen between us.”

I bite my bottom lip, stopping it from trembling. “You kissed me.” It’s an accusation.

“You kissed me.” He raises his eyebrows.

My mouth parts, but I’m stunned silent.

“You’re a cute girl,” he says, each of his words tearing at my defenses. “And I won’t lie, the other day was hot. You’re going to be one sexy woman when you grow up. But that’s just how I am. I make out with a lot of chicks. And I was boned up the other day.” He laughs. “Sorry. Sometimes I do dumb shit when I’m high.”

All the air vacates my lungs. My chest feels like its imploding, sucking me inside out, crushing me. My heart’s beating in my throat. I’ve never heard Holden talk so much all at once—and when he finally opens up to me, he’s wrong. Just wrong.

I swallow hard. “You’re lying.”

His head snaps back like he’s been slapped. Good. “Whatever,” he breathes out. “Just do me a favor, don’t tell your parents. I don’t want the hassle from them over some jailbait.”

And now I feel like I’ve been slapped. We didn’t do anything for him to really get into trouble over . . . and he’s not eighteen yet . . . but even still. “I wouldn’t say anything, Holden. I’m not like that.”

He yanks out a hand from his pocket and holds it up. “You got to get over this little crush, Sam.” My eyes go wide. “It’s really sweet, but almost a little stalker-ish. I see you watching me at school and shit. I was wrong to fuck around in art. I shouldn’t have . . . I mean. I shouldn’t have lead you on . . . I just thought—”

He’s stumbling over his words, like he’s veering from his cheat sheet. “Not going how you planned?” I say, my voice ragged. “Why are you doing this? Why are you being such an asshole? I’m not some stupid little kid. I know what those paintings meant.”

He tips his head back and exhales. When he looks at me again, all his expression conveys is annoyance. I take a step back, feeling the tears about to fall. “Okay, I didn’t want to be an ass about this, but you’re just not getting it.” He advances, and I take another step back. He grabs my arms. “I was curious what it’d be like to fuck you. But I changed my mind, all right? I don’t want the trouble from your parents or the cops.”

“Let go of me.” I jerk back, but his fingers dig in deeper. “I said let go!”

His eyes flash, and for a split second, something registers. “Sorry.”

“Fuck you!”

“Sam—”

“Don’t ever fucking talk to me again. Don’t ever fucking look at me again.” I turn my back on him and storm off, my heart ready to leap out of my chest. My breathing is heavy, and my vision blurs.

I fight back the tears until I know I’m far enough away.

And then I keep fighting them.

Once I’m safely in my room, I let them fall, trailing scorching paths down my cheeks. When Tyler walks into my room, he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t question. He just holds me until I’m all cried out.

HOLDEN

I can’t stop pacing.

My head is aching, my knuckles sore from gripping my hands into fists. Whatever my dad said to Sam has her upset. She’s been sitting under that tree for half an hour, just staring off into nothing.

I continue to argue with myself about storming into his house and demanding to know what he did to her—but my sanity wins out. For now. If she’d picked any other place to go, I’d have gone to her in a heartbeat. But I can’t. Not here. Not after what happened the last time.

I was such a dick back then. But I had a reason for why I hurt her. I had a good reason. Only, it means fuck all now, doesn’t it?

As she wraps her arms around herself, her tiny shirt inches up to reveal a sliver of smooth stomach, and I just want to come out of my skin. I almost laugh out loud. I’m losing my mind. After all this time, I’m still losing my shit over this girl. But when she buries her face in her knees, and I see the tremble of her shoulders, I can’t take it anymore.

Stepping from behind the huge pine, I say gently, “He’s an asshole, Sam.”

She startles, whipping her head around. “Holden? What the hell—?”

I hold up my hands. “I saw you . . .” I glance behind me, indicating that I saw her leave the house. “I don’t know why you were there, but I wish you would’ve told me first. I could’ve warned you that he’s unreasonable now.” I laugh, I can’t help it. “Unreasonable now. As if he’s ever been.”

She scrambles against the tree and pushes herself up to stand. “It’s understandable, considering everything he’s gone through since . . .” She looks away, down the trail, away from me. She can’t say it.

“Since he lost both his wife and his son. Since I killed her.” I say it for her.

Sam’s arms hang helplessly by her sides. “It was an accident, Holden. Somewhere inside, he knows that.” She finally looks at me. “He’ll come around.”

Yeah. An accident. Like Tyler’s death was an accident.

I exhale heavily, trying to rein in my anger. I didn’t come here to fight with her. “Are you all right?”

She shrugs. “I’ve been better.”

It’s the first time she’s said a sentence to me that isn’t laced with venom. I think I’m making progress . . . .for whatever my reason is . . . until she lifts her head and her bright eyes spear me.

“You should probably leave.”

I press my lips together and nod once, hard. “Right.” I turn to go, but say over my shoulder, “Whatever you wanted, you know I could probably help you.”

There’s silence, me taking a couple of slow steps, waiting to see if she’ll respond, and her . . .

“Wait.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I pivot. Raise my eyebrows. Her face flushes, and I pretend like I still have an effect on her.

Sam bites down on her lip, thinking. And I can’t help wanting to taste that lip. To taste her. Stop, I mentally scold myself. She was my brother’s girlfriend. Especially now that he’s gone, I shouldn’t have these thoughts about her. She was always his. Will always be his.

“Do you have access to your family mausoleum?” she asks.

I squint. “What? You mean like a key to get inside?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, hating being the reason her face falls. It’s such an odd question, but maybe she just wants to be closer to Tyler. “Is that what you asked my dad?”

With a huff, she turns around and starts walking. “Forget it. Never mind.”

“Sam—” I jog up beside her, matching her pace. “Just tell me what’s going on. I won’t judge.” And I won’t. No one’s lived a more screwed up existence than I have. Especially during high school. She saw me at my worst, and she still accepted me. Fuck. I need to stop thinking like that.

She stops and faces me so quickly I pull back, expecting her to slap me. But she only clears the loose black wisps from her eyes and says, “I need you to help me steal your brother’s ashes.”

So the rumors are true. I usually don’t listen to the shit this island says, but it seems for once, people know the deal. Sam has lost her mind.

I approach her with caution, slowly, like I’m walking up to a feral animal. The closer I get, the better I can see the telltale signs. The pasty complexion of her skin. The bloodshot eyes. The dark circles beneath. She looks like she hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a long time.

When I’m right before her, I look down. She hasn’t grown one inch since her freshman year. She’s just as petite and slender. I’m tempted to scoop her up and force feed her sleeping pills, then lay her down in my motel room. Just so she can get a few good hours in.

“Like I said,” I say. “I don’t judge. But what do you need them for?” She physically tenses. “I have to ask, Sam. And if I’m even going to contemplate something as batshit crazy as this, I need to know.”

Her eyes pierce me when I say crazy. Shit. Probably wrong word choice.

But with a forced exhale, she relaxes her face. “He wanted to travel across the country. It’s his regret . . . what he wants to do more than anything.”

“How do you know it’s his regret?” She said it in the present tense. The now. My skin’s tingling with little pinpricks.

Taking a step back, she puts distance between us. “I know it is because it’s all he ever talked about, Holden. And I want to fulfill it for him, to take him on his trip, spread some of his ashes along the way.” She shakes her head. “Just forget it.”

I see her shutting down. I feel it. And I can’t stand it. Without thought, I gain back the distance between us and say, “I’ll do it.”

I’ve lost my mind, too. But hell. I believe her. I know that Tyler always wanted to do this. He had maps plastered all over his bedroom walls. They’re probably still there. And spreading his ashes in the places that he wanted to see more than anything sounds like something he’d have asked for—if he’d been given the chance. If he’d had time to think it through.

“Really?” Her head tilts, gaze narrows. She doesn’t trust me. I don’t blame her.

“Yeah,” I say. “But there’s a stipulation.”

She crosses her arms, waiting.

“I’m going with you.”

SAM

Holden’s the crazy one if he thinks I’m really letting him go on this trip. I almost laughed in his face back there. He’s the last person I want to be around for any amount of time. But I do need him to break into the Marks’ family mausoleum (really, they have one of those). The idea had just hit me; I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before.

Holden got busted for breaking and entering when he was in middle school. If anyone can get me on the inside, he can. But after that, I’m finding a way to ditch him.

A small sense of justified revenge swells in my chest. I’d love to see the look on his face when he realizes he’s been cast off—seems like poetic justice.

Shaking my head, I refocus on my laptop screen. Honestly, I’m not so jaded over what happened between us anymore. If it hadn’t have been for Holden and his douchebaggery, then Tyler and I may have never gotten together. Well, we would have, eventually. I believe that. Holden just sped up the process.

After I log in my route, I click “purchase” on the Amtrak website. I had to dip into my savings to buy the train ticket, which isn’t cheap. But my savings are for emergencies. This can definitely be classified as one.

I have a car, a cute little silver Scion coupe. And it would probably be cheaper and more comfortable to travel that way. Only I haven’t driven since the night Tyler died. I’ve tried, but every time I get behind the wheel, my heart-rate increases, my palms get clammy, and the world looks off. Like a dream. It’s like I lose all touch with reality, and all I can think about is what if I hit someone? What if someone hits me?

Dr. Hartman offered to prescribe me Xanax, but really, with all the pills she has me on, or at least thinks she has me on, I’m not sure adding one more prescription is ideal. The thought of becoming a personal pharmacy gives me even worse anxiety. And if you’re fearful of being too zoned out to drive, then how is doping yourself up going to make it any better? Wouldn’t that make it worse?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. The train will go from point A to point B and so on. I won’t have to worry about anything other than fulfilling Tyler’s unfinished business. I’ll leave a letter for my parents so they won’t flip out and report me as a missing person, then I’ll deal with the aftermath of my actions when I get back.

I won’t think about it until then.

I won’t think about what will happen when I do fulfill Tyler’s unfinished business, either.

Glancing at the framed photo of Tyler and me, his arms circling my waist, his cheek resting on top of my head, my smile bright and beaming, I feel the loss of him so deeply my breastbone aches.

If this works, and Tyler’s able to cross over, then the end of this trip will be my last goodbye to him. I look down at the map, Santa Rosa Beach circled in red. The last destination of our trip. We were going to stay there for a few days after traveling the country—our wind down stop. The knowledge of it steals the air from my lungs, and I can’t catch my breath.

Tyler hasn’t returned yet, and I’m starting to freak. What if he can’t find his way out of the darkness this time? What if he’s already lost, already forgotten me?

“We gotta go, Sam!”

The panic gripping me heightens with the shrill ring of my mother’s voice. Like hitting a wall, I remember my session. Crap. I was hoping to get out of it, but I forgot to tell her I wasn’t feeling well. But really, this will be my last meeting with my psychiatrists until I get back. And then I’m sure they’ll just have me committed. I can pull it together for one afternoon.

With one last look around my room, hoping Tyler will appear, I kiss my hand and touch the photo of Tyler, then close the door behind me.

Sun-glinting cars rush by us on the highway, the hot June sun reflecting off their shiny surfaces and glaring in my eyes. I plunder through my bag and dig out my sunglasses. Trying to stay focused on my meeting, I mentally recite what I’m going to say to Dr. Hartman—what she needs to hear to believe I’m improving. My thoughts keep returning to Tyler, though. Wondering where he is. And Holden. Stressing if he’ll really go through with my plan.

My mom reaches for the stereo knob to turn up the volume. Gold Dust Woman blares out of the rattily speakers. I roll my eyes, but can’t complain, even if listening to Stevie Knicks every time we’re in the car makes me want to crack my head against the window. She’s not only driven me to every one of my sessions, but everywhere else for the past five months.

I lean forward and lower the volume. “Have you heard from Dad lately?”

Her large sunglasses obscure her eyes, preventing me from reading her expression. But she can’t hide the slight dip of her mouth, her hands gripping the wheel tighter.

“Sorry, baby,” she says. “He has a real important client to take care of this week.”

I nod, averting my gaze out the window. “Just wondering.” It’s pretty shitty of him, the way he abandoned her, making her deal with all this on her own. I’d like my dad to be around to comfort her when I leave, so she’s not worrying alone. I feel sick to my stomach thinking about her pacing the house, calling my shrink, trying to get an armed force to hunt me down.

But I know his job is important (where would the world be without marketing managers?) I keep telling myself that he’s not really running from me. Bullshit. I glance back at my mom, the guilt eating at me. Maybe while I’m gone he’ll come back, and then she’ll have her husband again.

Any way I look at it, it’s for the best. Everyone will get something out of this trip.

As we walk into the wellness center, I’m told I can go straight in. My mom takes a seat and picks up an outdated magazine. I’m flying solo for this one.

I claim my usual spot, the fluffy blue chair that swallows me as soon as I sit down.

Dr. Hartman is changing it up today, sporting a red dress suit and black heels. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders in loose waves instead of the tightly cinched bun she usually wears. I raise my eyebrows, and she laughs.

“I have a date after my five o’clock.”

Go her. “That’s nice.”

Her light mood doesn’t last, and soon she whips out her all business persona. “So, Sam, you started your medications yesterday?”

“I did.”

“It’s too early to tell, I’m sure, but has there been any change?”

Flipping through my mental notes of side effects from my medication pamphlets and the websites I Googled, I say, “I’ve been more tired.” Not tired. More tired. I’m always tired. “A bit antsy. And I haven’t seen Tyler since noon.” Which is the truth. But it’s not due to the meds (obviously they’ve disintegrated and are now floating around the sewer system), but I don’t think she wants to hear my latest theory about how Tyler’s energy is fading and a black hole is trying to steal him from me.

Our first ten minutes are the usual: diet, exercise, family, outings. Then she comes out of left field. “I want you to make a list of things you’d like to accomplish.”

Seems like a simple enough request. I shrug. “Okay. I can have one for you the next time I come in.” In about two and half weeks.

She smiles. “This probably won’t be as easy as you think, Sam. I want a list of things you’d like to experience, goals you want to achieve, that has nothing to do with your life with Tyler.”

I feel my brow furrow. Anger bites my chest.

“You’ve been stunted emotionally,” she continues, “in more ways than one. Being engaged at such a young age, especially during college, when most are experimenting has inhibited your emotional growth.”

“I think I’m pretty mature for my age,” I say, my irritation rising at her condescending tone.

“Oh, you are. I couldn’t agree more. But since Tyler’s death, all progress has shut down. Tyler was such a vital part of who you were . . . are, that losing him has been like losing a huge part of you.”

It’s like she opened up my brain during our last session and jotted down notes for this one. I can feel my heart-rate speeding, shoulders tensing. “I think that’s an obvious observation.”

“Indeed.” She nods. “You’ve been with Tyler your entire life. You’ve always identified yourself with him. But now, you need to discover who Sam is away from Tyler. College is all about self-discovery. I’d like you to take full advantage of it. Get you back on a course to finding out who you are, what interests you have, and thinking about your future. Experiment and discover your independence.”

“You want me to go back to college so that I can have sexual escapades and experiment with drinking and drugs.” I sit forward, cock my head. “Okay. First on my list, kiss a girl.”

“Funny, Sam.” Her frown line deepens between her eyes. “It’s not for me. Stop thinking that doing anything in this treatment is for me. You have to be willing to take the steps for you. I’m just offering suggestions to help along the way.”

My mouth opens, ready to unleash, ready to tell her that I already know exactly who I am and what my future will be. But I stop. Something in my mind clicks, like puzzle pieces fitting together.

Dr. Hartman doesn’t know it yet, but she’s just given me the perfect out.

“I think you’re right.” I smile, and it’s not fake. “Finding my independence is just what I need to do right now.”

My eyelids slip closed, heavy with sleep, and I snap them open. The Clockwork Orange poster pinned to my wall blurs as I fight to stay awake.

All the books have one thing in common, claiming spirits mostly appear at night. I haven’t prayed in a long time, but I find myself whispering in the dark, asking whoever might be hanging out in the clouds to give Tyler the strength to fight the darkness.

I was so angry earlier today when I went to meet his father. I sent Tyler away with harsh words and evil glares. It’s been so hard, seeing him and having my world shift, but he’s had it much worse. I should’ve listened to him. Should’ve stayed with him.

I whisper “I love you” to the gloom, and before my eyes shut a final time, I feel his presence. Warmth spreads through my body as a dim white light begins to glow beside me. I hold my breath, watching as Tyler’s features come into focus.

My breath whooshes out in relief. “I was afraid you were gone,” I say, feeling a hot tear roll down my cheek. My pillow catches it, and the next one.

I open my hand between us, my palm turned up, and Tyler rests his translucent hand over mine.

“I’m still here. I won’t leave until you’re ready.”

Later, I’ll question his words. But right now, I lie beside him, our hands phantom linked as one, and accept the comfort his spirit brings.

HOLDEN

Sam’s late. I look around the cemetery, tapping the crowbar against my leg, feeling like I’m being punked. Maybe she changed her mind. Shit, I hope so.

I battled with what I’m about to do all night, tossing and turning, the stupid motel bedsprings digging into my spine. I can’t believe I agreed to steal my brother’s ashes for her. But looking into her sad eyes, desperation and heartache written all over her face—I couldn’t deny her anything.

My father should’ve been more reasonable. If he cared at all about what Tyler probably wanted, he’d have given them to her himself. Hell, he should’ve offered to fly her around the country so she could spread his ashes.

But the family mausoleum is all he cares about. He spent a fortune on it so we could have this grave site that makes us look more important than we are. I sure as shit won’t be buried in it. I almost laugh. As if he’d extend an invitation now.

Birds chirp, tree branches rustle, and the muscles between my shoulder blades tense. Besides the sounds of nature, it’s quiet here. Too quiet. No one visiting this early. Even so, we probably should’ve planned this for night. Keep it real, like the grave robbers we are.

I mentally go down the list of my criminal record, wondering how this will impact me. Most of my offenses are sealed in my juvenile file, but I had one misdemeanor on my adult: vehicular negligence, reduced from vehicular manslaughter. And from there, my lawyer got the charges dropped completely.

The judge didn’t even give me probation for the accident that caused my mother’s death. I guess if they were going to charge anyone, it would’ve been the deer. But he escaped. Allegedly. Still, I’m sure if I’m caught pulling this shit now, he’ll question his ruling. Maybe he’ll be harder on me this time around.

Bringing out my phone, I start to Google “punishment for grave robbing” when I hear someone clear their throat. I look up and see Sam.

My heart vaults in my chest, and I swallow. She’s beautiful. Her hair has been recently dyed; no more blond roots. A heavy fall of long black layers covers one shoulder, and a wide streak of turquoise has been added to the middle of her bangs, which are now trimmed just above her eyes. The neck of her tee reveals a glimpse of tatted stars. She’s wearing her tiny diamond nose ring again, and her tight T-shirt and skinny jeans reveal all her curves.

Fuck.

“You look good,” I say, pushing my phone into my pocket.

I swear I see her blush, just the slightest tinge of pink dusting her cheeks. “Uh, thanks. I thought it’d be better to look somewhat decent if I’m going to travel. Well”—she looks herself over, smiling—“my decent, anyway.”

My mouth stretches into a grin. The fact that we’re smiling in such a sad environment doesn’t go unnoticed. But for two people who’ve had life kick the shit out of them, I suppose this place is as comfortable as any.

Sam’s gaze finds the mausoleum, and her smile falls. She hikes her backpack higher on her shoulder and starts toward it.

I step in front of her, and she looks up. “Are you sure?” I ask. I want her to change her mind. I want her not to be suffering from whatever it is she’s suffering from. Delusions, voices, psychosis, are what the gossips are saying. I want them to be wrong. But I can’t help wondering whose voice is telling her to do this.

I don’t want to admit whose I think it is.

Her gloss-coated lips press together, and she nods. “I am. It’s what he wanted.”

A small sense of relief washes over me that she at least used the past tense this time. I can work with that. “All right.” I step aside. “Let’s become felons.”

Breaking into a mausoleum is a lot harder than I thought. I guess it would’ve been easier to walk into my dad’s house and just steal the damn key. But I don’t ever want to go back in there—not ever.

With a groan, the wooden door gives and flies open. The crowbar slips, and the sharp edge catches my palm. The tool clatters to the granite floor. “Shit.” Holding my hand, I squeeze my wrist as red oozes past the surface of the broken skin.

“Damn, are you all right?” Sam lowers her head to inspect the wound, holding her hair back.

I pump my hand a couple of times. “Yeah. I’ll wrap it later.”

“Oh,” she says, swinging her black backpack in front of her. Then she digs through and pulls out a tiny shirt. One of hers.

“No. It’s fine.”

“Stop. It’s just a shirt.” She reaches for my hand. “Let me see.”

As her fingers graze the top of my hand and around the edges of my palm, I try to keep my thoughts pure. I’m standing next to my brother’s freakin’ ashes, for shit’s sake. But Sam’s delicate touch triggers heat, want, feeling. And something painful.

“I’ll do it,” I say, taking the tee from her hands.

She releases it and steps back, as if she’s ashamed of her own actions. Or maybe she just remembered that she hates me. Either way, I finish dressing the cut with the tiny scrap of white tee while she looks around, as if making sure we’re still alone. Then she steps into the granite enclosure.

Filling my lungs with warm air, I roll my shoulders back and follow her inside.

The noticeable dip in temperature sends my defenses up, and the staleness sucks every bit of air back out of my lungs. I’d say it feels like a crypt in here, but that’s not even funny to me. And when my eyes land on the wall with my mother’s engraved name, disturbing images that have haunted my dreams bang against my vision, stealing all light from the room.

“Holden?”

Sam’s voice is distant and dark. Dark as the void trying to pull me under.

I blink, then drag my gaze across the small room until I find her face. Ashen and worried. “I’m fine,” I say, even though she didn’t ask. “Let’s hurry. Probably not a good idea to make it our hang out.”

She wrings her hands, like she’s again having second thoughts, and walks over to the slab holding Tyler’s urn. My stomach knots. I hate that my brother—all six feet of him; all of everything he was in life—can fit in such a small container.

Sam lugs her backpack to the floor and dives in, coming up with a jade and silver satin-covered box. “Will you help me?”

I want to tell her that I already have, that I’ve already committed a major felony for her—but I don’t. Tamping down the unease roiling in my stomach, I command my feet to move until I’m beside her, then I lift the urn from the slab. The top is easy enough to open, and when Sam nods, I pour—with trembling hands—half of my brother’s remains into her box.

I feel like I should ask for forgiveness. But I’ll save that for later.

Sam silently watches the ashes fill the small box. Then, “I couldn’t speak at his funeral.”

I know this, because when I finally worked up the courage to go back into the church—steering clear of my father’s pissed off glare—she wasn’t there. After she ran away from me, she didn’t come back. “You could say something now,” I offer.

For a minute, it looks like she’s debating it. “No,” she says, and her gaze flicks to mine. “Not here.” She leaves her statement unfinished, but I get what she’s saying. She wants to say her final goodbye on the road, in her own way. Away from this hollow shell.

After we make sure everything looks untouched, like no grave robbers or unhinged girlfriends have busted into the place, I seal the door back up. Then I follow Sam out of the graveyard. I follow her after she tells me goodbye. And when she thinks she’s being slick . . .

I follow her.

SAM

My nervous system is about to shut down. I know it is. I suddenly regret not taking Dr. Hartman up on her offer for anxiety meds.

I’d be chewing those bitches like Gummy Bears right now.

The train station is loud and dirty, and smells like rotten eggs and farts. I’m told that’s just the smell of the paper mill coming downwind, but I’m not so sure I believe that. This place is filthy. And I swear people are staring at me. Like they know I’m carrying my stolen boyfriend in my pack.

I keep peeking over my shoulder, waiting for Mr. Marks or the cops to come barreling in. I switch seats again, not sitting in one place longer than five minutes. Maybe if I keep moving around time will go by faster, and my train will be ready to board.

Checking my phone again, I curse. I still have fifteen minutes.

I left early this morning by cab. The note I wrote my mother sits on the kitchen counter by the coffee maker. Last night, I almost told her. I’d curled up with her on the couch while she was reading one of her mystery novels (she loves them almost more than she loves watching Law and Order), and I just laid my head in her lap. Like I used to do when I was a kid.

To my relief, she didn’t ask me what was wrong. I mean, what’s not wrong with my life? She just ran her fingers through my hair and continued to read. Before I went to bed, she actually commented on my hair, saying that it looked good. And then smiled.

She always hated my hairstyles before. But she thinks I’m doing better. That the medications are helping, and that I’m returning to the Sam she loves. I almost blurted my plans right then, but I couldn’t bear to see the relief and hope in her eyes shattered.

The note explains that Dr. Hartman’s encouragement (damn right I blamed it on her) helped me realize that I needed a change, an adventure, to get out and discover my independence. I let her know I’d have my phone on at all times. And I’d keep her posted on my “adventure.”

Hopefully she’ll see this as a good thing, like I’m just doing what Dr. Hartman suggested and trying to find myself.

I move to another seat, where I have a direct view of the tracks, and tuck my backpack between my feet. I can feel Tyler’s picture box against my Converse. The jade one I’d given him the day we left for college—that now holds his remains instead of our memories. I’d made one last-minute stop before meeting Holden at the cemetery yesterday. Tyler’s room.

Taking the chance that Amber would be more understanding (women often are), I waited until Mr. Marks left for work, then apologized to her for upsetting him, as I’m sure my request had. Then I told her that I would work up to telling him how sorry I was, but he had always intimated me.

She was more sympathetic than I thought she’d be, saying that her fiancé doesn’t know the boom of his own voice. Then she let me into Tyler’s room. I just needed to see it one last time.

Everything from his residence hall apartment had been moved there, mostly still in boxes, and nothing else had changed since the day he left for college. I knew what I was looking for, I just didn’t know where to start. But with luck, I quickly found both things. Like I was meant to.

As I stare down at my pack, a sliver of doubt wedges its way into my thoughts, making me question . . . everything.

But, Tyler is able to tell me what he wants. They are his ashes, and his wishes should be honored. As long as Tyler is strong enough to materialize near me, as long as I’m anchoring him on this plane, he can go on his trip. I won’t feel guilty for giving him this.

With my conscious in check, and my nerves slightly more under control, I pull out a paperback to get lost in.

A distorted voice blares over the speaker system, announcing it’s time to board the train, and I quickly slip my novel into the zipper compartment of my pack and then thread it over my shoulder. My stomach’s tossing with nausea (probably should’ve skipped the donut), and my chest flutters with heart palpitations.

Once I get seated on the train, I’ll feel better. Safe. No turning back. I force my feet to keep moving. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything alone.

And I’m scared shitless.

But then I remember that I’m not alone. Tyler’s with me. And this is the trip we were meant to take together. I’m not alone.

Before I step onto the platform, someone shouts my name. Oh, no. No no no no.

“Sam!” Holden calls again.

I turn around and watch as he marches toward me, a deep scowl etched between his brows. Crap. Glancing back at the train, I wonder if I can make a run for it. But he’d just follow me. I need to set him straight now.

“I thought we had a deal?” he says, once he’s right before me, looking down with anger flashing in his blue eyes.

“Sucks when someone backs out on you, doesn’t it?” I immediately regret my words. This isn’t about Holden and me, or anything to do with our past. I was over that a long time ago. I just can’t help throwing it in his face. I never got the chance to speak my mind, and it’s like we’re picking up right where we left off.

He drives a hand, now bandaged with gauze, through his dark tousled hair and pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, working the studded half ring. His nervous habit. “I’m not letting you go off by yourself.”

I shrug. “It’s not really your call. I’m a grown ass woman who can do what she wants, and this trip has nothing to do with you.”

Hurt and anger and maybe even a bit of desperation swirls in his eyes. “He’s my brother. It has everything to do with me.”

Shit. “That’s not what I meant.” I sigh, and look down at my black Converse. They’re dirty and scuffed, and one’s ripped down the side. I’ve had them forever, and Tyler hated them. “It’s just . . . this was our trip. I need to do it—” I break off, not sure how to explain this to him. “Look. I’m a smart cookie.”

“I know that.”

“I can take care of myself, and what’s more, I need to do this on my own.”

He shakes his head. “No way. I get what you’re saying, and if there was a way without me losing sleep, worrying about you being abducted and traded on the black market, or attacked by gangbangers—”

“Where do you get that?”

“Listen to me!”

My head snaps back. He’s serious.

He blows out a heavy breath. “I’m all for women’s lib and all that shit, but I don’t care. The world is still fucking dangerous. You’re young and beautiful . . . and there’re just too many bad things that could happen.”

I press my lips together, trying to ignore the heat that splashes the back of my neck at hearing him say I’m beautiful. Bastard.

The overhead speaker announces the last boarding call.

“Shit, Holden—” I look back at the train, desperate to be on it.

“You’re not getting on that train.”

He says it like a dare, and that just makes me want to be on the train all the more. “You can’t stop me.”

His eyebrows hike. “If you take one step toward it, I will throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of this station.”

I flinch. Granted I haven’t really spoken to him in years, but he’s far bolder than I remember. And, he’s bluffing. I glance around, hoping Tyler will appear and confirm that his brother is full of crap. Only it’s morning, and Tyler’s been having trouble materializing this early.

I take a step backward, keeping my eyes locked on Holden’s.

“Sam,” he says, my name a warning.

I take a shuddering breath at my next admission. “I won’t be alone.” Then I step backward again, gradually putting distance between us.

Holden unlaces his arms as his face pulls together in a confused expression. But he doesn’t ask. Which I’m thankful for. Instead, he says, “Don’t take another step.”

My foot halts mid-step, hovering above the concrete. “I have to go. And I don’t want you to come.” When my foot hits the ground, I turn and run. I hear him curse.

I’m almost to the train doors when his arms wrap around my waist. He pulls me to a stop, securing my arms against my sides. “Don’t make a scene,” he whispers harshly, taking deep breaths between his words.

A chill slides down my back, replacing the heat from his body. I spot a security guard near the ticket booth and think about screaming. Kicking. Making the exact scene he warned me not to make.

But a spark of clarity bursts through my panic. I can’t chance being found out. And they’ll no doubt want the details as to why I’m fighting with my dead boyfriend’s brother in the middle of the train station. Would Holden out me?

“Dammit,” I grit out.

I watch the train pull away as Holden’s arms hold me tight. The fight leaves my body, and I go limp with defeat. He waits until the train has completely left the station before he loosens his arms, then he backs away.

“I couldn’t let you endanger yourself,” he says, low, his deep baritone grating against my nerves.

Straightening my T-shirt, I fill my lungs with foul air, then turn and walk out of the station. I can hear him following behind me, but I don’t look back.

“Where are you going?” he asks as he matches my steps, moving beside me.

I blow a puff of air through my lips, lifting my bangs from my forehead. “Away from you.”

“You’re giving up? I don’t remember you being a quitter.”

Anger seizes my steps for a second, but then I start again, walking faster. “Who said I’m quitting?” I say. “And you never knew me. Don’t pretend like you did.”

He doesn’t respond, and I’m tempted to look over, to see if my words have any effect on him. But I don’t know what I’d do with that knowledge either way. I keep my gaze straight ahead.

“Just tell me.”

I huff. “I’m going to get my car, I guess.” I stop near the crosswalk, look around. Savannah isn’t a big city. I can’t just hail a cab, so I dig out my phone to call the same cab service I used earlier to pick me up.

Holden throws his hands up and groans. “God, you’re so stubborn.”

My thumb scrolls through the recently called numbers. With a weighted heart, I bypass the missed calls from my mom. I put my phone on silent mode so I wouldn’t have to deal with that anxiety . . . yet.

“You’ll break into a freakin’ crypt with me, but you won’t ride in the cab of my truck.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Is being around me really that bad? Do I smell?”

I almost laugh. I know he’s trying to lighten the mood, but I’m too pissed off for that. And the fact is, he actually smells really good. Like crisp fall air and his woodsy cologne. “Go away, Holden. You’re not getting your way.” As I step off the curb, my eyes still glued to my phone screen, I hear a blaring horn and then a screech. Startled, I freeze.

I’m yanked back as Holden pulls me off the road and out of the path of an oncoming car.

“Shit, Sam.” His arms once again encircle me, and I can feel his rapid heartbeat against my back. My own heart is in my throat. “That’s it.”

I yelp as he picks me up. “What the—? Put me down!”

“Shut. Up.”

I bite my lip. I know he’s pissed. I’m pissed at myself. Not even able to process what almost happened—just like Tyler.

Holden doesn’t throw me over his shoulder like he previously threatened, but carries me toward the parking lot cradled in his arms, like Douchebag Superman. He shakes his head. “So fucking stubborn.”

HOLDEN

Okay. So maybe I went too far. But I didn’t toss her over my shoulder, at least. She scared the hell out of me, though. And I think I scared her right back.

Sam’s always been strong-willed, determined, independent. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, pushed all the way against the door of the truck.

But she’s never been this.

Dammit. Why did I ever think I could do this trip with her? I’m not a masochist. I deserve her wrath for what went down in high school, but this is more. More than just angst over being rejected. And more than her grief over Tyler.

She’s afraid of me.

I slam my palm against the steering wheel, releasing a harsh curse when my injured hand flares with pain. She flinches. Fuck. That sure as hell didn’t help. Breathing deeply, I rein in my anger. I know what must be going through her head, what’s probably been going through it for the past eleven months, since the accident that took my mom. And now with Tyler . . . I don’t know how to handle this.

I crank my truck, check the rearview and glance over my shoulder, then pull out.

“Where are you taking me?” Her voice is small, broken. It makes the fiery lump burning at the back of my throat thicken.

“Home. Your house.” I swallow. “To get your car.”

She rubs her tiny hands over her face and groans. “Why did you have to follow me?”

Hiking an eyebrow, I swivel my body just enough to stare at her without losing sight of the road. “You don’t want to go home now?” I’m ready to ram my head through the windshield, just to stop thinking. I can’t figure her out.

She pulls one leg onto the bench seat, wraps her arms around it. Stares ahead. “No.” I wait patiently—not so much—for her to continue.

When she doesn’t, “Why?”

“I’m pretty sure my mom’s pissed, maybe even put a call into my doctor, and probably alerting the media as we drive that I’m a psycho on the loose who needs to be brought in by any means necessary.”

“What?” If I didn’t know better, all kinds of bad would be flashing through my mind: Sam’s been certified, I’ve been helping an escaped mental patient, my ass behind bars. But I do know better. And when I look at her—her pale face, a worry line between her brows, her lost expression—I have to admit that I have no idea what she’s been through since she lost Tyler. She looks more than drained. She looks on edge.

The compulsion to fix it surges through me.

“I’m exaggerating,” she says on a sigh. “Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t tell my parents where I was going because I don’t feel like dealing with any more guilt. I’ve put them through enough. And if I had to fight my way through this too . . . I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I just couldn’t.”

My aggravation with her and the situation dissipates a fraction. I know what it’s like to run—to need to run. “You’re nineteen. They can’t really tell you what to do.”

“I know.”

“No,” I say, turning into a Wendy’s parking lot. “You apparently don’t.” I park and then turn my body so that I can focus just on her. “You don’t want the guilt of putting them through anything, but you’re missing the fact that you’ve been through hell. Anything they’re trying to do is their coping mechanism.” I rub my jaw. “Parents never stop being parents. They have to try and fix shit for you, or else they feel useless.” This just isn’t true of mine.

She looks at me, her knee still clasped by her arms, her dark curtain of hair draping her leg. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, call your mom.” I nod toward the iPhone peeking out the pocket of her pack. “If you’re confident when you say it, she’ll probably be relieved that you’ve taken it upon yourself to fix whatever’s broken.”

Her brow furrows, and her eyes pin me with a look I can’t decipher. But then she grabs her phone and scrolls through. She exhales. “Five missed calls from her already.”

“Just call.”

After she presses the screen, she holds the phone to her ear, her other hand gripped tightly around her pack’s strap. “Mom . . . yeah, I’m fine.” She glares at me before looking out the passenger side window. “I’m with Holden.” She pauses, and the muffled sound of her mother’s voice pulses from the phone. “Savings.” Another beat. “No . . . you don’t have to put money in my account. I have enough . . . yes.” Her head whips around, her eyes large and round. “Dr. Hartman said that, really? Yeah. It was my idea . . . I think it will be good for me, too.”

A long pause, and Sam bows her head. “I love you, too. I’ll text when I reach my first stop.” She punches the screen. “Well, shit.”

I give her a lopsided grin and raise my brows. “Map?”

She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, then moistens it with her tongue. I look away.

“You really think I’ll get into that much trouble on my own?” she asks.

I bark a laugh. “I have no doubt.”

I don’t turn to see the death glare I’m sure she’s giving me. Instead, I fiddle with the skull keychain hanging from the ignition. The one Tyler sent me for my last birthday that matches my shifter knob that he also gave me. Waiting for her verdict.

Zipper gliding open, rustling, and then, “All right. Here.” She unfolds a map. Right away I see the highlighted route, and can figure out some of the stops. Tyler was born with wanderlust—that’s what our mom called it—and it was a shame that our parents were rooted to the island. A thrill spikes my blood at the thought of getting to do this for him.

Sam lays the map down between us on the seat. “First stop is Talladega, Alabama.” She quirks her lips as she consults Tyler’s hand written notes along the margin. “Because of one of his favorite movies, Talladega Nights.”

I laugh. “This is not going to be your average road trip.” I look over and watch as a bright smile overtakes her face.

“No, Tyler was anything but average.”

She’s happy, I can tell, but a hint of sadness laces her voice. I feel the urge to reach out and take her hand. I curl mine into a fist. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

I zip through the Wendy’s drive through, stocking up on greasy road trip food before we begin our five and a half hour drive to Talladega.

The one thing that sucks about driving through Georgia is the lack of good stations. Some country song is playing now, and thank God it’s starting to break up, becoming mostly static. I’ve let Sam have control over the stations so far, but country is my limit.

I nod to the floorboard. “I have a stash of CDs under the seat. Pick something good.”

“Great. I was about to just turn it off.” She laughs. “But CDs? Man, you’re old, dude.”

I balk. “Don’t start that new age MP3, iTunes crap with me. If there was a way to install a record player in my truck, I’d be rocking vinyl right now.”

With a sigh, Sam digs under the seat and pulls out the black leather case. Every CD I’ve collected since middle school.

“Holy hell,” she says. “This thing weighs a ton. You cart around your vinyl in here, too?”

“That’s not even funny. I’d never treat my music so disrespectfully.” She doesn’t return the quip, which makes me anxious. This is the first time we’ve really spoken since we hit 95, and I want the ice barricade to continue to thaw between us.

Her lips turn down, and I think about my words. Shit. I guess I shouldn’t joke about treating anything disrespectfully. Not with how I treated her in high school.

I open my mouth, about to . . . I have no idea. Apologize? I wouldn’t know where to start. Telling her the truth would only make things worse, and I just can’t. Maybe explain that I was a seventeen-year-old asshole who didn’t know anything about girls? If she didn’t see right through that weak excuse—which I’m sure she would—it’d only make things more uncomfortable between us.

She loads a disc into the stereo and clicks through the tracks. Smashing Pumpkins’ Cherubim starts up, and my chest loosens a fraction.

“Good choice,” I say.

“Well, you at least have decent taste in music.” Then she holds up another disc. “But this”—she shakes her head at Eminem’s latest album—“is damn pathetic.”

“What? You don’t love some Slim Shady? Come on. All you girls love him.”

“Maybe the chicks you’re into,” she says under her breath, and pushes the CD back into its holder. And with that, the wall of silence slides back into place between us.

I push my back against the seat, settling into the drive as Billy Corgan’s mad guitar solo thrums through me. I try not to think about her comment, but its poking holes in my brain like a demented woodpecker.

As she pulls out a book and leans away from me to read, I crank the music, and drum my fingers against my thigh. Sam’s been my type for far too long, and being near her now is like using acid to reopen an old wound.

FIVE YEARS AGO

“How long?”

“Shit, Tyler.” I slide the drawing I’ve been working on for Sam under the stack of loose papers on my desk. “You fucking snuck up on me.” I shuffle them and then turn around in my chair. The stony look on his face freezes me in place. “What are you talking about?”

He’s standing in the doorway to my room, his arms taut, sinewy muscles strained as he grips his hands into fists. At first, I think Dad’s done something. But the hate seething from his eyes is directed toward me.

He stalks into my room and bows up, like he’s going to throw a punch. I spring from the chair and stand over him, ready, reminding him that I’m taller, bigger, and the one who took down the man we’ve both feared since forever.

He hesitates, a slight waver, and backs up a step. “What gives you the fucking right to move in on my girl? How long has it been going on?”

I’m sure a barrage of emotions passes over my face, but I try to rein in my feelings, not give anything away. It’s useless, of course. The one thing Tyler’s damn good at is reading people. Just like the asshole that calls himself our father, he has that talent—that thing that makes my dad a good lawyer, and Tyler a good future one.

“She told you,” I say. It’s not really a question. I can see Sam feeling guilty, admitting what happened. I doubt they’ve ever kept anything from each other. Well, except for the one thing Tyler and I swore never to tell a living soul.

Not even Sam knows that.

His chest puffs out with labored breaths. His face is strained, but I can see the pain etched behind the anger. And it makes me feel about as good as a piece of dog shit.

“I’m not stupid,” he says, still crowding my personal space. “She’s been distracted. Hiding paintings that she’s usually eager to show off. And every time you’re around, she gets all weird and quiet, and then yesterday”—he mock laughs—“I knew something was going on between you two. I just fucking knew it. And then I saw it.” He slams his fist down on the desk behind me.

I start, reacting to the threat, adrenaline coursing now, and physically have to force myself not to touch him. I won’t ever be like him. “So what . . . you followed me?” It’s disturbing, but I don’t know what’s worse. That he found out and let his rage build up until now, or that I was keeping it from him.

“Damn right,” he spits through clenched teeth. “What are you going to do? Keep her around to fuck on the weekends when you finally come back to visit? You’re only going to screw her over. Anything you do will end bad, then she’s going to be a mess, and I’ll have to be the one to deal with it. Because you sure as shit won’t.” He scoffs. “You don’t give a fuck about her.”

I’d have rather he punched me in the gut. Or the face. Or the balls. His words attack me from the inside, splintering my brain like rotten wood. I’ve been avoiding talking to him about my leaving because I knew he’d get upset. Guilt steals the edge from my words. “I will come back. And I do care about her.”

“Bullshit. Every word out of your mouth.” He drives a hand through his hair. “I care about her. I love her, and I have forever.”

“I know . . . but, Tyler, listen—”

“No,” he snaps. “I’m not buying this crap. Suddenly she gets tits and you give a damn.”

I forcefully step back and my thighs hit the desk. If he doesn’t get out of my face, I’m going to lose my temper. “Don’t say shit like that about her.”

He laughs. “Why? Because you know her so well and you’re all of a sudden respectful of the female populace?” He shakes his head, a disgusted look on his face. “Whatever. I knew this was going to happen.” He paces in a circle, and I glance at the window, suddenly worried about the time. We’re alone now, but Dad will be home soon. We need to end this.

“What do you want from me?” I step in front of him and hold my arms out wide. “I’m sorry this happened, but I do care about her. And she cares about me . . . just in a different way than she does for you.”

He punches me.

My head snaps sideways, and pain explodes across the side of my face. I can feel the trickle of blood dripping from my nose, down my chin. I lick my lips and taste the coppery warmth. But I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on the floor, let the rage simmer.

When I look up, he’s holding his fist. I know it had to hurt him as badly as my face throbs.

Tyler shakes out his hand, and as his anger noticeably starts to fade, his brows pull together. I glimpse guilt washing over him, only for a moment, before he hardens his face back into a mask.

“I don’t owe you shit,” he says, his voice wobbly with adrenaline. “I didn’t ask you to do that for me, and I sure as hell don’t owe you Sam for it.”

Confusion makes me forget about the pain for a second, and I screw up my face and wince. But then, with perfect clarity, his words strike home. Hurt barbs my chest, sinking its teeth in deep. “Hell, Tyler. If I hadn’t have stepped in when I did, Dad would’ve killed you.” And after what Tyler had just suffered, I wasn’t going to watch my brother get beaten to death, or self-destruct. Again. I’d just picked up the broken pieces.

It’s why Dad sent me away to boarding school. After I stood up to him and laid him out on the kitchen floor, his ego couldn’t handle that I wasn’t a kid he could knock around anymore. The only thing I regretted was leaving Tyler alone with the asshole for months.

“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.

After quickly tucking the book and journal under the seat, I push myself up, and one of Holden’s arms slips around my waist as he pulls the door handle with his other hand.

“I can walk,” I say, but he’s already lifting me into his arms.

He bounces out of the truck and carries me a couple steps before setting me down on the grassy roadside. I slump to the ground, and he leans over, sweeping my hair from my shoulders and holding it against my back. Before I can protest, I bend at the waist, and the contents of this morning’s breakfast expel from my stomach with a harsh wretch. “Please don’t watch,” I get out before another wave hits.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. “Did you eat something bad?”

I shake my head, swallowing past the gag. “I don’t know.” But I do know. And I’m not sure I can ever look at him the same way again.

After the last of my stomach is on the ground, I sit back on my knees. Holden brushes my hair against my back and then stands.

“I’ll get you some water.”

I rub my hands over my face, into the sockets of my eyes, wishing I could erase the images Tyler’s words put there. And when I open my eyes, Tyler’s standing across the ditch, a knowing look on his face. His brow furrows and his eyes pale. I shake my head, over and over. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t know whether he’s angry that I read his journal, or that I dragged his brother along on this trip. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. It doesn’t change how I feel about him, only pangs my heart with so much regret.

In a blink, he’s kneeling beside me. “I never wanted you to know. To look at me like—” He turns his head away, his jaw locked hard.

Without thought, I reach out, trying to touch him. Dammit! “Tyler, I love you. I could never think anything bad about you.”

“I’m not weak,” he grits out.

“You’re the strongest person I know. What he did? When you were just a kid? He’s the weak one. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.” I lay my hand atop my thigh, gripping my legs because I can’t touch him.

Finally, his eyes meet mine, and the brown of his irises is so clear. I can see the woods through them, and I just miss the deepness of what I used to look into. “It’s right that you know. I should’ve told you before.”

“I wish you had,” I whisper.

A sad smile mars his face. “Just know . . . I love you.” He looks down at the ground. “I’m tired, Sam.”

Footsteps sound from behind me, Holden’s boots crunching the gravel. Tyler begins to fade, and it’s like a knife to my heart.

“Sam?” Holden hands me the water bottle from over my shoulder.

“Thank you.” With a steadying breath, I push to my feet, my gaze still cast on the emptiness Tyler’s presence left behind.

Once we’re back on the road, I can’t stomach the thought of reading anymore of Tyler’s memories. I know there’s something in there that’s going to test me, and I’m scared to find out what.

Pulling both feet onto the seat, I hug my legs to my rocky stomach. “How far away are we?”

Holden glances at the time. “About an hour.”

“Really?”

He chuckles. “I drive fast.”

It’s only been three and a half hours. “No shit.”

“You feeling better?”

I nod. “I think it’s just been a while since I’ve been in a car, for like, more than ten minutes. I can’t remember the last time I was on a road trip. Probably carsick.”

He turns down the volume on the stereo even further. “Rachel mentioned that you don’t drive anymore.”

Of course she did. Along with telling Mr. Marks (who I don’t think I can ever be around again—not without taking a bat to his head) every detail of my medical history, my mother’s also been talking to Holden. She doesn’t know what happened between us. Just thinks he’s a friend, my boyfriend’s brother, and our neighbor. I wish she didn’t gossip so much. But I guess it’s just part of living on the island. People can’t help themselves.

And that’s why Tyler had to be so secretive. I can’t imagine how scared he was as a boy. Terrified of what his father would do to him if anyone ever found out.

I run my palms over my thighs, my hands shaky. “I’ve been having panic attacks.”

He nods like he gets it, and I wonder if he does. After all what his father did to him and put him through, I can’t imagine what he’s suffered. What he still must be suffering. The long-term effects of abuse.

Tyler wrote that Holden, being the older sibling, always tried to divert their father’s attention, always tried to take the blows for his brother. So he got the worst of it for a long time. Now all of Holden’s issues in school—the fighting, failing a grade, the vandalism, the drugs—make sense. He needed an outlet for his rage.

And their mother? How did Shannon cope? The journal says she was beaten, too. Not to the degree the boys were, but enough for Tyler to write about her getting hit. I can’t help wondering if any of Holden’s rage was directed toward her—the woman who was supposed to love her kids more than anything, but who didn’t protect them. Or if he just felt helpless against it all.

I look over at Holden. Study the strong profile of his face. His tight grip on the steering wheel. The furrow between his eyebrows. Fighting the urge to ask him questions I know he’ll refuse to answer, I force my gaze away. Regardless, I’ve opened Pandora’s Box, and there’s no closing it.

In just under an hour, we’re pulling into a Best Western near the Talladega Superspeedway.

“We’ll check in first, then if you want, watch a race. Or we can do that tomorrow if you’re not feeling it.”

“I’m up for it,” I say. “I think getting out in the fresh air will be better than sitting in a hotel room.” My mouth pulls into a tight-lipped smile. It feels off, like I’m trying to force myself to be polite because of what I now know. This complicates so much. I need to get my mind off of his past, our past, their father. Everything.

After he parks and we grab our bags, we head toward the entrance. There’s nothing special about the hotel; it’s like every roadside hotel I’ve ever seen. But just the fact that I’m so far away from home makes it seem more exciting.

Once we’re at the check-in counter, Holden looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Two rooms?”

My mouth pops open. “I, uh. Yeah. I’ll get mine. You can get yours.” I pull out my small cross-body bag from my pack, but he waves his hand.

“I got you.” He turns his attention to the portly blond woman behind the counter. “Two rooms, single beds. Next door to each other, if you have them.”

“Holden,” I say. “I can pay for my own.”

He doesn’t respond. Just hands over his credit card to the woman when she tells him she has two available rooms next door to each other.

“Fine. I’ll get it the next time.”

His lips twitch into a slight smile. “Just take your room key.”

As we walk through the hallway toward our rooms, I say, “You didn’t have to do that. This trip was last minute for you, so I don’t mind paying for stuff.”

“I’m not a broke hoodlum, as hard as that is to believe.” He glances at the numbers along the doors and stops when he reaches ours. “I have some money saved. And besides, I cost you your train ticket. I’m sure it wasn’t cheap.”

I tilt my head. “True, but still. It was unexpected. I’m sure you don’t want to spend your savings on me.”

Slipping his key card into the reader, he says, “I’ve got a good job and I’ve never taken any of my vacation time. I’m due for some time off, and I have plenty to blow.” He tosses his bag into the room, then he looks at me and extends his hand. “Let me check out your room first.”

I feel my forehead crease. “For what?”

“Monsters.” He winks.

HOLDEN

The Best Western kicks the shit out of The Island Getaway Inn. I haven’t been in a decent bed, meaning mine, since I left my apartment in Atlanta. Stretching out, I toe off my boots and tuck my hands behind my head.

The gauze bandaging my left hand is loose and annoying. I go ahead and remove it and inspect the cut. It’s red and sore, but healed over. Thinking of Sam’s tee tucked into my bag, still stained with my blood, I feel my brow crease. I don’t know why I kept it. With a heavy exhale, I put my hands back behind my head and close my eyes, hoping to get some rest before Sam and I head out.

Spending four and a half hours with someone isn’t a huge ordeal. Spending four and half hours with someone closed up in the cab of a truck? A whole other story. I have a feeling by the end of this trip, Sam and I are either going to work through our issues or want to kill each other.

Maybe both.

Unable to turn off my brain, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and pull up the browser. I Google the Talladega Superspeedway and click the first link for their website. Scrolling through the site, I find their number and jot it down with the pen and notepad next to me.

Performing these mindless actions keeps me from thinking about what I witnessed after Sam got sick on the side of the highway. She was having a conversation with an invisible person. I stood there, water bottle in hand, battling a mix of confusion and fright. I’ve never dealt with someone who suffers from delusions, or psychosis. I’m not sure I’m capable of handling it right.

So I didn’t handle it. I ignored it. That’s easier than asking questions.

It would only make an already stressed situation that much more strained and complicated. I doubt she wants to divulge the information, anyway.

I didn’t dive into this completely unprepared, though. Before I tracked her down at the train station, I contacted Rachel and asked for all the sordid details of Sam’s condition. What her doctor suggested would be the best way to behave around her, and what to do in case of an emergency. I’m sure Sam would be furious if she knew I’d talked to her mom about it behind her back, but desperate times and such. I don’t want to chance anything with Sam.

Glancing at my bag, I remind myself that I have a backup plan if things get bad. I just hope I don’t have to resort to it—that this trip will help her overcome her grief, and her mind can heal. Maybe she needs to be able to say goodbye to Tyler on her own terms. Or maybe she just needs to release whatever guilt she’s harboring over his death.

As much as I miss my brother, I’ve let him go. That’s not to say I’m not battling my own demons. I’ve dealt with all the regret and anger and frustration . . . but not always in a healthy way. The first two months after his death were the hardest. Harder even than dealing with my mother’s. But now, right this minute, I’m burying my guilt. As long as the world accepts that Tyler was killed by a hit-and-run, I can move on.

I have to.

I should’ve tried harder to be there for Sam, though. I knew she was struggling, but I let her push me away. I let her, because it was easier to avoid. But I’m here now. And as difficult and painful as it is to be around her, I’ll deal. If she needs me to take the guilt so she can free her mind of her demons, I can do that.

I’ve locked mine up in my nightmares where they can torment me, but I’m not haunted. Not afraid my brother will appear.

Maybe I should be.

I blow out a heavy breath and dial the number to the speedway. We need to have some fun. Stat.

I haven’t stopped since I hung up with the guy from the speedway. Screw rest. I don’t want to see the disappointment in Sam’s eyes.

Working up my courage, I knock on her room door.

After a few seconds, “Who is it?”

I told her to keep the door bolted after I checked that there were no creepers hanging out in her room. I’ve watched those shows; I know the deal. Of course she just rolled her eyes. Obviously, she’s watched them, too.

“Me.”

She unlocks the door and fans a hand, welcoming me in. As I walk past, I inhale the scent of strawberries and something else, some kind of girly fragrance. It’s the smell of her body wash and shampoo. I smelled it the whole way here and it drove me crazy. It’s even stronger now. Her hair’s wet and combed straight over her shoulders, and she’s dressed in a simple black tee and yoga pants that hug her hips and thighs nicely.

Her eyes narrow as she notices the laptop tucked under my arm.

“Good and bad news,” I say, setting my computer on the bed. “It’s the off season. We won’t be able to catch a race, but they said there’s a practice run tomorrow, and visitors can watch.”

She crosses her arms as her lips purse into a tight frown, and I can’t help but notice she’s not wearing a bra. Shit. Clearing my throat, I look away.

“What’s the computer for?” She walks to the bed and sits, pulling her legs up to block my view of her chest. Good.

“I downloaded Talladega Nights. Thought since we can’t catch a race, we could watch the inspiration for this stop.”

She smiles, and warmth prickles beneath my breastbone. I haven’t seen a sincere smile from her in years. I forgot how her lips curved, revealing the tiny dimple beside her mouth. I immediately want to make her smile again.

“And”—I jog to the door and grab the pile of food I left in the hallway—“dinner. Or vegging out food. Whichever you prefer.” I hold up the Chinese takeout and the grocery bag of junk food I picked up from the store across the street.

“Wow,” she says. “And you accomplished all this while I was in the shower.”

“You apparently take really long showers.”

A hint of red touches her cheeks, and she reaches out. “Give up the chocolate.”

Digging through the plastic bag, I find the Hershey bars and the Pepto-Bismol. I hand her both. She looks at the medicine, her eyes studying the label. “Thanks.”

I nod. She’s still staring at the pink bottle, her thumb running over it, like picking up stomach medicine is the most thoughtful gesture. It makes my chest tighten, and I have to break the heavy silence.

Flipping my laptop open, I say, “I assume you’re a Ricky Bobby fan.”

She snorts. “Do I lose cool points if I say no?” Her eyes peek up at me as she fiddles with the Hershey wrapper. Before I can return a quip, she says, “Tyler watched it at least once a month. I never got why.”

I shrug again. I’m real smooth right now. “He’s a dude.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I knew there was a secret.”

Our banter is easy and light, but there’s a slight tension snapping at the air, creating a tangible wall between us. And when she says secret, my insides twist. I can’t reveal Tyler’s darkest parts to her. Or mine, for that matter. I can only be here for her while she works out the mess in her mind. I just hope that it doesn’t tear me down in the process.

I’m not as immune to her as she is to me.

After setting up the laptop on the bed, I grab a box of Chinese takeout and a plastic spork—can’t believe they still make these—and plop down on the other side of her. “Sure you don’t want to eat real food first?”

“Blasphemy.” She shakes her head and takes a bite of her chocolate bar.

I stuff a huge sporkfull of Sesame Chicken into my mouth to keep from smiling.

During the movie, my gaze occasionally drifts to her. She braids her hair, two long tails over her shoulders. Fidgets with her nails, like she’s trying to keep from biting them. It used to be a habit. Then she shifts positions, from sitting to laying on her stomach, her ass kicked up at me. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my hands over my face.

I’m such a fucking masochist.

When the movie finally ends, I spring off the bed like it’s on fire. I can’t be in the same room as her any longer and maintain chivalrous thoughts. As if I’d ever had them about her to begin with. Maybe if I beat my head against my room wall for the rest of the night, by morning I’ll be straight.

I quietly pack up my computer and then grab a bag of potato chips.

“Holden.” Sam’s voice is questioning, and I look up, finding her pressed against the headboard, her eyes locked on something over my shoulder.

Turning around, I spot the box on the dresser. When I look back at her, her eyes are on me. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want to sit in here by myself.” She tucks her legs into her body. “We should go out and do something.”

“I’m up for that.” And up for anything that doesn’t involve being closed off in a small room with her. I need fresh air; her scent is clinging to me, torturing me. “Where do you want to go?”

She pushes off the bed and stalks toward the box. “I have an idea.”

SAM

The tree line of Logan Martin Lake graces the pink and amethyst sky like mountains. Dipping low and rising high, the dark pines stretch endlessly across the shore. Houselights dot the twilight, and docks reach over the water. The night air is a balmy mix of Alabama’s hot summer and the lake’s humidity, caressing my skin with a warm, light breeze.

I walk the shoreline, my hands clamped tightly to the picture box, as Holden trails behind at a distance. He was quiet on the ride over. I don’t think either of us spoke a word. I’m not sure he’s ready for this part of the trip. I’m not sure I’m ready.

But taking in the scenic beauty, I can’t think of a better place to spread Tyler’s ashes while we’re here. It’s close to the speedway, and I feel like if Tyler and I had taken this trip together, we would’ve ended up here. We would’ve watched the sunset, and kissed under the stars.

I feel like such a cheesy romantic right now. And my heart aches at the moments we didn’t get to experience together. All the lost memories we’ll never get to make.

After we parked, Holden asked if I wanted to do this alone. And maybe I should have said yes. But I believe Tyler would want his brother to be a part of this. I glance around, hoping Tyler will appear. I want to tell him . . . so much.

Holden has stopped walking, and I find a sandy spot to plunk down on near the lake. The sounds of water lapping and crickets, and the distant noise of traffic from the freeway, pull me under. And all I can do is cling to Tyler’s box.

“Do you remember,” Holden says, his voice low, like he’s trying not to disturb the tranquility of the lake. “When we were kids. That day my mom took us to Hunting Island? When my dad was away on business, and we were driving her crazy because it was too hot to go out and play.”

I laugh. “Yeah. Shannon was ready to ship us off to a third world country.”

I don’t look at him, but I can feel his hesitant smile. Hear the happiness mingling with the sadness in his voice. “Tyler loved those big puddle things on the beach. I don’t know what they were called, but all the kids always played in them. And even when we were tired and ready to go, and Mom was screaming, Tyler kept playing.” He settles down on the bank beside me and rests an arm over his knee. “This is a good spot, Sam. He’d like it here.”

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.

And just like that, the tightness gripping my chest eases. I’m surprised when the bartender sets the drink in front of me without asking for my ID, and I try to act cool. Twenty-one cool. And once I down about half of my drink, the warm beginnings of a buzz helps ease the rest of the tension.

I eye Holden, because it’s safer to stare at him than anyone else, and mentally trace the outline of the tattoo peeking from beneath his T-shirt collar. In a truck, it’s hard not to notice the person next to you. And I’ve already memorized the tattoos on his arm. The band, a compass, and a beautiful bird that covers his elbow and wraps around to the middle of his forearm. It’s done in abstract. Which makes sense. Holden’s always loved abstract.

Before I realizes it’s left my mouth, I hear myself say, “What’s the tattoo of on your chest?”

His forearm flexes as he grips his tumbler. With a deliberate, slow movement, he sets the glass down on the bar. “Tribal art.”

I laugh. “Bullshit.” He’s an artist. There’s no way he sketched out some lame ass tribal tat to have permanently inked on his body. He’s such an amazingly talented artist, too. Not taking into account the beautiful work on his arm, with just the inspired black flames he designed for his truck (seriously, I’ve never seen a fire design look so real), I can only imagine what’s underneath his shirt. And with that thought, my face blazes, and I’m thankful for the dim lighting.

Taking another swig of his drink, he shrugs. “Nothing special. I was young when I got it.”

Aggravation over his vagueness mixed with the alcohol coursing through my veins makes me bold. “I showed you mine . . .”

His body swivels toward me, his eyes hooded. “That’s not your only one.” His gaze travels over my shoulder and collarbone, and I can feel it. Like he’s physically reached out and touched me. As his eyes drifts lower, slowly scanning my body before meeting my mine again, he raises an eyebrow challengingly. “In fact. I’m willing to bet you have more.”

My mouth feels dry, and the warm buzz heating my body turns to lava. I look down at the empty glass and push back from the bar. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“I’ll walk you.”

He stands but I wave him back onto his seat. “I can find it.” His mouth parts, like he’s about to argue, and I add, “I got it, Holden.” His stare holds mine, unwavering, and something flashes in his eyes. But then he turns back toward the bar and lifts his chin to order another drink from the bartender.

I’m terrified to find out what the bathrooms in this rundown place look like, but I need a moment to regroup. I do have a couple more marks on my body—and I have no qualms over sharing the pink and black shaded stars with him. But the other, he’s not seeing any time soon.

Soon? I mentally scold myself. Just one heated look from Holden and I’m fourteen all over again. Get a grip. Besides, he’s just playing with me. Joking around. I’ve always read too much into his words and actions, looking for a deeper meaning. I remind myself that he’s shallow. I learned that the hard way in high school.

Today has been too long. Too much all at once. After reading Tyler’s first journal entries, the lake, having to say my first goodbye to him, and spending so much one-on-one time with the guy who broke my heart ages ago—it’s enough to push me over the edge.

When I find the bathroom near the back entrance, I push through the door and head straight to the sink. I cup my hands under the cold-running water and then splash my face. The cool sensation calms my overheated skin, and I exhale.

“Shit, girl,” a throaty feminine voice says. I lift up to see one of the biker girls from the jukebox behind me in the mirror. My stomach knots. Am I about to get my ass kicked? “I’d be all hot and bothered, too, if I came here with that fine hunk of meat.”

I watch as my brow creases in the mirror, then I turn around. “The guy I came here with?” She nods once, long and slow. I open my mouth to explain that I’m not with Holden, but stop. I’m not sure if on top of everything else I can stomach watching Holden get hit on by hot, leather skirt-wearing biker girls. “Yeah. He’s all right.”

She laughs. “Shit. I’d let him wear me like a hat.” She digs into her small purse and pulls out a baggy and a cut-down straw. Then she walks to the counter and runs a hand over the surface.

I’m fascinated watching her work, my feet bonded to the floor, as she empties some of the white contents of the bag onto the sink counter. She’s methodical. Confident. In control.

After she cuts out a couple of lines, she looks over at me. “You want a rail? Might help calm your nerves.”

I shake my head. “I’m good. But thanks.”

She shrugs and puts her face to the counter, then snorts. I cringe a bit, wondering how bad it burns. She comes up holding her nose with one hand and sniffs, fanning her face with the other.

“Woo,” she says, and laughs. She’s not really intimidating, not like how I first thought when we entered the bar. And I have no idea why I’m so captivated by her. She’s just so self-assured and sexy, and her attitude screams she doesn’t give a shit.

She doesn’t make stupid small talk like you hear on the island—the first question always being, You live here? Locals always wonder that. Something about the status of actually living on Hilton Head that (they think) gives them weight over the tourists. Second being, What’s your name? Like anyone is going to remember or care to remember who they meet once at bar.

As she packs away her junk, she looks at me in the mirror. “Come on, girl. Let me get you a shot. You look like you need one.”

Tilting my head to the side, I consider how I must look to her, then shrug. “I sure as shit do.”

She laughs and laces her arm through mine as we leave the bathroom. Before we’re back at the bar, she does tell me her name. Although I’m not sure if Melody is her real name or not (it’s not very tough for a biker chick), I give her mine.

“Three Pink Panty Pull-downs, Rob,” she tells the bartender, leaning her torso against the counter top. She’s a few inches taller than me, and the corset shirt-thing she’s wearing smashes her cleavage over the top of the bar.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Holden watching me. His brow is furrowed and his eyes squinted, but he doesn’t motion or call me over, or stand to approach. Just watches as Melody’s friend comes bouncing up behind us.

“Did you order mine?” the girl asks, bumping her hip into Melody’s. “Oh! I love your hair. What color is that?” She runs her black nails through my bangs. Normally this would weird me out—this invasion of personal space. But I guess it’s vacation mentality. And I already like these girls. They kind of remind me of Leah . . . and I miss her. A twinge of guilt flutters in my stomach at avoiding her.

“It’s Atomic Turquoise,” I say. “Manic Panic.”

“Oh, that’s old school. I love it.”

“This is Darla. Don’t be fooled by her girly exterior”—Melody fans a hand down Darla’s body: skin-tight jeggings, hot-pink halter, matching bandana—“she’s catty as hell when she’s drunk.”

Darla balks. “Bitch, really. That skank had it coming.” She snakes an arm around a guy seated at the bar, his head bowed over his beer bottle. He seems to be used to Darla hanging on him. “Derick’s worth it.” She kisses his stubbled cheek and runs her hand through his short, spiky hair.

Derick turns his head and kisses Darla long and deep. My own mouth goes dry at their intimate contact. So that I don’t seem uncomfortable, I don’t look away. But my heart pangs with loneliness. I haven’t been around anyone—people, couples, anyone other than my mom and my shrink—for a while. And before, Tyler and I were having intimacy issues and . . . I forgot what love looks like.

Rob, the scary-looking bartender, sets three shot glasses with pink liquid down on the counter. “Bottoms up,” he says with a wink.

The innuendo isn’t lost on me. I pick up my shot, but Melody covers the top of my glass with her hand. “Oh, no, girl. We do these right. Girl power way.” She nods with one eye closed, her glossy lips puckered. It should look stupid, but she pulls it off.

I can’t help but laugh as she lowers her head over her shot glass and wraps her lips around the rim. She waves her hands over her head, beckoning Darla and me to do the same.

What the hell.

Holding my hair back, I climb onto a barstool and lower myself over my shot glass. I will not peek at Holden. Melody swats my butt (I assume she does the same to Darla), and all three of us turn up our shots. The glass clinks against my teeth, and I almost choke, but I relax my throat and let the sweet, fruity mix slide down.

Darla “woos” and grabs my and Melody’s arms, pulling us toward the small dance area near the jukebox. She starts shaking her hips to the Black Veiled Brides booming over the sound system and then grips mine, encouraging me to join her.

As I try to match her rhythm (I’m a pretty good dancer; when I’m buzzed, I don’t care even if I’m not), I toss my head over my shoulder and glimpse Holden. Both his elbows are propped on the bar, his hands balled and resting in front of his mouth. His guarded eyes follow me.

Melody hands me another shot. “I’m going to get you right for your guy.” She winks.

Taking the offered drink, I don’t correct her. Already, my day is starting to fade away, becoming a hazy, intoxicated memory. And for the moment, I want the bliss of not knowing. Not thinking.

I tip my head back and take the shot like a champ.

HOLDEN

I’m still on my second drink, sipping it slowly. I only wanted a couple to take the edge off. But as my gaze travels over Sam’s limber, swaying body, her movements getting looser and bolder after four shots . . . I think she needed it more than me.

The chicks she’s with are harmless, but I keep a close watch, anyway. Make sure their biker guys don’t touch Sam. I don’t like to fight, haven’t really since high school, but I’m not opposed to tearing some guy’s head off who thinks he’s taking her home in her condition.

So far, there’s been nothing to worry about. A few of the guys from the poolroom have stumbled in to order drinks, looked Sam over appreciatively, and then went back to their game. One reason’s because of the two hard-looking guys sitting at the bar. Those girls dancing with Sam are theirs, and I have a feeling it’s a known fact that no one messes with them. Sam’s covered in that clause by default, since she’s now with them.

Taking another sip, I relax a bit at this thought. She’ll never see these girls again, and she’s having fun. Something that she probably hasn’t had in a long time. A smile twitches at my lips as the girl with the pink bandana dips Sam, and she barrels out a laugh between a snort and a giggle.

“Hey, lover boy.” The raspy voice comes from the other girl in the group. The one wearing a black bandana and a tight, short skirt. I keep my eyes trained on her face, because her guy’s giving me “the look.”

Understood. I nod at him.

“Your girl’s a sad one, huh?” she asks, and I can see the remnants of her last bathroom trip on the tip of her nose. I don’t judge—the stuff’s just not for me. I’ve done my fair share, but I was more of a toker and pill popper than anything. And I haven’t touched anything since I got out of high school.

Clasping my tumbler, I shrug, and hope Sam’s not too fucked up to say no if offered. “She has her moments.”

The girl nods, like she gets what I’m saying. I’m sure she does. “You should cheer her up.” She smiles before taking the drinks the bartender sets in front her, and saunters off toward the jukebox.

Her words linger. I didn’t do this trip to try and make Sam not sad. I keep telling myself that I came because I didn’t want her to end up in a bad situation. Almost like the one she’s in now, but without someone looking out for her—me—the first reason why no guys are messing with her.

These girls are good people, despite what an outsider might think. And they wouldn’t hurt Sam. But if she didn’t have a guy sitting here staking his claim—all but pissing around her and marking my territory—then who knows what would happen.

Sam’s a smart girl, and probably only let her guard down because she knows I’m here. But grief is a mean bitch. On her own and far away from home, suffering from her disorder, it could get the best of her. And she might’ve regretted doing something she normally wouldn’t.

Or she might’ve ended up getting really hurt.

I push those thoughts aside. They’re irrelevant because I am here. And letting her blow off some steam isn’t a bad thing.

There’s nothing in me that wants to admit another possible reason for being here. It’s sick and selfish. It’s locked up way down there in the depths. In the dark part where no one ever looks. Where no one has the guts to look. Not even me.

I raise a hand at the bartender, cashing out. I give him a generous tip for Sam’s drinks, even though the bandana girls covered her, and also tell him to put fifty on their tab.

As I’m pushing away from the bar, I look up and see Sam dancing—by herself. Which isn’t that big a deal. Except her arms are outstretched as she sways, like she’s holding on to someone’s shoulders. And she’s mumbling to the air, smiling, laughing. The bandana girls are leaning against the far wall, watching her, their expressions curious but sympathetic.

Shit.

Limp Bizkit’s cover of Behind Blue Eyes is blasting from the sound system overhead, and Sam moves to the slow beat, lost in her own world. I could play this off like she’s just drunk. But I know what’s happening. I know who she thinks she’s dancing with. Something primal grips my insides, twisting me from the inside out.

I pull out the barstool and plunk back down, then run my hand through my hair, fisting at the roots. I wave over the bartender and order a shot of straight Jack. He pours it in front of me and holds his hand up when I try to pay.

I guess he thinks I need it. Glancing over at Sam, her arms still outstretched, her head cocked like it’s resting on a shoulder—fuck. I guess I do. I throw my head back and down the shot. It burns a blazing trail down my chest, biting. Satisfying.

Black bandana girl makes her way toward me. I look at the pool tables.

“She’s really messed up, huh?” she says.

And what do I say to that? She didn’t say it in a condescending way. Her voice is filled with empathy and honesty. She’s not judging Sam. Just curious. And she’s right.

“Her boyfriend died.” I don’t know why I tell her, and I don’t reveal that her boyfriend was my brother. And I sure as shit don’t say that Sam’s not in mourning, that she actually believes she’s dancing with him now.

In the back of my mind, I’m trying to believe—trying to convince myself—that she’s just in mourning. I’m good at lying to myself.

The girl watches Sam, her lips pursed into frown. “That’s so sad.”

I nod.

She twists toward me. “You should dance with her.”

I freeze, my blood ice. “No.”

Her thin eyebrows pull together. “She’s over there dancing by herself. Man up.”

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I grit out, “It’s complicated.”

When I look at her again, a knowing smile splits her face. “Yeah . . . what’s not?” Her eyebrows lift. “Is she worth it?” She doesn’t hang around to hear my response. Just works her way back toward her friend along the wall. And I wonder why she doesn’t dance with Sam herself if she’s so concerned.

It’s like she’s a little sprite sent to torment me. Not that I need any help in that department. I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up for this trip. I just thought . . . Shit. Fuck. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.

But I’m not a complete asshole. If I didn’t know Sam was suffering from delusions, I’d walk right up to her and take her into my arms, save her from herself, so she’s not in the middle of a biker bar dancing alone. Looking crazy.

But in her mind, if I try to move in on Tyler’s spot, she’ll probably punch me.

Bandana girl jerks her head in Sam’s direction, ordering me to “man up.”

Maybe getting punched by Sam is worth it.

Fuck it.

I jump off the stool and head straight to her. My heart thumps in my throat the whole way, pulsing with the beat of the music. The lyrics about love being vengeance that’s never free hit my chest hard. Now fate’s trying to torment me, too.

Sam’s eyes are closed, so I become brave and press the pads of my fingers to her narrow waist, slowly guiding her to me. Maybe if she just feels someone solid holding her, she can pretend, and the bystanders can stop staring at a girl losing her mind. I hate the thought of anyone judging her. I’m okay with her thinking I’m Tyler. With her pretending. Whatever she needs right now.

That’s what I told myself back at the hotel room.

But as her arms lock around my neck and she lays her head on my chest, a flurry of want swirls inside me—a thundering, self-destructive tornado. My hands shake as I rest them on the small of her back. So gently. Her petite body should feel wrong against mine, but it’s lined up perfectly. Every one of her curves seamlessly cast to me.

Her hand curls around the nape of my neck, her fingers twining in my hair, as her other hand caresses my back. A searing heat blooms between our bodies—I can feel every hot inch of her. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in her sweet scent. My chest smolders. As her body moves against me, her hips working sexy as hell, my pants tighten and my groin begins to ache. Fucking torture.

I let her lead, rocking back and forth. And when she whispers Tyler’s name, I close my eyes. I can feel the pain radiating off her in waves. It mixes with my own grief, consuming and complete.

I decide I’m not that much of a masochist. This shit ends now.

Opening my eyes, I say, “Sam, it’s time to go.” Just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

Her head snaps back, and for the briefest moment, her eyes register that I’m not him. Shock and confusion churn in them. But then the haze of alcohol and her delusion covers them again, and she smiles. “I’m not ready yet, Tyler. We never get to dance.”

My gut twists. “Wave to your friends,” I tell her, not giving in. I spin her around to get a better hold of her, wrapping my arm around her waist.

She slackly fans her hand and slurs something to the bandana girls.

“Bye, baby girl,” Black Bandana says. Then she cocks her head at me. “Take care of her.”

I only nod before walking Sam out of the bar and into the parking lot. The night air bites into my skin through my thin T-shirt. I worry about the almost-passed-out girl in my arms until I realize the alcohol is probably keeping her warm. Propping her against the side of my truck, I keep one arm anchored around her chest, desperately trying to ignore the feel of her breasts.

After I lift her onto the seat, I buckle her in. Her head lolls to the side, and I smile. “Did you have fun, party girl?”

Her eyes try to focus on me, but they’re unseeing, unfocused. She nods sloppily.

I laugh. “Just don’t yack in the truck. Warn me first, okay?”

No response. She’s assed out already.

Somehow I manage to get her through the hotel lobby and into the elevator without causing a scene, but when we make it to the second floor, she’s falling and stumbling. With a groan, I reach down and scoop her up, then carry her the rest of the way to her room.

I curse as I have to dig into her back pocket for the key card. Touching her ass isn’t making this any easier. Once I get her comfortable, I’ll go back for the box. I left it in the truck, not wanting to chance dropping it while trying to take care of her.

Laying her down on the bed, I prop the pillow up and roll her onto her side, so she’s not on her back. In case she does have to toss her stomach. I consider that for a moment, and grab the tin trashcan, place it beside the bed.

Then I just stare at her. Her breathing’s evened out, her black hair falling in her face. I gently brush it behind her ear. With a heavy sigh, I unlace her shoes and slip those off . . . and think about removing her jeans, too. But I’m not that big of a creeper. I know she’ll flip out come morning.

Before I leave, I fill one of the cups in the bathroom with tap water and set it on the nightstand. Just in case she wakes up. She’s going to be dehydrated and feel like smashed assholes.

Glancing around, I look for anything else I need to do. And realize I’m stalling. “Fuck,” I breathe out. I’m the biggest pussy who ever lived.

Sam mumbles something in her sleep. Kneeling beside the bed, I say, “Sam, you should drink some water.”

She wipes at her face harshly as her eyes flutter open. I smile. She’s an adorable drunk.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I feel my face screw up. “About what? What do you have to be sorry for?”

Taking a shuddering breath, she blinks. Her eyes are red and glassy. “I’m so sorry for what your dad did to you.”

My heart freezes in my chest, and I’m cemented to the floor. My eyes lock on to hers. “Tyler told you.” It’s not a question. I just have to say it aloud. For it to be real.

She nods against the pillow, and I close my eyes for a moment as a heavy, strained breath whooshes from my mouth. “Goodnight, Sam.” Her eyes shut again, and it’s not long before she’s asleep.

This time, I sit in the chair across from the bed, unable to make myself leave. My mind is reeling, and I know if I go back to my room, I’m going to break something. I keep watch over her, pretending I’m not livid. Not losing my shit.

When the sun lights the curtains, casting the room in that strange gloom you only see in hotel rooms, I quietly leave.

My head hits the pillow hard. A fucking hotel bed has never felt so good.

SAM

A sharp throb radiating from my toenails to the roots of my hair propels me out of bed. The ache behind my eyes builds as the light bleeding through the crack in the curtain brightens. The sun is the devil.

Leaning over the side of the bed, I wrap my arms around my stomach, praying whatever’s inside doesn’t come up. I don’t remember drinking that much last night, but my mouth tastes like I cleaned out the bar.

I know I didn’t smoke (at least I don’t think), but for some reason, I also taste like an ashtray. Maybe from just breathing the smoke in the small bar. I curse under my breath and push myself off the bed.

Leaving the bathroom light off, I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face, then quickly brush my teeth. It helps, but only marginally. I can still taste the fruity concoction of Pink Panty Pull-down on my tongue. Luckily, the drink didn’t have its desired effect, and I’m still in both my boy shorts and jeans.

A frightening thought makes my eyes go wide. What the hell happened with Holden last night? And then another. Where are Tyler’s ashes?

I lunge into the room and search under the clothes tossed on the dresser. Not here. My heart-rate speeds, my pulse hammers against my veins. I quickly pull my hair back with the band around my wrist, then step into my shoes . . . that have been unlaced.

I don’t unlace my Converse.

Mother fu—

Letting the door slam behind me, I turn and knock on Holden’s room door. After a minute, there’s still no answer. No noise of anyone stirring comes from the other side. I try my key card, unsuccessfully, of course, and then bang on his door. Loudly.

I hear a deep groan, then the door squeaks open. Holden looks worse than me. His clothes are rumpled, and his hair is bedhead messy, sticking up in every direction (which I can’t help but notice looks devil-may-care sexy). Dark half-moons hollow out the skin beneath his eyes.

“Where’s Tyler?” When it leaves my mouth, I instantly regret my wording. But he knows what I mean. I can’t keep tiptoeing around him. We both loved Tyler, both struggling with his death. Only I have a mission to complete.

He sighs, stretching his long arm up, and his hand grips the top of the doorframe. A sliver of his toned stomach peeks from beneath his tee, and his low-slung jeans reveal that he’s wearing nothing underneath. But the glimpse of ink on his waist diverts my attention from anything sexual.

It’s all black and shaded gray, thick, and . . . He drops his arm and pulls his shirt straight. “It’s early,” he says, his voice husky.

I shake my head, clearing it from thoughts of his tattoo. “Holden, where’s Tyler’s ashes?” My voice comes out as desperate as I feel. I don’t care.

He rubs his eyes groggily. “The box is in the truck.” He leaves the door open as he walks away, an open invitation for me to follow.

I do, closing the door behind me, as he flops down on the bed. He covers his eyes with his forearm, and my gaze sweeps the tattoos decorating his arm—colorful and beautiful. Not wanting to be on the same bed as him again after the way it twisted me up last night, I take a seat at the desk. “How could you leave him out there?”

“You were too drunk to walk on your own,” he says. “I thought it was better than accidently spilling the ashes.”

“All right.” I wring my hands. “Can I have your keys?”

He pushes himself into a sitting position, pressing his back against the headboard. His eyes hard on me.

My head yanks back. “Did I do something to piss you off last night?”

He shakes his head tersely, as if he’s battling something within himself. Stopping himself from saying whatever it is he wants to say.

“Just spit it out,” I say. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You had a blast last night. I had a blast. We both had a blast.” He bounds up and heads for the bathroom. “Go get ready. We check out in an hour.”

His biting tone digs under my skin. I think about last night, trying to jog my memory. I danced with Melody and Darla, and downed shots. Lots of shots. And then a faint memory of dancing with . . . Tyler.

My face prickles with heat, and I wonder what those people must have thought—how crazy I must have looked. But honestly? Most of me doesn’t give a shit. I’ll never see them again. And I was so happy that Tyler finally came back, that he was able to materialize.

This is Tyler’s trip. Our trip. The least I can do is dance with him. He never liked to dance when he was alive, and when he waved me onto the floor, I know it was because we’ll never get the chance again.

But that shouldn’t have been enough to anger Holden. Unless it embarrassed him. Considering Holden’s never been one to care about what others think, I doubt that. Only, I have no other explanation for why he’s being so crass.

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” I call out. “I’ll try to keep my crazy to a minimum for the rest of the trip.”

“Stop.”

One word. But it’s enough to fire me up. “Stop what?”

“Stop playing the victim. I hate that.”

Something snaps in my head, a loud click that forces me from the chair and onto my feet. The sound of running water halts, and Holden steps into the room. He starts tossing clothes into his bag. He won’t look at me.

“I’m not playing the victim,” I say, my words slow, deliberate. “I know you lost Tyler, too. I know this trip is hard for you . . . as much as it is for me, but—”

“But what?” He cuts me off as he looks up from his task. His eyes are hard and cool. Icy blue.

“But this trip is more than just . . .” Unable to finish, to explain, I hang my head.

He laughs. And the sound triggers a frantic response in me. I’m reminded that no matter what he suffered at the hands of his bastard father, no matter how considerate he’s been lately, he’s still the same asshole that treated me like shit five years ago. I stomp toward him, look him in his frosty eyes.

“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?

And why he said “give you the explanation” instead of “an explanation?” I didn’t miss that. I just don’t know how to connect the dots. Yet.

But none of this is said. I’m not sure it ever will be. He’s got some deep-seeded anger, a past that haunts him, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to wrestle his ghosts.

Not while I’m dancing with mine.

HOLDEN

On the drive to the speedway, the tension in the truck could’ve strangled me. I think we said about two words between each of us. If Sam never really talks to me again, I wouldn’t blame her. I flew off the handle back at the hotel. I never fly off the handle. Not anymore.

I can blame it on lack of sleep. Or a hangover. Or grief over Tyler and my mother. Any number of things I can pluck out of the air and say that’s why I lost my shit.

But Sam would see through my crap. I can’t be truthful with her on this front, but I’d like to try not lying to her, either. I’m sick of lying of to her. But since I can’t be honest, then I just need to keep my fucking mouth shut.

Right now, as we walk up the bleachers of the Talladega Superspeedway, the sun glinting off the tops of race cars, her smile stretching ear-to-ear despite my asshole behavior, I’m having a hard time doing just that.

At some point, I’m going to have to man up and talk to her. Make her understand that she holds knowledge that could impact people’s lives—but I need to sort my shit out first. I need to find out how much she knows without giving away anything she doesn’t. Because shit. I can’t believe Tyler told her. How much else did he let her in on?

I guess I could always get her drunk, fish for answers . . . but I think I’m at my douchebag limit for the day. I was caught off-guard earlier by my emotions, and fuck emotions. I swear this girl is turning me into the biggest pussy.

With that thought, I settle onto a seat next to Sam and let the purr of powerful engines thrum through me. For the offseason, there are a lot of tourists. The stands aren’t packed, but crowded enough. As the drivers rev their engines, Sam turns toward me, her mouth parted and eyes wide, like she’s going to say something. I hold my breath expectantly.

She presses her lips together and turns her attention back to the racetrack.

Damn it. Whatever progress we’ve made, however small, we’ve taken two steps back. I didn’t think we’d become best friends by the end of this trip, and I definitely didn’t think she’d forgive and forget the shit I said in high school, but I thought, maybe, we could start fresh. She could get to know the real me away from Hilton Hell, and I might have a reason to go back there sometimes.

Now that Tyler’s case has been swept under the rug, I don’t have any reason to return to my hometown other than to visit the cemetery. And even though I wanted to believe I was happy staying away from there . . . from her . . . I’ve been a ticking time bomb. You can’t ignore your past.

Even if I couldn’t admit it to myself before, I was hoping she could be part of some new future where I wouldn’t have to keep running. Diving into that bottomless dark pit, I realize that now—I can own it. It’s why I’m on this trip. Sure, to keep her safe. I couldn’t deal if anything happened to her that I could’ve prevented. But it goes deeper—I wanted to be close to her again. I’ve been lying to myself thinking it’s for any other reason.

Funny how we believe our own lies.

That couldn’t be truer in Sam’s case.

After this morning, I don’t think I can fix this. I should’ve stuck to my guns and taken her home. This is only day two. Day fucking two, and we’re already about to crack. She’s off her rocker, and I’m losing my shit all over again for a girl who doesn’t belong to me. I wonder what Tyler would think about us on this trip together.

“Tyler would love this,” Sam says, like she read my mind. Not sure that’d be her response if she really had, though.

I take a swig from my water bottle; my throat dry and scratchy. “He would. Though I think he’d love seeing them actually race more, this is pretty cool.” I try for a smile, but it feels fake on my face. I think she knows.

“He had a different set of days mapped out,” she adds. “Timed to events he wanted to see. But I couldn’t wait to take this trip.”

I feel my forehead crease, and I’m glad I’m wearing my shades to hide my eyes. “Why now, Sam?”

She exhales softly. “You’ll think I’m crazy . . . crazier.” She returns her gaze to the cars, and my heart lurches. I should apologize for calling her that. But I don’t want to condone what she’s doing to herself. Whatever guilt she’s harboring over Tyler’s death, it’s not hers to own. She needs to know this one truth: I won’t play the fool so she can have her fantasy.

The cars are now zooming around the racetrack, doing practice runs. I grip the water bottle in my hand, and with a forced shrug, I say, “You were dancing by yourself last night, and not on purpose. I think that ship has sailed.”

She nods slowly. Neither denying she’s unstable or trying to debate my opinion. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For trying to help me not look crazy.” She smiles. It’s fragile, like she’s not sure she’s actually grateful. And hell. I didn’t think she’d remember. She was three sheets to the wind, and she also called me Tyler. She thought I was him. I wonder how she’s spinning what actually happened in her mind.

I clear my throat, preparing myself for this conversation, but not really sure I want to dive headfirst into the cracked pot. But with Sam, I’m either all in or not. I make my choice. “So it’s true, then?”

She takes a deep breath. “Yeah, well, whatever you’ve heard”—she looks at me—“I’m not crazy. As hard as it is to believe, Tyler’s here. Or at least he was.” She glances away and drops her shades over her eyes. “It’s getting harder for him. And he’s starting to forget things. That’s why this trip is important. It’s his unfinished business. He has to cross over. I’m scared he’ll get lost if he doesn’t, and I can’t bear the thought of him a wandering ghost forever.”

Holy hell. She didn’t hold back at all, just let the full crazy fly. I don’t know whether to feel honored she’s trusting me with it, or insulted she thinks I’m buying it. Regardless, I opened the door. Now I have to decide how to deal with it.

She has to know, somewhere in the logical recesses of her brain, that if I wanted to, I could prove her wrong. Even though she and Tyler were close their whole lives, I’m his brother. There’re things only a brother would know.

If Tyler were really trapped in some ghostly form, then all I have to do is ask her something there’s no way she could know. Something she’d have to ask Tyler. And when he doesn’t know the answer—because she doesn’t know it—she’d have to accept this is all in her mind.

But before I open my mouth to do just that, I consider the ramifications. If her mind is really in this bad of shape, what will happen when her beliefs start crumbling? Will she fall apart? Will she have an actual breakdown?

I know for damn sure I’m not here to help her regain her sanity. I’m not delusional enough to believe I can save her—I’m not hero material. I know there’s nothing romantic between us, either. Not now. She was young before, with a girl’s crush. And she loved—loves—my brother.

But I can’t turn my back on what his death has done to her. I’m warring with my own guilt, my own part in his death, and I don’t want her issues added to the mound weighing me down. Selfish? Maybe. But if she realizes by the end of this trip that Tyler’s really gone, it will just be one less thing on my conscience.

I swallow my rebuttal, and instead say, “So this trip will . . . what? You believe Tyler’s ghost will magically cross over once you complete it?”

She pushes her shades on top of her head and eyes me warily. “I have to believe that.”

Like grabbing a livewire, a bolt of electricity zings through me. The conviction in her eyes is absolute. Despite the heat, a chill slithers down my spine. She thinks she’s trying to save Tyler. But the truth is, whatever it is that protects our minds from crazy shit like this is fighting to protect hers. She doesn’t realize it, but her subconscious is trying to save her.

I can work with that.

“All right,” I say. “We fulfill Tyler’s unfinished business, and then he crosses over.”

Her eyebrows raise. “That’s it? No fight. No debate about how I should be taking my meds and talking to my psychiatrist and everything? You just believe me, and you’re going to stick this trip out? With a crazy girl?”

I hold her gaze, unwavering. “If you believe it, then in your mind, it’s real. I won’t lie and say I think Tyler’s ghost is haunting you—”

“Don’t use that word.” Her eyes are pleading.

I nod. “Okay. Sorry. But I can’t. We’ll just have to agree to disagree, but I trust you believe it. And I’ll do the trip, for Tyler, and for my own reason.” I suck in a sharp breath. “But from here on out, we’re not discussing my past . . . at least that part of it.”

She studies me for a moment, searching my face for something. “I didn’t know about your father until yesterday.” Her mouth pulls into a tight frown. “Just so you know, I haven’t told anyone. And I promise, I never will, Holden.”

I’m grabbing that livewire again, and a painful current strikes my chest. “Yesterday?”

She nods. “And I’ll never bring it up again.”

Fuck. I bite down hard on my tongue. If she’s trying to convince me that my brother’s really a ghost—she’s messing up. I hate being lied to. But in the back of my mind, I feel a nagging twinge of doubt creeping in. Tyler never would’ve told her that—not while he was alive. And my mind flashes to the moment she got sick in the truck yesterday . . .

Shit. No. He told her at some point. Maybe after that night at the bar. After Mom died. After he started spiraling again.

“What is your reason?” she asks, catching me off-guard. Then I remember what I said. My reason for doing this trip.

I pinch my lips together, inwardly cursing. Then, as I look back over the racetrack, I say, “Redemption.”

She doesn’t press, and I’m thankful. She’d get an earful of silence from me, anyway. But she lets me have my secret, for whatever reason, and I let her have her fantasy. We’re both fucked up in different ways, but we agree to accept that. No more questions asked.

SAM

I knew the bottom would fall out. Eventually. And I want to believe this is the worst of it—that this morning in the hotel room was the inevitable fallout Holden and I have been skirting since high school.

But as bad as it was seeing him lose his temper, and as hurtful as it was hearing what he truly thinks of me (now added to the list right under: see what it’d be like to fuck you), I can’t believe this was the bottom. Oh, the bottom fell out beneath us, all right, but we haven’t hit bottom yet.

I’m terrified to find out how far our bottom goes.

I glance at him from out of the corner of my eye. He’s focused on the road, his gaze straight ahead. His teeth drag over his lip ring, as if he’s deep in thought. He let the subject of my psychosis drop at the speedway. Which is good, because I’m not going to argue with him. I don’t care whether he believes me or not. Truthfully, I was hoping to avoid discussing it at all. Despite my feelings toward Holden, I don’t want to hurt him. Not by using Tyler, anyway.

I can imagine if it were the other way around, and he was trying to convince me that Tyler was stuck on this plane. I’d be angry and resentful and feel gutted.

But there was no way, with the amount of time we have to spend together, that he wasn’t going to witness something. It was inevitable. And I could curse myself for getting drunk, but really, letting go felt good. I won’t punish myself for it.

I wanted to trust he was trying to respect my privacy by not bringing it up before, because I knew he had to have heard something. There’s no privacy on the island; everyone talks. But really, I’m sure he just doesn’t want to deal with it. Who would? My own father keeps skipping town so he doesn’t have to.

Besides, I don’t need Holden’s approval. Couldn’t care less. And he has his own reason for doing this trip. Fine. I’m just angry with myself for ever believing that he forced his way into coming because he was actually worried about me. I should’ve known he had his own agenda.

But the truth (most of it) is out now. We’re tolerating each other for Tyler. I almost laugh out loud. It’s like the past all over again. Me being at their house for holidays before Holden left after his graduation, and us uncomfortably smiling and making small talk, all for Tyler.

Only now, I have an inside glimpse into what the two guys in my life were going through during that time. I have the answers to secrets I never even knew existed, but could always sense were there. And it might be wrong to dive into that rabbit hole (Alice didn’t come out unscathed), but it’s now a compulsion. I have to. No matter the outcome.

With Tyler’s permission, at least, I don’t feel as deceitful. Just slightly less slimy. I only wish Holden would trust me. Would trust that I’d never betray Tyler by revealing anything. I’d never tell anyone. Even though I think Holden should do or say something about his father, it’s his place. Not mine.

Tyler can no longer speak up for himself. He needs someone to talk for him. And his brother should be that person.

That’s a whole other argument, though. And I’m choosing my battles. For now.

Sinking into my seat, I pull my paperback higher. I’m still invested in finding any shred of evidence that could help Tyler’s case. If it’s the only thing I can offer Holden once this disaster of a trip ends, then I’ll wade through the dark waters to find it. Tyler deserves at least that.

After a while, Holden groans and shakes his head, interrupting my reading. “What?” I sit up. “If you hate this band so much, why do you have their album?” I mark my place in the journal and flip it and the paperback closed. Then I reach to change the disc.

“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.”

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.”

His eyes penetrate mine, won’t allow me to look away, as his words break down the hardened bark that surrounds me. My eyes sting. I can feel them welling up, and if I blink, I know tears will spill over. I hold them open, fighting against the wind.

Finally, Holden releases my arm and lies back down, freeing me from his hold. My skin is cold, the contrast in temperature jarring, missing the warmth of his hand.

And right now—in the second that clarity overrules my heart—I remember why that little girl fell in love with the boy in the first place. He might have compared me to the heartwood, but he’s like the bark. Rough and fractured, guarding, protecting the living part inside.

It makes me ache for everything that was lost. For him. For me. Between us. I want to know why, and how, and what happened that day to make him turn on me more than ever.

Shit. I can’t do this again. I worked too hard to close off that part. And now, I don’t have Tyler to mend and put me back together again.

“Enjoy your nap,” I say, standing and picking up my sketchbook.

As he closes his eyes, before I can pull myself away, I take a mental snapshot for my drawing. One good memory out of a million painful ones. I can keep at least this one.

HOLDEN

I feel the cool drops hitting my face before I hear the shouting. I’m in that groggy, in-between state where you know you’re sleeping, but can’t wake yourself up fully. But when another scream blasts my eardrums, I discern Sam’s startled cry, and I bolt upright. Wide awake.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Sam yells.

Shit.

I glance around, looking to put a hurt on someone—her voice is that frantic. But there’s no one besides us. I watch her face redden as her voice pitches even higher, and realize she’s having a meltdown. That’s almost worse. I could’ve handled putting my fist through a real person.

Sam shouts again. To the air. To the fucking invisible air.

Pushing myself onto my feet, I start toward her. I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, only to stop when she swings her hand out and slaps air.

“You dick! I can’t believe . . .” She hangs her head. Her chest rises and falls as she huffs short, heavy breaths. “Shit, Tyler.” She laughs, but it’s filled with spite. “Oh, don’t even go there. Kevin Banks flirted with me. I never did anything to lead him on.”

What the hell? “Sam,” I say, my tone low and warning. I don’t want to frighten her out of her current mental state, but she’s losing her shit. She needs to calm down.

Her heated eyes snap to me. Then they widen, and she stomps toward me. Gets right into my personal space. Her head is cocked back, her eyes staring up, red-rimmed and glassy. “You knew he cheated on me?”

And the air is punched from my lungs. My mouth opens and closes.

“You assholes!” She shakes her head. “I swear, I’ve now put up with too much shit from the both of you. You’re both alike. The biggest assholes, and I’m the stupid girl that—” She bites off her rant, her lips pressed together so tightly they’re turning white.

“Sam,” I try again, straining to keep my voice level. I hold up my hands, reach out, and then drop them by my sides. “What the hell are you talking about?” I fail. My cool is officially gone.

Her head whips around, and she points a finger at the air. “Don’t even . . . I don’t care if you claim you don’t think you actually sleep with her. I don’t buy that crap. You better fucking remember. But even still, you thought about it?”

My heart is in my throat, and I’m now looking between Sam and the empty place she’s screaming at. I make a call. Play the game, just until she composes herself. “He didn’t sleep with her.”

Spinning around, she levels me with a look that could flay me. “You’re covering for him. Don’t. Not anymore. I want the fucking truth.”

The only thing I can think of is . . . The memory closes off, my brain trying to shut it down. I force through the barricade. Drudge up the horrific and painful memories.

The night Mom died, right before . . . Tyler and I were out at a bar celebrating his birthday. A little redhead had been hanging all over him, and we’d gotten into a fight. Me telling him that he was going to fuck everything up with Sam. And him drinking himself into oblivion. He was having second thoughts about marrying Sam so young. He was freaked out, claiming he’d only ever been with one girl. That he wanted to have one fling before he tied the knot. I was pissed. Beyond pissed. Sam was . . . everything. Everything I had wanted and given up. For him. And I drove my hand through the bar bathroom wall instead of his face.

“Sam,” I say again, trying to collect my thoughts. “I promise you, Tyler didn’t sleep with her. He was drunk. That’s all. I sent him—” I cut off. Shit. I rake my hand through my hair.

Her eyes narrow. “You sent him where?”

I told this story so many times—to police officers, my dad, lawyers, everyone—I should be able to spit it out without thinking. But I slow myself, making sure I don’t slip now. “I called a cab and sent him home. That was the night I got into the wreck. With my mom in the car.” I take a breath, finding my words easily now. The lie falls from my mouth. “I sent Tyler home and drove his car. Remember? He was at home, passed out, when the cops got there.”

Realization flashes in her eyes. She’s going over that night, too. After I was taken into custody, the police told my father that his wife was dead. Sam stayed with Tyler the rest of the night, comforting him. I watch as it finally clicks in her mind.

She turns around and says, “Okay. Okay. So you didn’t sleep with her. But how could you even think about it? With some chick you don’t even know?” I can hear the tremor in her voice. The pain splintering through her. “And I’m just finding out now?”

A blast of cold air seeps into my pores, freezing me from the inside out. I’d been so focused on getting her to calm down that I hadn’t stopped to question why now—in the middle of nowhere Mississippi—she’d chose to confront her invisible, dead boyfriend about his infidelity.

With a backward step, I stumble over my own feet.

I won’t buy it. I don’t. My hands start to shake, and I clench them into fists. Then I latch on to the anger building below the fear. It pushes away the cold chill sweeping over my skin.

“You’re this desperate to make me believe Tyler’s a ghost that you’d stoop to this?” I shake my head, fury igniting my insides. “Stop. Stop it now.”

When she looks at me, her face is pale, her eyes large and round. The hurt in her expression slams my chest hard. “I’m not trying to do anything, Holden. I just found out. And . . .” She furiously swipes at a tear. The charcoal from her fingers smears her skin. “I can’t do this. It’s too messed up.”

It’s the first thing she’s said that I agree with. This is messed up on so many levels.

Her chest is heaving, her breaths coming in quick bursts. She lets loose a scream, piercing the air and my eardrums. Her whole body is wracked, shaking, and she turns her attention back to the empty air. “I can’t even slap your ass!” She tries unsuccessfully to strike something solid, her hands flailing. This girl is losing it. Right now.

Chancing getting slapped or kicked, I move in and grab her arms. She breaks free and balls her hands into fists, beating my chest. I close my hands around her wrists and haul her against me. She shakes her head, over and over, and I can see the sanity being lost. She’s tripping over the edge.

“Sam.” I tuck her arms between us. Keeping her fists pressed against my chest, I wrap an arm around her back and grip her jaw with my free hand. I hold her firmly in place, force her look into my eyes. “Sam!”

The haze covering her eyes, whatever crazy is torturing her brain, starts to clear. Her breathing shallows, and her gaze locks on to mine. My fingers loosen, spreading over her soft skin. Brush her snarled hair from her face. Wipe the black smudge from her cheek. As I’m staring into her yellow-green irises, my hand fists at the back of her shirt, and our breaths begin to sync. Our bodies are connected by a taut cord, charging the sliver of air between us.

She blinks.

I swallow. “Get in the truck.” Slowly, I uncurl my fingers from her tee. Pry my hand from her face. And release her.

She backs away, her eyes never leaving mine. Then, before she’s halfway across the park, she turns back toward the emptiness. “Don’t come around me. Not until I ask you to. I don’t want to see you right now.”

My breath whooshes out painfully, the ache in my chest deep and fire-hot. I look around. For what, I have no idea. Sam is going to drive me crazy. In so many ways. Scrubbing my hands down my face, I curse under my breath.

As the sky opens up, releasing the rain, I bunch up the blanket and trash and Sam’s uneaten food, and head toward the truck.

Sam hasn’t said a word since we got back on the highway. She’s curled into a ball, reading her book. She just shut down. Why she chose back there to have a yelling match with Tyler, I have no clue. I don’t know what set her off, but I need to figure it out. To avoid it.

Fuck. Now she has me thinking of my brother in the present tense. If Tyler—oh, my shit—were really ghosting it around, he’d have some choice words for me, I’m sure. He’d have done everything in his power to stop Sam from being alone with me. I have to keep reminding myself of this fact. All the lies, all the bullshit, being around Sam and having to hold everything in . . . I’m getting mixed up.

This is how her mind has to work things out, though. She’s making excuses so she can keep her fantasy going. Like apparently, he’s forgetting things and being sucked into limbo. But it’s what her mind has to do to keep believing her own lies.

I know all about believing one’s lies. It’s exactly what I’ve been doing for nearly the past year. We can convince ourselves, if we lie to ourselves long enough, of just about anything.

I have no right to think anything bad about Sam, though. I’m just as fucked up as her. But she, at the end of this trip, gets to go back. I don’t. I’m stuck with all the blackness and lies. And I should never have dreamed that I could be around her and not become just as unhinged. Especially when I knew going in that she thinks she’s talking to my dead brother.

I grip the wheel, tighten my fingers until my knuckles go white. The cut on my hand was almost healed, but it’s throbbing now. There’re so many levels of pain and wrong and I hate dealing with them all. Up until now, I’ve been handling my brother’s death. But this shit is trudging painful things up, and I’m having a hard time beating them back down.

Death Cab for Cutie is blasting over the speakers, and we’re about twenty minutes outside of Memphis. Stop number two on The Most Fucked up Road Trip of All Time. From here on out, I have to decide how to handle her outbursts. I still have the backup plan. But I don’t want to go there. Not yet.

Obviously, Tyler told her a lot. If he fessed up about the redhead, then he might’ve told her the whole story, too.

So, is she fucking with me? Unless she’s really that far gone, no. I don’t think she is. She’s never been that good of an actor. I’ve been in somewhat of denial, but at this point, I’m coming to terms that Sam is really mental.

Regardless, if I find out Tyler told her everything, I’ll just have to be convincing and persuade the outcome. I don’t want it to go that far. I hope she doesn’t make me have to take it that far.

With a grunt, I reach over and flip the glove box open. Sam startles. I ignore her inching away from my hand, like it doesn’t bother me that she wants to be nowhere near my touch, and reach for my emergency pack.

Sam pushes her book under the seat and pulls her knees to her chest. I’ve noticed she does this when she’s nervous. “Since when do you smoke?” she asks, her voice raspy from shouting. If this whole thing wasn’t so fucked up, it’d sound sexy.

Packing the cigarettes on the wheel, I thump the box a few times. “I don’t. Not anymore.” She cocks an eyebrow. Badly. I almost laugh at her attempt. “I started up right after I left home, but I stopped not long after. I keep a pack around for emergencies.”

She drops her feet to the floorboard. “Can I have one?”

I shrug and flip out a cigarette, then nod toward the glove compartment. “There’s a lighter in there.”

She lights hers and coughs, fanning a hand in front of her face before she hands me the lighter. “Oh, God. That’s as bad as I remember.”

My lips stretch into a small smile against my will, and the weight pressing on my shoulders lessens. “Did Tyler ever find out I got you to smoke that time?”

I can feel her tense up. That cord between us snaps tight. “I don’t want to talk about him. Not right now.” She rolls down her window and flicks the ashes out.

Inhaling a deep drag, I roll down my own window and then blow out, watching the smoke get sucked out of the cab. I didn’t mean to bring him up, but fuck. He’s my brother. “That’s kind of hard, considering we’re doing this trip for him.”

She takes another drag and then stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray, apparently not feeling it anymore. Then she sinks into her seat. “I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

My gut twists. And I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “Omission is betrayal . . . to a certain extent. But he technically didn’t do anything. I think, considering everything, you should cut him some slack.” Truthfully, I don’t know if I’m talking about him or me.

She looks at me and bites down on her lip. I swear, if she keeps doing that, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. I adjust in my seat, shifting my suddenly alert dick. I’m trying hard not to have these thoughts of her.

“Yeah, well. I think it’s complete betrayal. He should have said something. He was the one who proposed to me.” She laughs darkly. “He didn’t even have a ring, but I didn’t care. That stuff wasn’t important to me. And I wasn’t sure, either. I had doubts. But I would’ve talked to him before I slept with someone else.” She holds up a finger. “And don’t try to play that ‘he’s a guy’ card. It’s bullshit. I’m sick of the fucking double standard.”

“Agreed,” I say. “I’m not arguing the facts here. Not going to debate right and wrong. I’m just saying, he’s not here to tell you his side of the story.” I cast her a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile. “He’s not really here.”

“Okay,” she says, and I brace myself for an argument, anyway. But she floors me when she says, “You were there, right? You tell it.”

Christ.

SAM

Driving through the city of Memphis feels longer than it actually took to get here. Holden wanted to take the scenic route, but after stopping and going at about ten lights, he cursed and pulled a U-turn, jumping back onto the highway to get to our designated location.

Buildings and concrete and lights, even in the daytime, are everywhere. After riding for so long with nothing around for miles but fields and trees, it’s almost a shock to my system. The park on our left, full of green and people, ends, and the Mississippi River comes into view. Yawning and endless. I can see a bridge stretching over the glassy water top, and I can’t wait to view it at night, lit up and reflecting off the river.

Holden didn’t have much to say on Tyler’s “supposed” betrayal. He told the same story again, like he’s rehashed it a million times. And, I guess he has. I feel awful making him recall the events of that night. I know how painful it is for him. And when he repeated, again, that Tyler went home in a cab (no redhead with him), I let it drop. I loved Shannon like a second mother, and Holden shouldn’t have to relive that night. Not now. Not because of some fight between me and Tyler.

I feel scraped raw, empty, and too tired to think. I don’t want to think.

“This is definitely one of my favorite stops so far,” I say. My voice feels flat as I stretch my neck to see the top of a building.

Holden chuckles. “We’ve only had two.”

I pretend not to hear him. I’m sure he doesn’t count the Oak Picnic as an important stop on our trip, but before my world fell apart, it was for me. I feel ridiculous, like I’m fourteen and making up stuff in my head, running down the path on my way to see him, just to be reminded how very ridiculous I am.

And what’s more? I’m angry. Angry over the dumb flutters in my chest when our hands touch as we’re reaching for the stereo knob at the same time. Angry that my stomach tumbles when his blue eyes seem to see me. Really see me. Like how they did a long time ago.

Angrier, still, that I’m feeling and thinking like this at all. It’s only been five months since I lost Tyler. And, he’s not even gone. Not really. Not yet. Despite the past two hours, and the heartache kicking me in the soul, I still love him. And miss him. I miss what he was before he became this . . . whatever he is now.

He doesn’t tell new jokes, only repeats the same ones from when he was alive. Doesn’t look at me with deep chocolate eyes; they’re now faded and the gleam is too distant. Won’t even fight me with the passion he once used to have. He could win any argument—it always drove me nuts. Now, he only claims to be forgetting, incapable of feeling anger, bitterness, hurt—and unable to do anything to make me not feel those things.

He was always the one who could get me out of whatever funk was bringing me down.

And I hadn’t noticed any of this until Holden’s very here presence made me so painfully aware of it.

Now, this trip is even tainted. When Holden had fallen asleep under the oak, I thought I could skip ahead in the journal, look for something near the end that might give us a clue if Tyler’s hit-and-run wasn’t simply an accident.

Holden’s main purpose, I’m starting to think, is finding out who was driving that car the night Tyler was hit. The only evidence there has ever been is what the few witnesses claimed they saw: a small red car driving away. That’s it. And even when I’d upset Holden, bringing up his past, he put that aside to keep going on this trip. I wanted to find something that could help him on his quest.

When I read that Tyler kissed that girl—everything turned red around the edges. I flung the journal under the seat and shouted until Tyler appeared. I didn’t care if he used up every last bit of his energy to manifest in the daytime. I was confronting him.

In life, Tyler would’ve fought back. Would’ve yelled and screamed and matched me in every verbal blow. But this version? All he can do is claim he can’t remember. He has no memory of the redhead. No memory of that night, other than when he let me hold him after the news of his mother’s death hit.

That’s more frustrating than if he admitted he’d fucked her. I can’t even rail at him, take out my hurt and feel justified because what made Tyler, Tyler . . . is disappearing.

How the hell am I going to keep this up?

Fine. He didn’t sleep with that girl. That woman. Whoever. (I want to pull my hair out!) And I knew going in that I’d discover things that would test me. All I can do is keep going. I shouldn’t have skipped ahead in the journal. I need to read everything. Everything that lead up to how Tyler got to that place. I have to understand, at least, how and why. How we got there. And it will probably kill me, but there’s no turning back now.

Forward or nothing at all.

“We’re here,” Holden says as he pulls into a parking spot and puts the truck in gear, popping the e-brake. “Just off the corner of Beale Street.”

We’re parked in a garage under a Hampton Inn. A hard lump forms in my throat as I reach for Tyler’s map. But I made a promise, and no matter what happens on this trip, I owe it to Tyler to keep it. If Holden can push his hurt and despair and emotions aside for this, so can I.

I locate Beale Street on the map. “Because partying like a rock star is a must.” Despite myself, I laugh. “He wanted to hit every bar on the strip, but mainly BB Kings. And learn how to . . . juke?” I laugh again. “Something about juking.”

Pushing a fist into the palm of his other hand, Holden pops his knuckles. “BB Kings is blues. Tyler didn’t listen to blues music. And what the hell is juking?”

I shrug. “He also didn’t party like a rock star. But I guess we’ll find out.”

He cracks a smile. “I think I get it.”

I raise an eyebrow, hoping he’ll let me in on the know, but he just smiles wanly and jerks his head. “Come on. Let’s check in. I need to rest for sure before this.”

As we step out, the warm air, city noises, and chaos of Beale Street engulf me. A thrill hits my blood, and I feel alive. Free. And remembering Tyler’s past, his abusive father, the expectations for him to become a lawyer—always doing what was expected of him—I think I get it, too.

This trip, one that Tyler had been planning since middle school, was a form of escapism the average person takes for granted. With a pang, my chest aches deeply. Was the redhead an escape, too? Did I put unreasonable demands on him that he had to run into her arms? I don’t want to blame myself. And I know I’m just feeling self-pity. But there was so much festering beneath the Tyler I thought I knew. I can’t help but blame myself for not seeing it.

And a horrible, painful thought hits me. We hadn’t slept together since before that night. Was it because he felt too guilty? Maybe he was working up the courage to tell me before he could be with me again. Or maybe he was trying to end things.

I was so oblivious to everything else, maybe I just couldn’t see what was really happening. I can’t think about it anymore. I just can’t.

With a heavy sigh, I decide (for now) to put my hurt pride and feelings aside. With forward momentum, I walk ahead, toward the hotel, and plan to party like a rock star.

For Tyler.

At the check-in counter, I don’t even try to pay. Holden already has his wallet out and is requesting rooms.

“I’m sorry,” the guy behind the counter says, tapping away at his keyboard. “There aren’t any available rooms next to each other.” He looks us over, waiting.

Holden’s expression darkens. He said at the last hotel he didn’t want us far apart. Some manly thing he has going on where he feels more in control, able to sense danger, and can get to me quickly (again, Douchebag Superman). Because I need rescuing, apparently.

I turn toward Holden and shrug. “I’m a grownup if you are.”

This gets a clipped laugh from him. “All right.” He nods at the guy. “One room, two beds.”

A tingling sensation travels through my body, and I immediately tamp it down. Once I got over Holden in high school, and knew that I could love Tyler fully—for him and not a rebound—I never had any residual feelings about Holden.

Truth is, I didn’t have to worry about it. I never saw him after he left the island, and loathing for the asshole I thought I once cared for took precedence. But now . . . I don’t understand why these old feelings are bursting through the dam. Like they were never really done, just on hold.

No matter what Tyler “almost” did, I feel disgusting. I’m not like that. I’m a one guy kind of girl. But I can’t deny that, when Holden lets me in past his walls, like at the oak . . . I want more. More of that Holden he apparently has locked away.

We exit the elevator on the fourth floor and find our room easily. When I step inside, I’m instantly drawn to the window. “Wow.” It overlooks part of Beale Street, and the buildings of the city stretch on, high against the light skyline.

I turn back around as Holden tosses his bag at the foot of the bed. He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m going to go clean out the truck. So it doesn’t get funky.” My cheeks flush, remembering my discarded food that got tossed in during my meltdown.

“You want me to help?”

He shakes his head. “No. You rest up.” He turns to go, but pauses at the door. “Are you hungry? I saw a food court near the lobby. I could bring you back something. Or we can wait and grab something later.”

“I’ll wait,” I say. “But thanks.”

He nods, not making eye contact, then leaves. The door’s audible click makes me flinch, and the silence that follows is thick and consuming. I look out the window again, my thoughts banging against my brain as I watch people walking along the sidewalks.

“You’re still in love with him.”

Tyler’s voice startles the shit out of me, and I turn and grab my chest. “Hell.” I take in deep breathes before his words register in my mind. “What are you talking about?”

He looks stricken, his features pulled into a wounded expression. “I never used to scare you.”

His words blanket me in shame. “I just have a lot on my mind right now.” I leave my meaning open.

Taking two steps closer to me, he nods, understanding. “I can’t erase the past. And I can’t even give you an explanation. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. It’s not good enough. But know that I am sorry, Sam.”

“I know.” And I do. “Look, it’s too soon to do this again. I need . . . I don’t know. Let’s leave it in the past. For now.”

He soundlessly slips his hands into his pockets. His aura is even more faded in the dim lighting of the hotel room. “That day in your room, months before we officially got together, I knew why you were crying.”

My chest constricts. I don’t want to relive that either. “Let’s not, Tyler.”

“You always had a thing for Holden. And I was willing to wait. To be patient.” He smiles. It’s sad and heartbreaking. And I always thought, in the back of my mind, that he had to have known. I was just too much of a coward to confess any of it to him.

I take a step toward him. “I was meant to be with you.”

His smile stretches, pulling at my heartstrings. “Oh, I know,” he says assuredly, cocky as hell.

I can’t help it. I laugh.

“But,” he says, moving another fraction of an inch closer. “Tell me that you only loved me. That I was the only one you were meant to be with.”

“Tyler . . .” My voice breaks.

“You and Holden were so much alike. Even after we were together, I think you were still fighting it. Maybe more than me.”

“Dammit. Stop. I crushed on him when I was a kid. I loved you. You were always there for me, no matter what. You were my best friend. We shared everything. Holden—” I jerk my head sideways, annoyed I’m even having to explain this. Not sure I can.

“Is a douchebag?” Tyler offers.

I burst out laughing, and hear the key card enter with a beep before Holden walks into the room. He stops and stares at me, still in a fit of laughter. His eyebrows raise.

“Do I want to know?” he asks.

Tyler gives me a sad smile before fading away. I look down, and then up at Holden. “Your brother called you a douchebag.”

One of those rare, true smiles forms on Holden’s face. “He knew me.”

HOLDEN

“Just water?” I ask Sam. Since being seated at a corner table in BB Kings, she’s been quiet. Distant. Even though I didn’t make a big thing about walking in on her, again, having a moment with her ghost version of my brother.

I’m learning to roll with the punches.

“Uh, yeah,” she says. “I think I drank enough last night. Still have a bit of a headache.”

“And this is how you party like a rock star?”

She sighs. “I’ll make up for it. Later.”

The waitress raises a pen to her pad, and I say over the bass-filled music, “One beer and a Coke. Keep the water coming.”

Sam smirks as the waitress bounces off. “Caffeine will help,” I tell her.

She rubs her temples. “A dose of pain meds would be better.”

“Want me to run and get you some?”

Her eyes finally find me, and the look on her face makes me uncomfortable. Like she’s trying to piece something together. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

She goes back to checking out the bar, and I go back to checking out her. She’s wearing a tight black shirt that hangs off her shoulders, a dark denim skirt—that nearly made my heart leap out of my chest when she walked out of the bathroom—and her hair is tied back in a low ponytail.

I sigh and turn my attention to the blues band on the small stage. The high ceiling and low rafters with silver piping running along the walls makes this place feel like an abandoned warehouse. The band’s doing a raw, moody cover of You Rock Me, and the lyrics are eating a hole right through me. Being with Sam here, now . . . I can almost forget about all the shit that’s happened up to this point. Almost forget knowing that, this thing that’s got her mind all jacked up, it might never get better.

But she’s so damn hot tonight. I want to forget.

Walking down Beale Street, trying to take in the sights and people, all I could do was stare at her. And I think she noticed. She’s uncomfortable now, shifting in her seat. Avoiding looking at me. I don’t know if she and the version of my brother in her head worked everything out, and that’s why she was laughing back at the hotel. Or if she’s really just jumping on the crazy train—

I only know that being around her these past few days is like reopening an old scar with a dull knife, and then dousing it with salt and vinegar. I haven’t allowed myself to be around her—really be around her— in years. And the memories I have of this girl, along with being across from her now, are making my heart race and my body heat. All I know for sure is that I want her back. The old Sam.

The one who couldn’t go a day without painting or drawing. Who didn’t care what others thought of her dark edginess, because she loved her scene and who she was. The one who, despite everything that was messed up about our hometown, saw right through the pretentiousness to the beauty of the island—made it somewhere I wanted to be.

I can’t have her, though. I couldn’t have her then, and I can’t now. She still belongs to Tyler. She’s making sure of that, too. By not dealing with his death in a healthy way, she’ll never heal and be able to be with anyone else.

She’s not meant for me, but I can hope that, by the end of this trip, she’s able to move on. Because she deserves to be happy. With whoever she can find that can do it for her.

The waitress sets our drinks down, pulling me out of my disturbing thoughts. “Your food order is coming right out.” She smiles, and I nod at her.

After we devour our barbeque, I toss my napkin on the empty plate. “All right,” I say. “Not that I don’t appreciate the blues, and not to disrespect my brother’s memory”—Sam looks up at me; her nose ring catches the flashing lights—“but I’m not feeling this place anymore.”

Her mouth parts, her face contorting like she’s about to argue. But then she smiles, the tiny dimple beside her mouth making an appearance. My chest tightens. “I would have totally told Tyler this place is lame.”

That’s my girl. “All right then. We’re out.” I hold out my hand, and she only thinks about it for a second before she allows me to help her up.

Beale Street reminds me of a smaller, cleaner, slightly less beaten down version of New Orleans. That’s not to say it’s not dirty. Or smelly. It is. The street is blocked off at both ends so that people can roam with abandon. The sides of the old, worn-down buildings are lit up with colorful, flashing signs, and music flows into the street from the bars and clubs.

Sam points at something, and I watch a shirtless guy running down the middle of the street. He flips and tumbles and flips again, all the way down the stretch of pavement. We pass a group doing some kind of dance. Their movements limber and smooth, moving to the beat of the hip-hop music tumbling from a club.

I stop when I realize Sam’s no longer beside me. Wheeling around, I see her watching them. “What . . . you want to dance?” I ask, hoping like hell she says no. I mean, I can dance. Some. Just don’t want to in the middle of the street. Or to hip-hop.

“I think that’s what Tyler was talking about.” She nods to a kid as his hands weave through the air, his body following suit as his feet glide over the pavement.

“Juking,” I say, finally making the connection to what’s written on the map. I look up at the flashing sign that reads “Club 152” along the three-story building. Then read the poster taped to the glass. “Juking competition, second floor.”

Sam waggles her eyebrows. “Is this my dare or yours?”

I laugh. We decided that at each stop, one of us would fulfill Tyler’s wishes. No matter how out there. This one? It’s all hers. “I downloaded Talladega Nights and got us into the raceway.”

“Fine. Lame ass.” She pulls me along toward the club.

My chest loosens, the vise-like hold that’s been squeezing it since Mississippi finally releasing its death grip. I love seeing her like this. Daring. Sultry. Sane. As far as I can tell, she’s not hearing or seeing Tyler. Right now.

A bit of remorse hits me. I don’t want her not to love my brother. Or to give him up. Not at all. But I can’t believe Tyler would want to see her this way. That if he really could contact her, he would tell her to stop punishing herself.

I think as the big brother who always looked out for him, who always tried to give him everything and anything to make him happy, I have a right to that opinion. I’ve at least earned that much.

As we pass through the entryway, bass hits my chest with a rattling boom. A black light flickers in the small waiting room, and a huge black guy with muscles bulging from his tank asks for our IDs. He stamps both our hands—Sam’s with an underage sad face; mine with a legal smiley face—then we enter the club.

And it’s like every club I’ve ever been to anywhere. Dark. Crowded. Loud. A disco ball spins in the center of the high ceiling. A huge flat screen projects a rapper singing the song currently pumping over the sound system. Multicolored strobe lights swirl over the dancing throng.

I take the lead, holding on to Sam’s hand as we weave through the gyrating bodies. Finding a less crowded spot, I turn to her. “Want a drink?” I shout over the music.

She nods. Her eyes are taking in the club, her body stiff, her facial muscles tense. I doubt she’s been out at all—to a place like this—since before the funeral. And the anxiety of being around so many people at once, I’m sure is playing havoc on her nervous system.

Hesitant to leave her alone, I glance around. “Come with me.”

Without a fight this time, like when I tried to walk her to the bathroom—which was, admittedly, kind of creepy—she tags along behind me. The bar is surrounded by so many bodies, I can’t find where the drink line begins. But after about five minutes, we inch our way up to the bar top.

I order each of us two drinks from the chick bartender in a black halter. I don’t want to wait in this line again. She quickly checks my stamped hand, and I’m relieved Sam is behind me, out of sight. When the girl places my drinks on the bar, she winks. “Twenty dollars, baby.”

Sam appears by my side and, with her unstamped hand, lays twenty-five dollars on the counter. “Here ya go, hunny.”

My lips twitch, trying to fight back a smile. The bartender gives Sam a curt smile and picks up the money. As I take my drinks, I feel like any guy who has two girls getting rowdy over him. A god.

When we make our way back through the crowd to our spot, it’s no longer ours. Sam wiggles her tiny body through the throng and spots a free table. She points overhead, one drink sloshing.

I use my height to muscle through, clearing a path toward the table. I set my drinks down. “Shit. Catty much?” I say to her.

She shrugs, but offers nothing in her defense. I’d like to pretend she got a little jealous, but I’m not delusional. She’s wound tight, and that bartender presented an easy target.

Scooting my stool closer, I lean in toward her. “That juking thing is upstairs. Would you rather go up there?”

“I think that’s for, like, serious dancers.” She nods toward the dance floor. “There’s a few people pulling some moves out there.” Her attempt at lingo is cute. I smile. Before I can offer to take her out there, she continues. “I’m going to find someone to teach me.” She turns her drink up, draining most of it, and bounces off the stool.

I have no idea what’s gotten into her from when we first entered. Maybe it’s the dare; she’s always taken one on. Or maybe it’s her determination to do this for Tyler. I’m sure he put juking down as a joke, just fucking around. Even so, whatever’s gotten into her, she moves through the crowd like a woman on a mission.

And my stomach clenches as she works her hips in front of some guy dancing, and he’s suddenly more than happy to teach her.

Son of a bitch.

Clutching my drink, I bring it to my mouth and gulp. I’m not the jealous type. I’ve never been serious about any of the girls I’ve dated. And maybe that’s why. But this feeling ripping through my chest . . . I don’t like it.

It makes me feel out of control. And I worked for a long time after high school to get myself under control. Even took Tai Chi for a year. Those fucking breathing techniques are doing shit now as I watch his hand slide up her thigh. Her inner-thigh.

Sam laughs as he tugs her leg into position, then presses up against her, guiding her body from behind. I’m not pissed. They’re just dancing. And as long as he doesn’t cross the line—I’m a guy; I know when the line is crossed—I’m cool.

The song changes abruptly, and the douchebag jumps up and down, pumping his fist in the air with the rest of the crowd. Twirling Sam around to face him, he pulls her close. Sam backs away, says something, and the guy nods.

He shows her a move—his foot doing some slick, twisting movement—and then he smiles at her. My chest loosens. Shit. I look around, trying to get perspective. Everyone is grinding and feeling each other up. It’s a club. I don’t get what the hell my deal is.

I look back at them as Sam’s feet actually pull off the move and laugh. She bounces, so excited, and glances at me. She points to herself and shakes her hips. If she acts any cuter tonight, I’m in trouble.

The asshat next to her doesn’t take the hint that she’s here with someone. He grasps her hips, bringing her body flush against his. The guy’s a lot taller than her—not as tall as me—and he gets lower to dance with her. Pelvis to pelvis.

And that crushing feeling is back with a spike of adrenaline to my bloodstream. I try to suppress it with deep breaths. But as I watch him grinding on her, all but dry humping, an image of me ripping his head off—dumb backward baseball cap and all—invades my mind. He spins Sam around to face him, and his hands roam over her arms. Shoulders. Back. Ass.

Red.

The dark club pulses red in my vision.

I’m off the stool and storming toward them. I knock into a few people, unaware if I’m pushing them out of the way. I don’t want to be that guy. But my jaw is clenched. Muscles corded tight. Hands fisted. And my heart knocks hard against my chest, the pounding muting the music as blood roars in my ears.

The guy must see me coming, because his hands move to Sam’s back as he puts a few inches between their bodies. Too late.

“Hey, man,” I shout, kicking my chin out. His eyes snap to my face. “She’s here with someone.”

He holds up his hands as Sam turns toward me. “Sorry, bro. Just dancing. She’s all yours.” He slides away from Sam and swivels toward another girl dancing with her hands above her head.

My body is still thrumming with the anticipation of a fight when I feel Sam’s hands on my face. She tilts it down so that my eyes meet her large, round ones.

“Relax, Holden,” she says. “He’s harmless.”

I huff out a strained laugh. If she only knew just how untrue her words are. There’s no such thing as a harmless dude in a club, getting wasted with only one thing on his mind. But as her hand slips into mine, the anger seizing my body dissipates. A fraction.

“You wanna go?” she asks.

I watch as her face falls. Fuck. She was having a good time, and I really don’t want to be the one to ruin that. Stuffing my absurd jealousy in a box, I force a smile. “Show me your juking moves.”

With a laugh, she looks down at her feet. “All right,” she shouts as she releases my hand and backs up a step. Then she bounces onto her toe and slides her foot in a smooth movement along the floor. Her hands do a similar, fluid motion before her body follows. She looks up and raises her eyebrows expectantly.

The tightness masking my facial muscles eases, allowing my lips to stretch into a grin. “Awesome.”

“I know!” She bounces, and my chest warms, her scent sending a buzz to my head.

The music changes to a slower beat and she looks around, I guess deciding if we’re going to stand here or go. I make the call. Probably the wrong one, but fuck it.

Winding an arm around her waist, I bring her body against mine. I grasp her chin between my thumb and finger and lift her face, meeting her eyes. And with a hard drop in my stomach, I say, “You’re dancing with me.”

The tiny knot in her throat bobs as she swallows, her eyes clear and knowing. I want her to know who she’s dancing with. I don’t want her to pretend, or to substitute me tonight. I want her to want to be in my arms. And God forgive me, I’m sorry, Tyler . . . but . . . I want her.

There’s no more almost. I’m not falling. Hell, I fell a long time ago.

I just hope the delayed impact doesn’t kill me.

SAM

The strobe lights swirl above the crowd, along the walls, the floor, us. As the music heightens with the change of beat, a blast of light-filled fog cocoons me and Holden, wrapping us in our own world.

A voice of reason is trying to break through the club haze wrapping my brain, shouting that this is wrong. That I shouldn’t be this close to him. I didn’t listen to that voice all those years ago, and I regretted it. But being in Holden’s arms is so easy. Effortless. Against all logic and that voice kicking the walls of my mind, for this one, short moment, I let myself get lost.

Shutting down pain, regret, guilt—I wrap my arms tighter around him, trying to bury all those conflicting emotions, and feel the music thrum through me as I allow him to lead.

Where his hands rove over my body, heat blazes, sending a mix of fire-hot and cold chills skittering along my skin. His pale blue eyes, backlit by the glowing lights, hungrily devour me. I’m concentrating on my breathing, trying to do so normally, as the hard, tight muscles of his chest press against me. His hand roams lower, grasping the back of my thigh, bringing me closer still.

I’m so close to him, pressed so tightly, I ache. Everywhere. Not close enough.

I can feel his hard need against the seam of my skirt. It sends a thrill coursing through me, knowing what my body is doing to him. And when he lowers his head, resting his mouth in the crook of my neck, flames ignite my chest, his lips scorching my skin where they lightly brush. Holy shit. Holy hell.

I slip my fingers into his thick hair and feel his groan reverberate through me as his hips guide mine in a slow, wanting rhythm. His cologne invades my senses. My head is fuzzy, unable to think rationally. That voice in my head is now screaming, trying to be heard over the pounding bass. Over the rushing blood, hitting my heart hard and fast. It feels like it’s about to burst.

His hand guides my leg up, wrapping it around him. Then it travels back down the sensitive stretch, his warm, calloused palms a pleasurable friction against my skin. His lips move higher, just below my ear, and my eyes flutter closed as his hand dips beneath my skirt. The tips of his fingers just graze the seam of my boy shorts . . . so close to the fiery ache building between my thighs . . . excruciating. But if he just touches me—

My eyes fly open. For my sanity (did I really just think that?) I plant my palms against his chest (he feels so good, shit) and press. With just my subtle pressure, he backs away. But his breathing is as labored as mine. I watch as my hand moves with his hurried intakes of air.

“I just need a minute,” I say, probably too low to be heard over the music.

But with a strained nod, Holden begins to lead us off the dance floor. We find our table, and my drink looks so inviting . . . but it’s been sitting out unattended. And alcohol is the last thing I need. “Can you get me a water?” I ask.

With another nod, he takes off. The tightness in my chest releases in a hot breath past my lips. Whatever was happening out there . . . it’s happening too fast. Just this morning, we were at each other’s throats. This whole trip has been one intense moment after the next. No time to equilibrate in-between. And I need . . .

I have no idea what I need.

Tyler made it a point of letting me know he was aware of my feelings for his brother. I didn’t get to finish that conversation with him, though. I can’t imagine he was giving me permission. For anything. And, I don’t get how he remembers all that but forgets other things.

I shake my head, my thoughts becoming muddled the more I try to sort them out.

Tyler also witnessed the devastation I went through the first time around where Holden was concerned. If Tyler wasn’t even a part of this equation, if my brain and heart weren’t so unbelievably fucked up—I still couldn’t entertain thoughts of me and Holden together. Granted he was only seventeen when he said those things, when he shattered me. But he hasn’t proven that he’s changed at all from that guy.

It’s hot and sexy and full of lust in this club. And Holden’s a guy. I’m sure banging me would be no big sacrifice on his part. Like he said all those years ago, he just wanted to know what I’d be like. I clamp my eyes closed, reliving that painful moment, and shut down the frenzied desire pulsing through me.

When I open my eyes, Holden’s setting a water bottle on the table. “You want to get out of here? Are you feeling okay?”

I don’t know which question to answer first. But this environment isn’t a good one for us. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Once we’re outside, the cooler night air hits me, sobering my body and thoughts. I gulp down my water, diluting the alcohol further. My ears are muffled, the loud music from inside the club still ringing in my head. People are dancing right outside the building, and we’re being hurried to walk on the sidewalk as the crowd pushes in.

“I can get you something,” Holden says, keeping close to my side. “An aspirin. Stomach medicine. What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. It just got too hot in there.” Shit. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I glance up at him, and a sly smile curves his lips. “You know what I meant. God, Holden. Vain much?”

He chuckles. The rumble of his voice weakens my knees. I turn my sight ahead. “I know what you meant,” he says, laughter lingering in his deep voice. “Well”—he looks around—“we can find another bar. We still have to hit every one, right?” He examines my expression closely. I feel my brow furrow. “Okay. Agreed. We’re pushing it. It’s been a long couple of days. Maybe sleep is best.”

I exhale the tension from my chest. “Thanks. I think Tyler will let us off the hook on this one.” I bite my lip, definitely not meaning that the way it sounded.

He’s quiet for a minute as we take the corner toward the hotel. “Yeah,” he finally says. “He’ll probably forgive us.”

I can’t tell if he’s insinuating anything, or if he’s just going along with my crazy. I decide to let it drop. And once again regret not taking my shrink up on her offer of anxiety meds. Just the thought of trying to sleep in the same room as Holden has my heart racing. My stomach clenching. I doubt I’ll be able to fall asleep for a long time, if at all.

I’m tempted to stop at a drug store and grab some sleeping pills, but push the thought aside. I’ve never depended on anything to get me through shit, not even Tyler’s death. I’m strong enough to deal with Holden, too.

Keeping the reminder that he’s an asshole fresh on my mind should help.

We ride the elevator up in silence. The weight of things unsaid heavy between us. And when we enter the room, the stillness is deafening. I can hear my heart beating, and the pressure building beneath my skin makes me want to claw at my arms. Wanting to unleash whatever fire is trying to consume me.

Plopping onto the bed, I kick off my shoes, grateful I at least wore my Converse tonight, and won’t suffer from sore feet tomorrow. Holden flicks on the TV, and the sound settles my nerves. Some. The quiet between us is still too thick.

Holden rummages through his bag, pulls out a white T-shirt. I think he’s about to change, and my stomach knots all over again, until he tosses his bag on the floor and heads to the bathroom.

My forehead creases. Not that I’m not thankful for his decency not to change in front of me . . . but I’m starting to think he’s purposely hiding his tattoo. Most guys, especially in the residence hall, walk around shirtless all the time. It’s like, they want every girl to see them half naked. I don’t know whether Holden’s just being chivalrous, or what. But my curiosity over his tattoo is becoming morbid.

He steps out in his tee and blue and black checkered boxers. My heart skips a beat. I guess he has no qualms about walking around in front of me wearing those, however. “It’s all yours,” he says, jerking his head toward the bathroom.

“Thanks.”

The uncomfortable tension between us is palpable. I could reach out and carve my hand through it. Pushing down the anxiety roiling in my stomach, I yank out my sleeping clothes from my pack and go to the bathroom.

Locking the door behind me, I flip on the vent. Then brace my hands on the sink counter. “Shit,” I breathe. The mirror reflects the emotions tormenting me clearly on my face. I look ill. Terrified. Turned on.

“Tyler,” I whisper. And wait. I just need to see his face. Feel his presence. Be reassured that he’s still with me. When he doesn’t materialize, “Tyler. I need you.” Silence.

With shaking hands, I strip off my clothes. I’m just pushing my sleeping shirt over my head when a knock sounds at the door.

“Sam.” Holden’s voice is gruff and questioning. Worried. “Open up.”

I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but the last thing I want to do is open that door. Look into his pale eyes and see the same desire in them I saw back at the club. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not strong enough. I know that for a fact now. I’m battling too much, too soon, and I’ll sleep in the damn tub if I have to.

The knock comes again. “Look. You’re scaring me.” A beat. “I’ll bust down this door if I have to.”

I have no doubt that he will. Filling my lungs, I suck in a steadying breath, and yank the door open. “I’m fine. I’m a girl, ya know. We need more maintenance.” I hike my eyebrows, hoping my joke and forced, cool demeanor throws him.

It doesn’t. He’s braced against the doorway, his hands gripping each side of the doorframe, like it’s all that’s holding him back. Stopping him from getting to me.

As his gaze drifts down my body, lingeringly, I realize I hadn’t yet put on my sleeping bottoms. Holden’s biceps flex as he strains against the doorway. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down on one of the studs. A shudder wracks my body.

Please, go away. Now. “I’m fine.” My voice is small, shaky. And not convincing in the least. But I just need him to give me five minutes to pull myself together. If he keeps looking at me like that, my legs are going to buckle. And if he touches me . . .

He blows out a heavy breath and pushes away from the doorway. I can see the physical and mental fight it takes for him to do that one action. With a backward step, he says, “All right. Goodnight, Sam.” And then he turns and leaves. The audible click of him turning off the table light and then the darkening of the room sends my nerves back on high.

I still need time, so I grab the toothpaste, and with a breathy curse, realize I didn’t bring my toothbrush in with me. I turn on the faucet. Wetting my finger, then squirting a line of toothpaste onto it, I decide it will have to do.

When I’ve talked myself down enough, and know that Tyler isn’t going to make an appearance, I turn off the light and the vent, and then walk out. The white-blue flicker of the TV illuminates my quick path to the bed. I keep my gaze on the carpeted floor. Then I crawl under the covers. They’re cool and crisp, dousing some of the heat still clinging to my skin.

And with a groan, I realize that I still forgot to put on my bottoms. Hell. What is wrong with my brain? The answer comes with Holden’s hurried movements, adjusting his position in the bed next to mine. Just the sound of him rearranging his pillows and rustling his covers sends my nerves careening against my arteries.

I force my eyes closed. Will myself to fall asleep. My traitorous hormones have no control over me. Holden is an asshole. He’s my boyfriend’s brother. He broke my heart—but his words at the oak begin to pulse through me, hitting me hard. What if I was wrong about him?

With his past, I can’t imagine how messed up he must have been during that time. I don’t know anything, really, about the man lying in the bed next to me. And suddenly, I want to.

My mental assault breaks off as I hear Holden’s deep exhale. “Are you still not wearing pants?”

Shit. And what’s my excuse? “No. It’s pretty stuffy in he—” No time to finish that sentence as Holden bounds from his bed and stands over me, the evidence of his torture apparent in his boxers.

He rips the covers back, and I yelp. “What are you—?” But obviously words mean nothing to him. His eyes are blazing blue, even in the dim light, and he forcefully moves between my legs to hover above me.

“Holden,” I say, trying like hell to put conviction in my tone. “We can’t. You know this is wrong . . . on like . . . so many levels.”

He nods. “I know. And I’m going to answer for every one of my sins. But right now, I don’t give a fuck.” He grasps my ankles and pulls, flattening my back against the bed. My tee rides up, exposing my black boy shorts and stomach.

My skin tingles as Holden slowly raises my leg, resting my ankle on his shoulder. He’s kneeling, using his other hand to angle himself above me. His eyes only release me when he turns his head to press a soft kiss to my calf.

My breath catches in my throat.

His hand skims my leg, his mouth trailing its path, the cool metal of his lip ring sending so many, too many shivers dancing across my skin.

I’ve never felt so helpless, so immobile, and so hopeful that he doesn’t stop—if I don’t move, if I let him continue, can I pretend I’m not a willing participant? No. I can’t lie to myself. If I’m going to stop this, I have to now. Because as his mouth moves to my thigh, and his tongue just grazes my skin, I know I won’t be able to soon.

“Holden—”

“Say anything but stop,” he says, low, his voice husky with need.

I swallow. “Please,” I get out.

“Oh, I’m going to please you. You can bet your sweet ass.” And he sinks his teeth into the flesh just below my center, eliciting a soft moan from my throat.

Against my will, my hands go to his hair and my fingers curl. His groan rumbles through me as he tugs my underwear down. My eyes open.

“Stop.” It comes out soft and desperate, but it’s enough.

He looks up at me from between my thighs. Leaning on his elbows, he grasps my hips with both hands. “You don’t have to do anything, Sam. Just let me make you come. That’s enough for me.” His eyes seek approval, and they reach right into my soul. His words and heated breath against my skin making this the most difficult thing. Ever.

When I don’t deny him, Holden kisses the soft, sensitive skin along my pelvic area, right above my slit, and I gasp. The ache blooms, building into a pulsing pain. As his tongue flicks my skin, and his lip ring grazes me, the ache deepens. All I want is for him to enter me. Make the ache stop.

I turn my head to the side, fist my hands in his hair, as he slips a finger inside while he takes me into his mouth. His tongue strokes, and then swirls. Holy fuck.

“I knew you’d taste just as sweet,” he says. And I can’t help but smile. I haven’t felt desired in so long . . .

He reaches the throbbing ache and pushes his finger in deeper. I arch my hips, wanting, needing more of him. My thighs tighten, pressing against his warm, hard shoulders, as his teeth graze my clit, and when he sucks me into his mouth, I nearly tumble over the edge.

My eyes open and I glimpse the picture box. My heart freezes in my chest.

“Holden, no.” I push against his head. “Please. We have to stop. I’m sorry. Stop.”

With a forced, strained exhale, he removes himself from me and pushes away. The sudden cool air hitting my body sobers me even further.

I pull myself into a ball, wrapping my arms around my legs. “I just can’t . . . Tyler—”

Holden sits back on his heels, his chest heaving. “I know.” Then he’s off the bed, his erection straining against his boxers. I can’t help but look, notice the size . . . and a whole new wave of need seizes me. Stop.

He steps into his jeans and yanks them up, then reaches over and grabs a pillow from his bed.

I swallow hard. “Where are you going?”

“To sleep in the truck.”

“What—why?”

His eyes flay me. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m getting any sleep here.”

Guilt stabs my chest. “So this is my fault?”

His hand pauses as he’s buttoning his jeans. Then he walks toward me and kneels, becoming level with me. “I’m not angry. Nothing is your fault.” He places his hands on either side of my face. “I just can’t be in the same room as you and not be with you. I need to calm down.”

His voice is so earnest, and his eyes are so convincing, I nod. “All right.”

He rests his lips against my forehead, brushing a light kiss, before he backs away and steps into his boots. After the door shuts behind him, the silence blankets me in humiliation.

Sleep doesn’t come easy.

HOLDEN

Stretched out on the bench seat of my truck, willing my thoughts on anything other than Sam, I pound the back of my head into the lumpy pillow. It’s pointless. I can still taste her. Still feel her. Her sweet scent followed me into the cab and it’s swimming in the air. Tormenting me.

I haven’t calmed down at all. My dick presses against my jeans painfully, and I push back, adjusting my rock hard erection against my stomach. That was a fun walk across the lobby. Hell.

If I thought jerking off would help, I’d beat the fuck out of it right now. But that won’t satisfy my need for her. If I thought marching up there and taking an ice-cold shower would douse the fire searing beneath my skin, I’d dive head first into the Mississippi. Okay. That’s extreme. Maybe. But a shower’s out of the question.

I can’t be anywhere near her right now.

I fucked up.

And when she said Tyler’s name . . . shit. Did she see him? Right then? When I was going down on her? How messed up is that. It’s so messed up that I just can’t. My guilt meter tipped over somewhere around the time I started dancing with her at the club. I’m taxed out on guilt at the moment.

My self-loathing for trying to be with a mentally unstable girl puts me on the all-time top douchebag list. I just cleared the first spot, I’m sure. But it’s Sam. Fucking Sam. Sometimes I look at her and just see her. The girl I wanted more than anything. And other times . . . like just ten minutes ago . . . I’m reminded why I should’ve never gone on this trip.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought a plane ticket home tomorrow. And maybe that’s for the best. If she’s expecting an apology, I can’t give her one. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I knew exactly what I wanted.

But hell, she sure as shit wanted it, too. I close my eyes, remembering the feel of her as I slid my fingers inside. The warmth, tightness. Her smooth, soft lips . . .

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I loose a guttural roar into my palms.

I am a masochist.

Rolling onto my side, I give up the fight, letting my thoughts drift back to her. Wondering if she’s beating herself up as much as I’m kicking my own ass right now.

A tapping noise pulls me out of sleep. For a second, I think Sam and I must have gotten too tired to drive and pulled over, until last night comes back in a rush of hot and painful memories.

Shit.

The noise grows louder, and I look up. Sam’s on the other side of the driver’s side window. A cup of coffee in her hand.

My savior.

Pulling myself up by the steering wheel, I slide toward the door and roll down the window. She’s freshly showered, her wet hair falling over her shoulders, and a rosy blush tinges her makeup-free cheeks.

“I thought you might need this,” she says, passing the Starbucks cup through the window. “I’m sure sleeping in your truck makes for a crappy morning.”

Now that most of the blood has returned to my head—well, except the bit that’s sporting my morning wood—I can rationalize last night clearly. I don’t want her to punish herself. To think that she did anything wrong.

“Thanks,” I say, and take a sip. It’s hot and black and perfect. I stare into her eyes. “About last night—”

“Can we not?” The pleading in her voice throws me, and I open and close my mouth a couple of times. Stunned. “I mean. We’re both grownups. Shit happens. We had drinks, the club atmosphere was hot . . . and”—she shrugs—“I’d rather just keep going.”

My brow furrows. “You want to keep going?” I have to ask. For clarity. “On the trip?”

She nods, her lips pinched tightly together.

Fuck. Me.

I rake a hand through my hair and expel a heavy breath through my nose. Look through the windshield at the concrete wall. Think about running my head into it. “Okay.” She wants to keep going on the trip. Not keep going with what happened between us. Understood.

“All right,” she says. “You can shower up and pack your stuff, and I’ll go grab some food for the drive.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. And instead, I watch her walk away. From me. It’s like . . . did we both experience the same thing last night? Did I have any effect on her at all? Not that I’m not grateful she isn’t upset, or angry, or worse than anything, hurt. But, it’s kind of a blow to my ego.

I don’t want her to feel like she betrayed my brother and beat herself up. I’m doing that enough for the both of us. But hell.

All those years ago, everything I felt for her—what I thought she felt for me—was that all in my head? She was young, sure. And I know she truly loved my brother. But last night, I thought I felt something. A connection. The way she was looking at me. And dancing. Shit. I don’t know.

And I won’t even let my mind go where it’s trying to go right now. Nope. Not going to happen. Thinking of Sam comparing me to Tyler in bed is sick on a whole new level. I curse my fucked up brain for even wandering there.

Maybe there’s really nothing between us, on her part—and like she said, she just wants to finish the trip. I’m torturing myself for nothing.

Still, I’m crazy about her. And I don’t know if my sanity will hold out.

However, it’s not worth trying to figure out at eight in the morning in a parking garage in Memphis. So I suck up my wounded pride and hop out of the truck.

After I’m showered, shaved, dressed, and have taken care of business—figured I’d better release some of the stress, or else I’d be in for a long, painful drive—I grab my bag and meet Sam in the lobby. I did note that she didn’t return to the room. At all. So maybe I affected her some. If only slightly.

Either way, I’m ready to leave this city and its new, painful memories behind.

As we’re headed to the garage, Sam says, “We need to find a place for Tyler’s ashes. But I’m not sure where.”

Hell. I actually forgot that part. Now I feel like an even bigger douche. This trip is supposed to be all about Tyler. Not scoring with the girl I lost to my brother back in high school. I need to get my shit together.

“Right,” I say, glancing around, like somewhere special is going to materialize out of the concrete. Then it hits me. “What about the Hernando Desoto Bridge? We’re passing over it anyway, and Tyler had a thing for bridges when he was a kid.” I feel a smile stretch my lips. “He had a shit ton of them for his boxcars.”

Sam’s face brightens. “Yeah. I remember that. Good call.” She smiles at me, and it’s free, unguarded. It almost feels like we’re back to normal. At least where we picked up at the beginning of the trip. It’s not where I want to be. But I’ll take it.

I unlock the truck and slide in, reaching over to open her door. Sam pulls the map from the glove box and traces her finger over the route we’re about to take. “I can’t believe you remembered the name of that bridge off the top of your head.”

Turning the ignition, I check my rearview. “I’ve looked at the map, and I have a photographic memory.” I tap my temple and glance over. And watch her jaw go slack. She stares down at the map, fiddles with her thumbnail, her cheeks reddening and giving away her embarrassment.

My words smack me across the face as realization dawns. Facing forward, I grip the wheel. Shit. Fuck. I pull out of the parking space with more speed then I intend, then peel the tires as I gun it out of the garage.

Trying to make her understand that picturing her half-naked isn’t a bad thing . . . I guess . . . probably isn’t smart right now. So I shut my mouth and drive. It shouldn’t be a bad thing. Not for her, anyway. But for me? I almost laugh.

I used to think my awesome memory was a gift. Got me through a lot of tests I never studied for. But now it feels more like a curse. I can picture her perfect little hot body in my mind every time I close my eyes. And I want to tell her that, it’s not a pervy thing. That she’s beautiful and tantalizing and delicate. That I never knew I preferred a perfectly shaven girl—completely smooth; so fucking sexy—until I saw her. That now, I can’t ever imagine being with anyone else.

Just knowing that she puts in that kind of attention to detail . . . oh, my shit. When I first laid my eyes on her, I didn’t think I could hold out. I wanted her right then. Had to know what she’d feel like around me. But I held back, wanting to bring her to the edge first, to make her want me as badly as I was craving her.

But the look on her face just now says it all. I can’t tell her any of that.

It goes into the lockbox.

After a few minutes, we come up on the bridge, and Sam points out her window at a giant silver pyramid. “Wow. That’s gorgeous.” She glances at the map. “It’s the Pyramid Arena. Too bad we can’t check it out.”

My chest tightens. “We’re not on a tight schedule or anything. We can go. If you really want.”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s fine.” She looks at her lap and says even lower, “I’m over Memphis.”

And she finishes me off. Dagger right to the heart. But what did I expect? After only a few days, the girl I’d fallen for way back when, who was engaged to my fucking brother, who I ignored every time we were around each other after I treated her like shit, would just be ready to hop into bed with me?

I’m beyond delusional. Hell, I’m a guy. I guess a typical one.

Whatever was going on between us at the club was like she said, the atmosphere. Grinding bodies everywhere. Alcohol. And back at the hotel? I took her off-guard. But I think one thing needs to be stated so that she’s not freaked out around me. So that she doesn’t resort to fearing me, the way she did when I first carried her to my truck.

I don’t want her to look at me like that ever again.

“Sam,” I say, my voice raspy. I clear my throat. “I won’t touch you again. I promise.”

Her body tenses. From the corner of my vision, I watch as her shoulders and neck pull straight, her chin lifts a fraction. And I might actually be delusional, but a flicker of something akin to hurt flashes across her face. It hits my chest, so quickly, knocking the breath from my lungs.

But just as quickly, she’s composed. “Thanks. And I won’t, like, wear sexy jean skirts again. I promise.”

I bark a laugh. It escapes my mouth before I can rein it in. She laughs, too, and the tension-filled cab releases some of its pressure.

I’m still smiling as I pull onto the bridge. And so is she.

SAM

Tyler’s picture box feels heavy in my hands. Weighted. Like all my shame has been added to the inside. I inhale a huge breath, taking in the mix of marshy river and city fuel smell as I walk the bridge toward the section overlooking the Mississippi River.

The much needed tension breaker in the truck didn’t last long, unfortunately. Holden and I have to get past last night if we’re going to continue this journey. And I can’t let him take on all the responsibility himself. Not all of it, anyway. But it’s easier, for me, to pretend like it never happened.

Besides, Tyler still hasn’t come back to me. And when he does (because he has to), I don’t want him popping up in the middle of an awkward moment or conversation between me and his brother.

As far as I know, Tyler isn’t aware of what happened. For a moment last night, I forgot about everything—him, us, his death, this trip. And it was just that moment. Holden’s touch disconnected me from my painful reality, and I welcomed the escape. But if Tyler doesn’t know, then it can only mean he was in that darkness.

I hate thinking of him there, trapped, while I was . . . No. I don’t want to think about that. I can’t believe I let myself get caught up in Holden all over again.

Even though I feel like the crap that gets scraped off the bottom of a shoe, and I should be honest with Tyler, I just don’t think I can bear to have that conversation with him. Sure, Tyler kept kissing some girl from me. And I can pretend that last night was just a rebound for my hurt feelings. I can use it as my excuse . . . but it wouldn’t be the truth. Holden and I have a history. There’re feelings I’ve buried—emotions I thought I’d moved on from. Obviously, some of them lingered. The more time we spend together, the more they’re uncovered, resurfacing.

It doesn’t matter, though. At least not right now. Here, standing in the tiny space between the cemented edge of the bridge and the three-lane highway, I’m all Tyler’s. The drama of the past few days disappears, and I feel his absence more prominently than ever.

“I think here’s good,” Holden calls out. He stops ahead of me at the edge and braces a hand against one of the metal cables. His truck is parked a little ways back, the hazards flashing. Cars honk as they speed by, drivers pissed at the two idiots parked on the bridge.

The wind whips my hair around my face as I stand next to him, the satin box getting heavier in my hands. “We need to block the wind,” I say. “And hurry. Someone might smack right into the back of your truck.” I toss my head, clearing the strands of hair from my eyes.

“They’ve got time to move out of the way. People break down on bridges, right?” He smiles, but I can see a bit of worry lacing his blue irises. He loves his truck.

He positions his back to the Mississippi and faces me. As he grasps the bottom of the box, he holds my gaze. I can feel his eyes studying me, analyzing every facial tick.

I take another deep breath and focus on Tyler.

I hope you like it here. I miss you.

As I lift the lid, we turn together, letting the wind catch the ashes. Holden holds the box out for a few seconds as the breeze carries some of Tyler’s remains over the river. I quickly fasten the lid back over the box, cutting out the wind.

Then we stare at the blue sky for a while. Just the whoosh of cars rushing by, the wind in our ears, the distant lapping of the river below.

“I miss him,” Holden says, and a hard lump forms in my throat. It’s as if I somehow said my thoughts aloud, and he’s agreeing with me.

On our way back to his truck, Holden walks beside me on the outside stretch. His hand brushes against mine. I glance down as he flexes his fingers and curls them into a fist. After last night, he promised to never touch me again.

And I let him promise it. Even if somewhere, with everything inside me fighting my feelings for him, and everything telling me that anything I could have with him is wrong . . . I don’t want him to keep that promise.

“Springfield.” I’m looking at our next destination on the map. I’ve been staring at it for the past ten minutes, dodging any kind of engaging conversation with Holden. “Almost five hours, but with the way you drive, I guess we’ll be there in three.”

He chuckles. “Not quite.” He glances over, and his lips tug into a sexy smirk. “But close.”

My stomach tumbles, and I berate myself (for the fiftieth time this morning) for nearly losing control last night.

And Tyler.

Something reaches inside and squeezes my heart. I wish he’d at least let me know he’s here, lingering in the background. I feel like at any moment, he’ll come back. But he hasn’t. Not yet. I’m so scared that he knows what happened between me and his brother and he’s left me for good. His last words confuse the hell out of me. Even if he knew I had feelings for Holden back then, that doesn’t warrant him claiming I’m still in love with him.

Where did that come from?

It hits me suddenly, and I feel like a moron. I can’t talk to Tyler, not right now. But I do have his thoughts. I pull out my paperback from underneath the seat and angle myself away from Holden.

“Must be a damn good book,” he says, peeking over at me.

A mix of shame and panic swirls within me. Shame that I can’t offer to drive some of this trip (him driving the whole way has to be getting old), and panic at what he’d say or do if he discovered the story I was actually losing myself in.

I shrug. “It’s a romance. One of my mom’s books.” Hoping that dampens his curiosity (what guy actually reads romance novels?), I hunker down in the seat. It works, and Holden shakes his head before reaching to turn the volume up on the stereo.

Pink’s Just Give Me a Reason blares out of the speakers. And I can’t help mentally singing along with the lyrics, my chest growing heavier with each word. They fit so perfectly for my and Holden’s . . . whatever it is that’s happening between us.

Shaking the chills away, I bury myself in Tyler’s journal.

Starting from the point where I left off, before I so brilliantly skipped ahead, I skim Tyler’s memories of middle school, a smile forming on my lips when I read about the time he took me to see Pirates of the Caribbean. According to his journal, he considered it a date. His first one. A tiny pebble of guilt forms in my stomach.

I’d thought we were only friends. Best friends, but just friends. After we became more, Tyler told me that he’d always harbored a secret crust on me when we were kids, but I never believed him. Not really. He’d always been a romantic, and I thought he just wanted our relationship to be even more special than it already was. He wasn’t falsifying, though. According to his written thoughts, he loved me. Even back then.

When I get to our freshman year, I stop skimming. I want to know when he suspected me of having feelings for his brother, and even if it’s painful, I want to understand how that affected him. How it affected us.

At some point back in middle school, he must have had suspicions, because by the time we entered ninth grade, he already knew. I feel my brow crease as I read over his bitter words.

“I could say something about Sam being into my brother, but honestly, I don’t want Holden to find out. Right now, she’s too shy to tell him. If I bring it up, what good would that shit do? Just make things uncomfortable between us.

Holden’s never looked at her once that way. But he’s starting to. And I’m starting to freak out. Sam’s not a little girl anymore. Every day I see how much she’s changing. Over the summer, her tits filled out, her ass looks amazing in a pair of jeans, and her hair’s longer. She’s sexy. And what’s worse, she’s Holden’s type. Fuck.

Maybe I should forge a permission slip to get a tattoo, or have Bobby give me a home one. Something to show her that I’m not just some lame ass jock. I know she cares about me. But as a friend. Holden has never showed her any interest until now, always caught up in his art.

Oh, and that’s another thing. Of course they’re both into art. The only time he ever talks to her it’s about their art projects at school. Or this or that about color palettes. Stuff I don’t get. I hate when he’s home and they get to talking about that shit.

He’s all punk rock and bad boy. That shit girls love, even Sam. She tries to play it off like she’s not into that type of guy, but I see the way she looks at him. It pisses me off, but what can I do? Just wait for her to notice how I feel, I guess.

But I swear, if Holden does find out, and he does anything . . . I’ll kick his ass. Sam’s always been mine. He can have any girl he wants. Why he doesn’t, I don’t know that, either. But he can’t have Sam. She’s the one thing that I’d fight my brother for. Even kill for.”

I force my eyes away from the page. Try to tell myself that it’s just thoughts. Everyone has to have an outlet, and Tyler’s home life was more strained than I ever knew. Of course he’d write things like this as a way to express his feelings. I mean, I paint some pretty dark and disturbing scenes when I get into a funk.

But I can’t help the unease that settles over me. Suddenly, the very romantic past that was our history—mine and Tyler’s—takes on a dark edge.

“Sam?” Holden’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I blink.

“Yeah?”

“Something bad happen in your book? You look ill.” He worries his lip ring between his teeth. “Are you getting sick again?”

I shake my head. “What? Oh, no.” I sit up and close the paperback. “Just zoning out. Not really even reading.” I can hear the discomfort in my voice. I don’t want him to be concerned about me, so I change the subject. “How long have we been driving?”

“Three hours. We’re in Missouri.”

“Holy shit. Really?” I look out the window at the green scenery. Flat land and lots of high yellow grass. Scattered trees and power lines. We pass an old-looking tire store, but otherwise, there’s not a lot out here. “You’re hauling ass.”

He laughs. “I think I’m getting impatient to get where we’re going.” His voice drops off at the end, like he didn’t realize what he was saying until it was out there.

No taking it back.

“Are you hungry or anything?” he asks, keeping his gaze on the highway. “We can stop for a while.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine, but if you need a break—”

“I’d rather drive straight through,” he says. “Long as you’re fine, I’m good to go.”

I nod and then look down at the book in my hands. I’m not ready to dive back into Tyler’s past. His feelings. They’re all-consuming and painful, and I’ve been on a constant emotional roller-coaster since this trip started.

“All right,” I say, digging out the leather CD case from under the seat. “Let’s unwind.”

HOLDEN

Sam’s idea of unwinding and my idea of unwinding are very different. I bite down on my lip ring, preventing myself from saying something asinine. I’d have made a joke yesterday. But not today. Not after last night. There’s nothing funny about last night. Just the images in my head that remind me of the small taste I’d gotten, and lost.

My fault, though. I’m the one who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Well, technically, I did. I would’ve stopped after she came. It would’ve been the most painful experience ever, and I’d still be carrying the blue balls to show for it—probably sitting on an icepack right now—but I would have stopped for her.

I know she’s not ready to take things that far. I wouldn’t have pressed her for anything more. But hell, if she’d have asked me to take her in the throes of passion, I’d have ripped off my pants and there’d been no stopping me then.

Best it ended when it did.

Fuck. I lower my lashes and glimpse the hard-on tenting my jeans. And then I peek at her. She’s invested in finding something to listen to, so I shift my weight and tug my waistband, alleviating the pressure in my pants.

I really need to stop thinking about her. In any way.

One thought sobers me and wilts me faster than a cold shower ever could. And I know I’m going to regret asking her, but I need to know. To be able to bury what happened between us for good. “Sam?”

“Huh?” She doesn’t look up from her music search.

“I know this subject has been closed. And I promise, after you answer me one thing, I won’t ever bring it up again.” I glance over. She’s still, a curtain of her hair blocking my view of her face. “But I need to know what exactly . . .” I trail off, trying to find the right words. There are none. I blurt it out. “What made you stop?”

She flips the sleeve and continues to look over the CDs. I think she’s not going to answer or even acknowledge my question, then, “I didn’t see him. If that’s what you’re asking.”

A rush of air leaves my mouth in a relieved exhale. It’s what I’ve been wondering ever since she said my brother’s name. Even though his ghost is all in her mind, the thought that she saw him watching us—while we were at it—turns my stomach.

But now that she’s admitted that’s not what happened, I’m wondering more shit. I’m probably reading too much into it. She loves my brother. He died. She’s suffering some form of psychosis from guilt or an inability to deal, and I’m her ghost boyfriend’s brother. Not just his brother, but the guy who treated her like dirt. So yeah. All those things combined, she’s justified for having a moment of guilt and stopping it.

“All right,” I say. “That is what I wanted to know. And I’m glad that—”

“That what, Holden?” Her head whips up and she looks at me. I quickly check out her tense frame, her eyes narrowed and hurt. “Glad that he didn’t see? Or that you got as far as you did with me? You know what? Let’s just not. If you really want to know, I haven’t seen Tyler since we first walked into that hotel room back in Memphis.”

“As far as I got with you? You think that’s all I’m out for?”

“Drop it. We’re not going there.” She crosses her arms over her chest, shutting down the conversation.

Where the hell did that come from? I’m glad we’re able to talk about it, which sounds stupid now. Real stupid.

“Fine.” I feel my eyebrows draw together. “But look, I know I said I wouldn’t talk about this either”—I angle my body so I can see her better from my peripheral—“but don’t you . . . I mean. Somewhere inside your mind, you have to be wondering if it’s really happening. If it’s not just in your head.” I blow out a heavy breath. “Shit, Sam. If it were me? I’d have asked myself that. I think any sane person would ask themself that at least once.”

And, oh, my shit. Her face blazes redder with every dumb word I say. When I finally shut up, I brace myself against the clutch, ready to drop the truck into neutral if she launches herself at me. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

“You think I haven’t asked myself that?” Her chest heaves, and she’s clutching the CD case like she is about to launch that at my head.

I shrug. “Okay. But have you asked yourself that lately?”

“You asshole.”

“What? Don’t you think that since you’ve left home and gone on this trip, it’s strange how you’re seeing my brother less and less?” I should stop. But hell, there’s no holding back now. “Think about it, Sam.”

“Fuck you.” She tosses the case on the floorboard and unbuckles her seatbelt.

“What the hell are you—?” I cut short as she grips the door handle. “Sam—”

The door cracks open. “I have to get away from you!”

“Shit!” I glance in my rearview, then slam down on the brake and clutch at the same time that I reach out and grab her arm.

The tires squeal and the backend fishtails before we come to a stop. Releasing her arm as she yanks out of my hold, I move to grip the gearshift. “Fuck.” I shift into neutral and pull the e-brake. “Are you—?”

“Crazy?” Her eyes widen and she laughs. “I guess so. At least I’m accepting it. Isn’t that what you want? You want me to admit that I’m nuts so you can have a clear conscience to fuck me?”

I’m breathing hard, my hand gripping the shifter knob so tightly my arm shakes and my knuckles turn white. My gaze drifts over her and lands on the tree tat on her wrist as the echo of her words punch me in the gut. I open my mouth to say something, but she laughs and shakes her head.

“Fuck this,” she bites out under her breath and throws the door open.

“Where the hell are you going?”

She doesn’t bother to respond. Just reaches behind the seat and grabs her pack, then slams the door.

Fuck! I bang my head against the back windshield and release a deep growl through clenched teeth. How did this happen? I run through the conversation again, trying to figure out where it went wrong. It’s like she plucked her last statement out of the thin fucking air and threw it in my face.

But even as I’m thinking that, I realize the truth. She’s been holding on to it for a long time. I lead her to believe I only wanted to screw her back in the day. And even though we’ve been cordial on this trip, and we’ve tried to bury that shit like we were just kids and it doesn’t affect us now . . . it does. And I just gave her the opportunity to unleash her pent up frustration. I pressed her while she’s wound tight over last night, and she fired off her reserve ammunition. It completely blindsided me.

Through the windshield, I watch as Sam walks backward, her arm outstretched, thumb up. My anger skyrockets. I can feel my blood pressure rising, building behind my eyes. I scrub my hands down my face and unleash a harsh curse into my palms.

With a deep breath, I suck up my pride and open the truck door. She can rail at me as much as she wants—as much as she needs. Just as long as she does it from inside the truck.

I sink my hands into my pockets and swallow the distance between us in long strides. A few feet from her, I say, “Will you please get back in the truck?”

Her gaze is fixed on the highway, her feet moving backward, carrying her away from me. “I was trying to let last night go. Just pretend it didn’t happen, Holden.”

I nod. “I know.”

“But you won’t let it go.” Her eyes cut to me before she returns to watching the road. There aren’t many cars on this highway, and the ones that do pass—all two of them—pass without a thought of stopping. “I can’t continue on like this. It’s just too much. I messed up, and I don’t want Tyler disappearing into that dark limbo because of me. I owe him more than that . . . than this.” She waves her hands around.

Before I open my mouth, I go over my words in my head. Make sure they don’t sound stupid before I spit them out. “Would it help if I told you something? Something that might help your conscience?”

And with that, she stops walking. Her arm lowers and she looks at me. We stand staring at each other, a mere foot between us, before she answers. “To be honest, I’m kind of terrified to learn any more secrets.”

I nod once, hard. Understandable. I wish I could wipe my mind clean with a giant can of white paint. Just start over. “All right. Then how about this? I don’t want to fuck you.”

She flinches at my words and harsh tone.

I take in a breath, building my courage. “Last night? That was all me, okay? I take full responsibly, and none of it is your fault.” I hold her gaze, making sure she sees the truth in my eyes. “You did nothing wrong, and because Tyler knew about us before”—I motion between us—“and blamed me the first time, rest assured, he’ll do so again.” I can’t believe I’m giving into her crazy, but I need her to get past this. “He knew about our kiss, and he never blamed you. Now,” I say, my feet eating the last bit of distance between us. “I’m the bad guy. You can get your sweet little ass back in the truck.”

I look down at her, and she swallows. “I just want him back.” Her lips tremble, and my heart constricts.

“I know,” I say. “I know. I do, too.” I release a heavy breath. “And I never wanted to do anything to hurt him or you. Not then, and not now. But I’m a selfish bastard. I would’ve fucked you six ways from Sunday, and I would’ve loved every second of it.”

Her body tenses, and a flash of something covers her eyes before a fleeting smile tugs at her lips. But she schools her face quickly.

“I’m a guy.” I shrug. “I come with the equipment, ready and willing, to fuck at the ready. Don’t put too much thought into it.”

This gets a full smile. My heart lightens. “I’m pretty selfish, too,” she says. “I wanted . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe a moment of not knowing. Not feeling. If that makes sense.”

A pang hits my chest. Being with me, for her, is only a way to forget all her pain. Last night wouldn’t have been a step for us, it would’ve been a time out for her. I press my lips together and nod. “I get that.”

A tear slips down her face, and it’s my undoing. I promised her I’d never touch her, but dammit. I can’t stop my hand from reaching out and cupping her cheek, running my thumb over the clear trail it leaves behind.

She sucks in a sniff and nods against my hand. “Let’s go.”

Walking back, I know that only half of what I told her was the truth. I don’t want to fuck her. I want to own her. Every last bit of her, I want to make mine. I want to do so much more than just be with her.

After we’re buckled in and heading down the highway, leaving our wreckage behind us, I hear Sam whisper, “You’re not the bad guy.”

I want to believe her.

SAM

By the time we hit downtown Springfield, I feel so far removed from my home, my life . . . myself . . . that the anger I felt back on the highway, and all the shame and self-loathing of last night, seem to be a distant memory, rather than mere hours ago.

Traveling the country is liberating and puts me in a completely different mindset. I understand why Tyler longed for it so badly. This is exactly the feeling he wanted to obtain.

Distance. A new perspective.

Freedom.

Holden and I have spoken very little since our fight. Other than selecting music and commenting on scenery (which was pretty much all green, yellow, and trees), anything that took brain power was like tiptoeing on broken glass instead of eggshells.

I can’t honestly say what made me snap back there. Just that with Tyler’s words assaulting my thoughts and the events of last night still fresh on my mind, when Holden brought it up . . . I cracked.

A whole new wave of shame crashes down on me. I can’t ever seem to get out the words I really want to say, and the ones that I do only manage to help me sound crazy. But Holden’s heated words? They did far more damage than I ever thought possible. And I believe he meant every one of them.

He’s a guy who thinks about sex. Period. And I’m, again, just a girl to use in the moment. But had I really thought otherwise? I remember last night clearly, the passion in his eyes liquefying his cool blue and making them blaze. His whispered, excited words, and the intense feeling like I was the only thing in the world to him right then—the only thing for him ever. Yes, I wanted to believe he’d changed.

It would help with my feelings eating a hole through my resolve.

Staring through the windshield at the cobalt sky, I inwardly cringe. I read too many romance novels.

Obviously, Holden has improved his skills, and can charm the lust right into anyone. Even me. Despite our history, somewhere deep inside, I had always hoped he cared about me. I almost convinced myself that Holden had cared, only his issues and his rage and inability to deal with emotions had prevented him from being able to be with me. At least on a serious level.

I glance out my window, taking in the buildings and stores. It’s a city. Just like any other city I’ve ever been to, but there’s a small town feel to this one. More personable. Like an all-American theme. It makes me want to forget the darkness lurking around me and embrace the bright sunshine and smiles.

I wonder if that’s why Tyler picked this place, if he somehow knew. Pulling out the map, I find Springfield and laugh as I read his notes.

Holden clears his throat. Tension still radiates off him. “What is it?”

“Springfield,” I say, trying to evoke a pleasant tone. “Because the Simpsons rule.”

A bright smile that matches our surroundings takes over his face. He shakes his head and looks back at the road.

“I know,” I say. “It’s not really the Springfield from the cartoon, but I guess it was close enough for Tyler.”

Silence settles between us, and I peek at Holden. He’s deep in thought, as if he’s remembering watching the TV show with his brother when they were kids. I decide to let him have his moment, and focus on the overwhelming feeling that being far from home brings.

As he pulls into a parking lot, I check out the towering hotel with more windows than any other building we’ve passed on this street so far. “University Plaza Hotel?”

“What about it?” He shifts into first gear and then turns off the truck. The rumbling of the engine that’s been a comforting barrier between us fades away.

I shrug. “Isn’t this kind of swanky for, like, a road trip, overnight stay?”

He shrugs, too. It’s become our go-to move. Safer than looking each other in the eyes. “I thought we could relax in a decent hotel. And I could really use a good bed.” I swallow hard, and he quickly continues. “For my back.” He looks at me and smiles. It’s forced. “I’m picky about beds. It’s a thing.”

As I open the door and hop down from the truck, the warm air hits my skin, thawing me from the AC inside the cab. I breathe in the thickness. It even smells cleaner here. As we enter the lobby, Holden glances at me. His jaw tightens before he looks ahead again.

“I should pay for this one,” I say. “Really.”

He shakes his head. “I picked a different hotel than what was on the map, so I’ll cover it.”

I don’t argue. I don’t have the fight in me to do so, and when Holden steps up to request the rooms, I look away. After our fiasco last night, and the immense issues it caused today, I’m surprised when he asks for one room instead of two. I look at him and raise my eyebrows.

He faces me and leans against the counter. “We’re not going to let it become a thing. We have a long way to go, and many more hotels.” His pale blue eyes search my face, looking for approval. “It’s just stupid to pay for two.”

I could argue with that logic, especially after I nearly threw myself from a truck to get away from him. But I suck it up. I’m not the one paying, and if I were, I’d only want to pay for one room, too. “It’s all right,” I say, shoving the unease down. “But I’m not claiming we’re grownups this time.”

He winks. “Feel free to freeze my boxers and dip my toothbrush in the toilet.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Fair enough.”

As we move through the lobby, Holden whistles. I agree with his sentiment—it’s gorgeous. Water cascades down a tiered fountain into a large stone pool. The walls are golden, like a bit of Italian wealth. Classy. Accent lights set off artwork that both Holden and I can’t help but pause to study every few steps.

It’s such a change of scenery from our last destination that I feel even more removed from our problems. I wonder if that was Holden’s intention. And as he inserts the key card and opens the door to the wide open floor plan, I couldn’t care less.

I run to the bed and fall back. The plush comforter whaps as I land, and then I sink into the cozy softness with a sigh.

Hearing him drop his bag near the foot of the bed, I lift up onto my elbows. “This is freakin’ awesome.”

A devilishly beautiful smile slides across his face, and I have to look away. “There’s a pull-out,” he says. “You can have the bed.”

My eyes snap back to him and my brows draw together. “But I thought you had back issues. Didn’t you come here for the bed?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I guess I didn’t think that through.”

My lips twitch. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. I’m not an old fart with back problems.” I plunk back down into the comforter, enjoying the coolness of the white cotton material before I have to give it up.

He exhales heavily as he drops onto the couch. I hear his groan, and wonder just how exhausted he is. He’s driven the whole way here. The guilt that I’m offering nothing on this trip hits me again. “Hey,” I say, pushing myself off the bed. “I’m going to head down to the pool for a while. Think it might reenergize me. Want me to bring something up from the hotel restaurant on my way back? Probably cheaper than room service.”

His head turns my way. “You don’t want to keep to the agenda?” According to the map, Tyler and I were meant to see Outdoor World. Which, honestly, I have no idea why. He wasn’t the outdoorsy type.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I love Tyler, but there is nothing in me that wants to go hang out in a giant Bass Pro Shop.” I shake my head. “It might be time to admit that Tyler obviously had a whole other side of him I wasn’t aware of, or that he wanted to venture into new things . . .” I trail off, hoping the hurt over Tyler’s betrayal isn’t so obvious on my face. “Either way, I don’t feel obligated to do everything on the agenda.”

Holden has gone stone still. His hand paused on top of his head where he’d just been running it through his hair, his teeth locking his lip ring in place. Then like he’s coming out of a trance, he says, “I really don’t want to go to Outdoor World.”

I nod once, my lips tightening as I hold back a smile. “All right. Agreed.” I look around, stalling. “Then I say we relax for tonight. We’ve been on the road, going and doing, since we left.” I chuck my pack onto the bed and then dig out my bikini. “I’ll swim. You rest in your big bed.”

Before he can offer another suggestion, I head to the bathroom and lock the door. Truth is, I need some time away. Holden’s intoxicating scent and the constant awareness of him and his annoyingly sexy habit of playing with his lip ring . . . it’s all driving me mad.

I keep trying to add kindling to the fire. Remind myself how much he hurt me before and pisses me off now, and what an asshole he still is. But it’s like trying to set the rain forest on fire using a magnifying glass. It’s exhausting. And the drive that was there before just isn’t anymore. Even after what he said on the highway. Being around him is making me desensitized to all the angry feelings I harbored in high school and even just days back.

Hell. Even just a little while ago.

I’m not sure what happened in the truck. Whether it was my pent up rage finally erupting after so many years of suppressing it. Or anger about what I almost let happen last night. Or the worst: outrage and self-loathing because I wanted it to happen. That I was willing to forgive and forget for just a moment in order to feel desired again—to feel desired by him again. But whatever it was, it took hold completely.

If Holden is Douchebag Superman, then I’m Super Bitch. And he’s becoming my kryptonite. I’m getting weaker the longer I’m around him. Unable to deny the feelings he’s stirring within me.

And that weakness frightens me.

Am I really angry or just afraid? Fear and anger are so closely related it’s hard to distinguish between the two. I’m not ready to fully analyze it just yet.

Once I’m suited up in my black and pink bikini (a little skull with a bow on my left boob), I throw on an oversized tee and wrap myself in a guest towel. When I exit, I find Holden asleep on the bed, his tatted forearm draped over his eyes.

His shoes have been kicked off haphazardly near the couch, and his silver Hurley buckle is undone, his pants riding low on his hips. A sliver of his stomach peeks out above his boxers (I’m not sure why he started wearing them when he wasn’t before), and it’s so ridiculously sexy, I stop breathing.

A trace of his tattoo teasingly reveals itself below his T-shirt. I’m tempted to walk over and push his tee up, just to get a quick glimpse. But I recover my senses before I do something stupid.

Swallowing my sigh, I force my feet to move away from the bed, then I leave the room before my brain can swallow me. As I ride the elevator to the lobby, I try to stop thinking about Holden. I need to stop.

But after what almost happened between us, especially after what almost happened, his disbelief that I’m truly seeing Tyler stings. It must be nice for him, being able to separate the emotional from the physical. His comment about my lack of “questioning” felt like a direct attack—like he’s thoroughly pissed off that I haven’t questioned my sanity.

I wonder what Dr. Hartman would say about my reaction. Probably something simple yet profound like I’m in denial and lashing out, instead of maturely and responsibly hearing the other person’s thoughts.

Piss on her.

Well, that worked. Thinking of my condescending psychiatrist does the trick nicely. But if I actually did do her lame exercises and tried to reason through my feelings, I might find that Holden’s logic isn’t so obtuse. Misguided and distrusting, but not so far out there.

Can I really be upset that, in his mind, at least, he’s only trying to help? And if last night was just a lapse—him falling into old habits and his sex drive overriding his senses—then why would he care if I’m mentally stable or not?

When the signs of a massive headache start banging against the front of my head, I bottle my thoughts. The inside pool is perfect: large and oblong and the water crystal blue. Floor-to-ceiling windows run along the stretch of the enclosed area. I can’t even remember finding my way in here, and I’m surprised to see I’m alone.

“Hi, Sam.”

I whirl around, my chest prickling with familiar warmth and anticipation.

I’m not alone anymore.

HOLDEN

Releasing a groan, I roll onto my side and reach for my phone, which isn’t on the nightstand. Then I remember . . . nothing really. I passed out.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out my phone and display the time: 5:21.

I’ve been asleep for almost an hour. And looking around as the afternoon light seeps in from between the heavy, striped curtains, I notice Sam hasn’t returned from her swim.

My first thought is to go find her. I move to get off the bed and pause, hunched over the edge, my feet planted on the carpeted floor. That’s the last thing I should do—go to the pool and watch her swim around in a skimpy bathing suit. I run a hand down my face, waking myself up further.

Instead, I tap out a text to her and hit send. If she’s ready to come back to the room, or go get some food, or roam downtown, she’ll text back. I really don’t care what we do tonight. I’d be just as happy to lose myself in TV and pass out again. I’m that tired.

Mentally, physically, and emotionally.

Yup. I sound like a chick. But being around Sam is doing that to me. It’s also draining. I can’t fault her completely, though. I’m doing a fucking fantastic job of sucking the life right out of myself. I’m sure she’s sick of dealing with me, and that’s why she needed to get away.

I push myself back against the wall and stare at the black flat screen, too crapped out to bother to turn it on. After about five minutes of creepily sitting in silence, I realize Sam hasn’t messaged me back.

Cold fear skates down my spine. I try to keep from imagining the worst, but suddenly too many terrifying situations pop into my mind, and I’m on my feet. She’s probably fine, I tell myself. But she did try to jump out of a moving vehicle. Fuck. What the hell was I thinking letting her go off by herself?

She was way too calm, eerily collected when we got here. And just before that, she was blazing mad and ready to hitchhike to God knows where. Even though sometimes she seems lucid and sane, I remind myself that she’s unstable. That at any minute, she could snap. That her mother trusted her in my care. And after what I said to her in the truck, making her question her sanity, she could be having a freakin’ meltdown right now.

“Hell.” I don’t bother with my shoes as I head for the door, then I’m buckling my belt on the way to the elevator. Once inside the car, I brace my hand against the wall, ready to bolt as soon as the ding rings out.

The chlorine smell hits me first, and I follow it down a short hallway past the vending machines. Hotel pools always seem to be near them. When I’m just steps away from entering the pool area, I spot Sam. She’s sitting on the steps in the shallow end. A rush of air releases from my lungs in a hard whoosh. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.

I lift my foot to take a backward step, but plant it right back down as I hear Sam’s soft voice. I crane my neck, angling my ear to hear past the echo of the closed-in area.

“Forever wasn’t good enough,” she says, her voice getting louder. “At least not for you. And maybe not for me. I mean, all we’ve ever known was each other.” She looks down at the water lapping her thighs and shakes her head. “But if you had no doubts, then that bar girl never would’ve happened. And why did you keep knowing how I felt about Holden from me? Why didn’t you ever bring it up?”

My heart ceases to beat in my chest.

I anxiously hover on the balls of my feet, the cold tiled floor seeping through my socks, as I wait to . . . what? Hear Tyler’s response? I almost unleash a curse, but clamp my molars together hard. Sam’s not even giving the ghost version of her Tyler the chance to respond.

I should leave. This takes creeper to a whole new level. I’ve made sure Sam’s okay. She’s not in any danger. I need to go.

Lifting my foot again to leave, I’m decided on the right course of action until, “It wasn’t like that, Tyler. I didn’t want to admit it, not even back then. I wanted it to be a stupid crush, because it was easier to deal with but . . . I loved him.” I can see her swallow hard from here, the subtle movement of her throat. And I’m frozen in place.

My body feels trapped, suspended in the moment.

“I loved you so much. You were my everything . . . and I wanted us to be forever. And we would have—should have been.” A sad smile touches her lips. “But I loved Holden first. It was different, but he was my first love. You can’t hold that against me or him.”

With my heart beating in my ears, I finally take that backward step. And then another. And another, until I’m in the hallway and my back hits the wall.

No way in hell am I going to listen to her breaking up with my dead brother. There are some things I don’t need to hear—to have on my conscience. Wait—is she breaking up? It sounds like the makings of a breakup speech. But maybe she’s just working out whatever she needs to in her mind to really let him go.

If she’s unable to accept his death, maybe this is the next logical step for her. Like she needs to first end their relationship or some shit before she can move on. It seems messed up. But I won’t even pretend to know how it works. I just hope it’s not fucking her mind up more.

But, her words . . . shit. She said she loved me. Past tense. Back then, but still. I don’t know what to do with that, other than be the selfish ass that I am and revel in the fact that maybe—if she felt that strongly before—I might have a chance at fixing what’s broken between us now.

I thump the back of my head against the wall.

Am I really this warped? As if the torture I’ve been putting myself through this entire trip isn’t enough, I’m practically begging for the full, crushing heartache.

A splash calls my attention. And then Sam cries out, her scream becoming garbled.

I take off toward the enclosed poor area. “Sam!” The frantic splashing sound stops before I reach the edge of the pool. Sam’s scream is gone. My chest heaves as I scan the pool, my eyes searching the rippling water. My sight locks on to her body in the deep end.

“Shit—” I don’t think; I dive. My hands go up over my head and I jump off the cemented ledge.

I feel the shallow end first and I push off, propelling myself through the water. The chlorine stings my eyes, but I keep them open and spot her thrashing body easily, targeting her black bikini. Swimming up to her, I circle an arm around her waist, then kick off the bottom.

I break the surface of the water with a gasp, and turn her around in my arms to face me. She’s sputtering, coughing, but breathing.

As I tread water, I keep her body close to mine. “Are you okay? What happened?”

She clears the tangles of hair from her face, and her bright eyes look around. “It wasn’t his fault,” she says, anxiety lacing her voice. “He didn’t mean to.”

Spitting a curse, I anchor her back against my chest and then swim us toward the deep end ladder. When my feet touch the bottom rung, I grasp the metal and help her to do the same, supporting her until she’s stable.

Clasping the back of her neck, I bring her closer, forcing her to look into my eyes. “What are you talking about?” Each word comes out slow and deliberate. And I’m begging God for her to answer in any way other than what I suspect.

She coughs out the rest of the water in her chest and shakes her head. “I can’t, Holden.” Her eyes well, liquid other than pool water shimmering on their surface. My chest constricts.

“Tell me,” I say, my voice gravely. “I won’t say anything asinine. I promise.”

This must convince her, or maybe it’s the resolve in my voice. Or whatever my face is betraying of the emotions pummeling me. But she jerkily nods as she bites her lip.

“He came back,” she says. “I think everything . . . you being around, me away from home . . . has been making it more difficult for Tyler to manifest.” That word triggers something dark inside me. I don’t like it. “But he finally did, and I—we needed to talk.” Shame flashes in her eyes before she looks away. “We argued. He became angry. And somehow when he vanished, it was like he was being sucked into a black hole.” She shivers, and without thought, I run my hand along her arm. “This blackness reached out and pulled me under. But it wasn’t him. He didn’t do it.” Her eyes enlarge, pleading. “He wasn’t trying to hurt me. It was just something that happened.” Her eyes go wide. “Oh, God, what if he’s really gone this time. There was so much blackness . . .”

Taking measured breaths, I get my body under control, but my mind is loud and turbulent. My heart bangs painfully against my chest as I hold her gaze. I won’t look away and make her think I doubt her. But shit. This is going too far. No matter what she’s struggling with inside, I can’t let her hurt herself. She believes she’s not doing any of it. But she’s doing all of it.

And what happens next? When it’s time for Sam to say goodbye to my brother—when we’re leaving our last destination—and she cracks. Will she throw herself off a bridge? Will she slit her wrist, claiming Tyler’s manifested spirit made her do it? She’s slipping further and further away. From reality. From sanity.

From me.

And I just got her back.

No fucking way.

I inhale a deep, stinging breath before I say, “Come on.”

Her brows pull together, but she nods. “Okay. And thanks.” She smiles hesitantly. “For pulling me out.”

Returning her smile with a tight one of my own, I don’t explain anything as I climb the ladder and then turn to help her out. I don’t say another word as I grab her towel and wrap it around her shoulders, securing it in the middle, while my soaking clothes weigh heavily on my body. My mind is reeling. And when I lead us to the elevator, receiving curious glances from the hotel staff, I just hit the button for our floor.

All these things I do with one thought on my mind. One blaring truth that grips my insides and won’t let go. This is it. And I’m about to fuck up any chance I have with the one girl I’ve loved since high school. Hell. If I’m being truthful, long before that. But screw what I want. It’s never been about me. And it’s sure as shit not about Tyler anymore.

It’s about getting this girl the help she needs.

Whatever comes after . . . will come after. I’ll deal and accept it and go on.

Sam’s more important.

After we’re back in the room, I peel off my pants, ignoring Sam’s blush. At least I’m wearing boxers—I’m glad I brought some. I normally don’t wear them. But being around her gives me the fucking libido of a fifteen-year-old. And a boner rubbing against jeans is highly uncomfortable.

I know I affect her, but this has nothing to do with sex. I’m cold and wet and about at my limit. Tossing my soaking jeans to the floor, I stalk toward my bag and lug it to the bed.

I’m still in my wet T-shirt and should probably change, but I don’t want to take the chance I’ll lose my nerve. Not a moment to second-guess my backup plan. My stomach clenches, and I hate that it’s come to this. I rummage through and dig out the plastic Ziploc buried at the bottom.

Yanking out the bag, I place it on the bed and look expectantly at Sam.

Her face falls. “What’s that?”

With a determined breath, I suck in courage and then say, “Your meds.”

SAM

I’m trembling, but it has nothing to do with the AC hitting my wet bikini. My eyes lock on to the clear bag with two orange medication bottles, and my back stiffens.

“How did you get those?” I pull my towel tighter around me. I don’t ask how he managed to fill new prescriptions when I’d flushed my current ones down the toilet. I feel my question covers just about everything.

Holden exhales a heavy breath and runs his hands down his face, his palms pressing together and pausing over his mouth. Like he’s in prayer. His eyes hold mine the whole time. Then he crosses his arms over his soaked T-shirt, his wet hair darker, his bangs dripping fresh beads of water down his face.

“I spoke with your mom before we left,” he says.

I shake my head. “No, you didn’t. I was with you, remember?”

He takes a step toward me. “Before I went to the train station,” he clarifies. “I needed to know exactly what was going on with you, and”—his expression transforms into something akin to pity. I’m tempted to punch the look off his face—“I wanted to be prepared if anything bad happened. And, I think we’re at bad.”

I don’t know what to address first. The fact that he and my mother are conspiring against me, or that he might think I’m one short trip away from being committed. Anger snaps fire-hot in my chest, and suddenly the towel is binding. The room too warm.

Letting the towel drop to the floor, I fist my hands on my hips, unconcerned that I’m standing in front of him in only my bikini. “You talked to my mom about me . . . about us going on this trip? You went behind my back, to my own family, and what?” I cock my head. “Plotted nefariously to get me to take my stupid meds?”

“They’re worried about you.” Holden’s eyes never leave mine, deadlocked and ice blue. “And ‘plotted nefariously?’ Come on, Sam. You have to hear how paranoid you sound.”

I mock laugh. “Oh, no, Holden. It’s just my crazy coming out.” I wave my hands in the air. “Nothing to do with the fact that what I just said is completely true, though, right? Way to avoid my question.”

“I’m not avoiding. I just don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth, Holden!” My breaths sting my lungs as the heat searing my nerves fires through me. “Did you come with me because my mom asked you to? Was this some kind of lame setup?”

His head jerks back, his face looking wounded. “No. Not at all. Rachel was concerned you weren’t taking your meds, so I offered to bring them along. And she was right. You haven’t once taken a pill.”

“It’s none of your business. You went behind my back. You told my mom I was taking this trip. What gives you the fucking right?”

He steps closer, and I move back. Keeping enough distance between us where I don’t feel threatened by his proximity or touch. “I was just concerned, all right? I’d known that something was wrong. I mean, apparently you’d dropped out of school, stopped taking showers, were talking to yourself, and wouldn’t leave the house.” He presses his lips into a hard line. “And she told me you were seeing a psychotherapist. I put a lot of it together on my own.”

I look up at the ceiling, my jaw jutting out, twisting my mouth into a mocking smile. “Awesome,” I say and lower my head. “Look at you, all fucking perfect and judgmental. Never mind that you’re a complete ass.”

His hands drop to his sides and he grips them into fists. “Go ahead. Unleash all your venom on me. But when you’re done with your rant, will you just suck it up and take your fucking meds?”

“Unbelievable.” I stomp toward my pack and plunk it onto the bed, then dig out a tee and my jean skirt. Not caring what the hell I put on, just needing to get out. Away from him.

“You’re not leaving here like this,” he says, his tone a warning.

“Really? Are you going to call my mom or my shrink and tattle on me?” I step into my skirt and jerk it onto my hips, then pull my tee over my head. “Go ahead. And while you’re at it, get some meds for your issues, too. I’m sure they’ll hook you up.”

He stuffs his hands under his arms and leans against the wall, his stare hard on me. “I never said I was perfect. I do have issues, and I know I’ve made mistakes.”

I laugh for real this time. “Yeah, mistakes. You really botched up getting into my pants back in the day.”

In two quick strides, he’s beside me and turning me to face him. His face is drawn, his pale eyes pools of quicksilver. A muscle feathers his jaw as he grits his teeth. My stomach drops, freefall.

“You don’t know anything about—” He cuts off with a clipped tone.

I raise my eyebrows. “Why don’t you enlighten me, then?”

His fingers dig into my arms as he pulls me closer, the heat from his body seeping through his wet tee and rolling over my skin. His cool eyes lock me in place. My breath hitches, and I’m frozen. Hovering in the moment as his face contorts into a lost expression.

With low growl, he pushes me away. “Fuck!” He turns and slams a fist into the wall. The hard thunk makes me jump.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice wobbly from adrenaline and nerves. “I’m the one who needs help.” I step into my shoes and grab my cross-body purse from my pack and then head toward the door.

Holden doesn’t try to stop me like I think, only says, “You were right about one thing.”

My steps halt. My hand hovers over the doorknob. Keeping my back to him, I don’t ask, just wait for him to either finish his sentence, or release me from his hold and let me walk out.

He blows out a forced breath. “There was a side to Tyler you never knew. Things about him, his life that would make that pool incident seem like swimming with guppies in a tank.” A beat. “And me? I’m shark infested waters.”

With a shaky hand, I latch on to the door and yank it open. “Don’t follow me, or I’ll mace your ass.” Then I’m in the hallway, my legs fighting against the tremble wracking my body as I pump them hard to get away.

I actually do carry mace in my bag. Would I use it on Holden? No. Despite his last words to me and him losing his temper, he doesn’t frighten me in that way. He used to, just under a week ago. But I’ve seen all Holden’s issues acted out since he was in middle school. I’ve been on the receiving end of his angry tirades now a few times, and they no longer scare me. I understand why he has them, what he must be battling because of his past. But he’s the one who needs to seek help. Not me.

And I’m well aware of Tyler’s life—that I knew nothing. He kept whatever issues he had hidden. From me. From everyone.

As I head down the sidewalk, the afternoon sun and warm, humid air drying my hair and shirt from my still-wet bikini, I replay the fight in my head. Over and over. My emotions on high.

I stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the pedestrian light to signal go for the walkers, bikers, and joggers. The sidewalks are teeming with every type, from locals shopping to tourists sightseeing, as I head deeper into downtown.

This strip of the city kind of reminds me of Memphis, with its old brick buildings and run-down looking shops. But it’s not the drinking or partying district like Beale Street. Everything is more upscale. Retro yet chic. Artsy.

I love it.

I think if Tyler and I would have gone on this trip, I might’ve wanted to stay longer than a day. Like the other stops on the trip, it’s such a sharp contrast to the island, but there’s still a small-town feel to it—just without the pretentiousness.

I’ve been walking for about ten minutes when the brick buildings begin to crowd closer together, and more people fill the walkways. I should be scared or intimidated to go off on my own. Especially after spending the past five months locked in my room, my only company my ghost boyfriend. But instead, I feel lighter than I have in months. Like I can do anything, go anywhere, and have no one to answer to.

That’s not true, though. And the heavy reminder that I have to return home to deal with a mom who’s a gossip, a dad who doesn’t want to be near me, and a shrink who wants me to forget Tyler weighs heavily on my conscience. Beating my reality back into place.

I wish Leah and I weren’t so distant. Not physically, but in every other way. Since I’ve blown her off during my grieving, we’ve grown apart. I don’t even know where she’d be right now. Don’t know what new things she’s into, or if she has a boyfriend. Or a new crowd of friends she’s hanging with.

If I still had her, I’d call and ask for advice. She doesn’t know the whole story, but maybe I’d suck it up and tell her. Just to get another perspective. Maybe I’m the one in the wrong, or maybe I’m not seeing anything clearly at all. I’d call my mother, but that thought sends lightning bolts to my head.

She’s a co-conspirator with the ass. Besides, I’m definitely not ready to fess up about what happened with Holden in high school. She might understand after she got past the fact that Holden was nearly four years older than me—considered an adult, and I was a minor. I’m pretty sure she’d be pissed at first, but then maybe she’d offer some clarity.

Slogging toward a bench, I find an empty seat away from the crowds to just sit and watch. Let my mind process. I need to process. And being around Holden? There’s no rational thought there. I just need someone . . . My chest tightens as I realize who I need.

My best friend.

Tyler was always there. Could fix anything.

What happened in the pool comes crashing back with a fury. I’ve been so angry with Holden, I haven’t even had time to process that yet. I didn’t lie to him—I truly believe that Tyler wouldn’t hurt me. Not on purpose, anyway. But I can’t help the chill that skitters down my spine as I remember that growing blackness, its tendrils reaching out to me as Tyler vanished.

He’ll come back.

I shudder, and with a warm breath sucked into my lungs, I try to center myself.

Was it real?

I feel my brow furrow. Of course it was real. I saw it. I felt those wispy claws grab me.

Weren’t you feeling guilty over your feelings for Holden, though?

What the hell? Is my own subconscious debating me?

Annoyed and insulted at my own damn self, I shake off my unease. Then like a prayer being answered, I remember a number I’ve never dialed. A person I didn’t think I’d ever call. But someone who’s not biased to either me or Holden. Biker Melody.

She programed her number into my phone at the bar, insisting I call her on the road. She was drunk at the time, and skeeted up, and possibly entered the wrong number. But what do I have to lose?

At this point, the fierce biker girl is the only friend I have. Which is sad. I’ve lived on the island my whole life, and in just under half a year, I’ve pushed everyone important to me away. Even Dr. Hartman is closer to a pal than any of the girls I grew up with.

Digging into my bag, I pull out my iPhone and scroll through the contacts. A picture of a girl with her mouth open in a mock tough expression pops up. I smile at the image and tap the number.

It rings a few times, and I think she’s not picking up, or it’s the wrong number, when her raspy voice answers. “Yeah?”

I can’t help but smile at her curt greeting. “Hey, it’s Sam. The girl at the . . . bar in Talladega?” I stop myself from saying “biker bar.” That’s probably somewhat offensive to actual bikers.

“I know,” she says. “I saw your pic on my phone. What’s up? You and lover boy made it to Wichita yet?”

A hazy memory of me drunkenly talking about the trip with her comes back to me. “No, not yet. Springfield, actually.”

She groans. “Oh, man. That place is so lame. You should totally hotfoot it to Wichita. There’s this show tomorrow. Oh!” The phone crackles with her high-pitched squeal. “Dude, you’d love this band. It’s an all-chick group and they rock. Like, none of that girly shit. Like hardcore, kick ass. If you make it up here tomorrow, we could hang.”

“You’re there already?” I knew her and her biker peeps were on their own road trip. Well, I guess it’s not the same as us, since they’re always on the road. Bikers and all. But I’m surprised to hear she’s there. I don’t remember her mentioning it. But then again, I was pretty wasted.

“Not yet,” she says. “We will be tomorrow, though. And you totally should be, too.” I can hear the hopeful smile in her voice. And suddenly, I want to go to whatever show she’s talking about.

“You know what? It’s on. We’ll be there. Can you send me directions to this place?”

“I can do better. I’ll send you the website with all the info. Hey, Dar!” The receiver picks up her shuffling movements. “Baby girl Sam is going to the show!” An excited cheer reaches my ear through the phone, and I smile. I really do like these girls.

“So,” she says, her tone going from fun to serious in a nanosecond. “I know you didn’t call to shoot the shit. What’s really up?”

Nodding to myself, I pull in a breath. “I need some advice, or an opinion . . . something from someone who might see a bit clearer—” possibly saner “—about Holden. And me.”

“Hmm.” A beat. “That boy loves you.”

Her words catch me off-guard, and my jaw falls open. I think I even stutter something.

“You know that, right?” she asks. “Like, loves you, loves you. He’s in deep. I think you could hock all his shit on EBay and he’d fall to his knees and give you head.”

A laugh escapes me. “I’m not sure about that.”

“Oh, I am. But anyway, what’s the deal?”

With another deep breath, I dive in. Tell her everything, as unbiasedly as I can (though I may call him a dickhead a couple of times). And I know I’m spilling my heart out all over the phone, and to someone who I only just met. But for whatever reason, I trust her. There’s an honesty about Melody, an easiness I envy, and I feel she might shed light where the darkness clouds my thoughts.

There’s a long pause after I finish. I wonder if I’ve lost connection, or after I admitted to seeing and talking to my dead boyfriend she hung up. Holding the phone away from me, I look at the screen. Still connected. “Mel?”

“I’m thinking,” she says. “All right. I’m going to lay this out pretty simply, so be prepared. I know you’ve had the worst kind of run lately, but I think you need to hear it. And by the way, I am sorry for your loss.”

A lump forms in my throat. I wasn’t expecting the sentiment from her. “Thanks.”

“Okay. No arguing. Just let me wax poetic.” She pauses, and I imagine her cracking her knuckles. Like she’s about to verbally dig into my ass. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, “What?”

“Emily Dickenson. The girl was brilliant, and she once wrote that to someone. I think it actually went like, ‘the heart wants what it wants.’ But whatever. It’s pretty fitting for your dilemma.”

I feel my face scrunch together in confusion. “But . . . that’s it? I don’t understand. How does that—”

“Look,” she interrupts. “I’m not going to debate whether you’re really seeing your boyfriend or not. Hell, I’ve seen tons of crazy shit on the road. So I choose to believe anything’s possible.” She pauses. “And personally, I’m not really sure dickhead was really such a dickhead back in the day. I think he probably had his reasons for being a douche. Doesn’t excuse it, but still. That aside, he obviously still cares about you, or he wouldn’t be there now.”

I open my mouth to argue, to tell her that he’s doing all this for Tyler, but snap it shut. Somewhere in the back of my mind, her words ring true. Plus, she said I couldn’t argue.

She continues. “It doesn’t boil down to whether or not you should be taking your meds. Though I don’t think it would hurt in your case, just to see what happens. Shit, could be a lot of fun. I hear some of that antipsychotic junk packs a freakin’ awesome buzz.”

“Mel, please,” I say, and she laughs.

“All right. Anyway, so yeah. Take ‘em, don’t take ‘em. But figure out what your heart wants, because when you do, you’ll have your answer.” She pauses again, and I think she’s done, but she quickly continues. “If Tyler is your one and only, no matter how many pills you pop, he’ll be there for you. But if Holden owned your heart before, and you think he can again, then the shit will work itself out. Like I said, the boy loves you. It’s just up to you to ask your heart what it wants. And then listen.”

“Huh.” That’s my brilliant response. “Are you one of those genius types that no one sees coming?”

My phone beeps, and I pull it away just as I hear her tell me to check my messages. Opening the text, I laugh as a pic of Melody winking at me pops up on the screen.

HOLDEN

I don’t know who Sam’s been talking to, but when the conversation ends and she drops her phone into her bag, she looks up with a lighter expression. Much lighter than when she stormed out of the hotel room threatening to mace me.

I breathe a little easier through the thick, hot air pressing on me.

I’m hanging back next to a crafts shop. Giving her space. Like she needs. But I wasn’t going to let her take off on her own in a city she doesn’t know. Stalker or not, she’s still my responsibility. Hell. I can keep telling myself that, keep trying to convince myself that it’s all about protecting her during this trip. But if that were true, last night never would’ve happened.

I’m far more dangerous to her than anything or anyone else.

The backup plan failed. Big time. Not that I thought it would go any smoother, but I was hoping that . . . I don’t really know. Maybe that after she nearly drowned, she’d see reason. It’s time for her to admit the truth. She’s sick, though. And forcing her to take her meds isn’t going to help. She has to first admit something’s wrong. I was hoping she was at that point.

Chalk it up to the twelve-step program, but that thing helped me get my shit together.

Only, what the hell happened back at the pool? Was she reliving a fight they had before? I don’t believe for a second my brother’s ghost is really here. But I heard their talk, and I’ve seen Tyler get rip-roaring pissed and lose his cool over a lot less. Especially when it came to Sam.

Tyler had issues, and I used to worry that he’d inherited the asshole gene from our dad. But I’m trying hard to believe he never hurt Sam. Never wanted to see her hurting the way she is now.

I shake my head. No, I can’t go there. One, he’s not here. Two, he was not our dad. And three, he’d never hurt Sam.

If I repeat it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it.

I push all my doubts into the pit of my stomach, letting it fester there along with the hard ball of guilt I’ve been building up for years. I won’t think ill of my brother’s memory. He had one slipup with the redhead, but that doesn’t mean anything. Just that he was a young, confused guy.

As she stands and looks around, I press farther behind my creeper corner. She starts walking, and I follow. I know exactly what she sees when she halts. I spotted it while I was watching her on the phone, and knew she’d head there at some point.

Sam walks into Hawthorn Galleries. The artist in her couldn’t pass it by. I smile to myself, despite everything. And when I reach the display window highlighting abstract paintings, I know I’m going in there, too.

There’re only a handful of people inside, and I spot Sam easily. She’s standing in front of a life-sized painting of a Victorian man. The painting is limited in shades of browns and grays. She tilts her head as she studies it, then she wraps her arms around her stomach. Lost in contemplation.

I have the sudden and overwhelming desire to walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her. Pull her close, feel her breathing against me, as we both admire the piece. In some alternate reality, maybe that could happen.

Not this one.

Instead, with shame marching my feet forward, I close the gap between us, stopping a safe distance away. “The artist picked an awesome palette,” I say, and her frame noticeably tenses. “A little tantamount of Walt Kuhn, but less intense.”

My words hang in the air. I’m sure she won’t respond until, “I think it’s more comparable to Frans Hals, but I can see Khun, too.” She unlaces her arms and sinks her hands into the back pockets of her jean skirt. It’s adorable and sexy and makes me want to hold her even more.

“But,” she continues. “I wouldn’t hang it on my wall.”

I smile. “Huge creepy guy staring at me? I guess I wouldn’t either.”

This could turn ugly. If I say the wrong thing, or even if Sam decides she’s sick of this game and lets her anger rip, then we could end up exploding right in the middle of an art gallery. But right now, I have to take the chance. And it’s safer in public.

As she moves on, looking over the paintings, I follow, keeping a few feet behind. Letting her lead and have her distance. When she stops at a painting near the corner of the room, I move a foot closer to her.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

She doesn’t look at me, but I see the strain in her facial muscles, crimson coloring the tip of her ear. At least I know she’s really considering my question.

“How’s your hand?”

I blink, and look down at my knuckles. Red and swollen. Flexing my hand, I say, “Fine. That was just . . . blowing off steam. I didn’t even hit it hard.” And that’s true. But by the time we make it to our final stop, I might be going home as one big, battered bruise.

She sighs. “All right, good. Then for starters, we get the hell out of this city.” My eyebrows draw together as she turns to face me. “Not that I don’t like it here. I think I could spend a week visiting all the galleries and getting lost in art. And I’d love it. But apparently”—she begins walking toward the front of the shop. I trail her—“there’s this badass chick band playing in Wichita that Biker Melody says we can’t miss.”

So that’s who she was talking to. I’m surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t be. She probably needed another girl to talk to, and after what I outted about her mom, she wasn’t going there. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s spoken to any of her friends.

She opens the glass door and glances back at me. “Are you in?”

She’s holding the door open, hovering between the gallery and outside. Her question is more than just asking if I’m down for seeing a show—more than wondering if I’m onboard for continuing this trip. As she stands there, door wide open and paused between two places . . . We’re at a crossroads.

I can walk through that door with her, accepting whatever crazy she dishes out. Or I can allow that door to close—and let her go.

Before she gives me another moment to consider my decision, she steps outside. The door begins to shut. In slow motion, I watch it closing. Separating her from me.

I push through and step beside her.

“What time’s the show?” I ask.

She turns and looks up, her face guarded. “Early.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Let’s go,” I say, and her expression opens up, turning curious. “I can’t say no to badass chick bands.”

A hesitant smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t comment, just starts toward the hotel.

After we’ve walked nearly the whole distance back in silence, she says, “I’m driving.”

My mouth pops open. The words right on the tip of my tongue. But I roll them around in my head before I allow them to leave my mouth. “Are you sure? I’m rested. So I’m fine to drive.”

She shakes her head. “I’m driving, Holden. I want to. And what’s more, I need to.”

I don’t tell her that no one drives my truck but me. Truth is, if any other girl told me she was driving my truck, I’d laugh in her face. I don’t know any girl who can drive a manual transmission . . . correctly. And I’ve put countless hours into my engine.

But Sam? I’ll try to be a little less sexist for her. And she’s right. She needs to take this step. For whatever reason, despite what went down in the hotel room, I can see she wants her life back. I don’t know what Biker Melody said to her, but I can almost see the old Sam trying to break through.

As we turn the corner into the hotel parking lot, I glimpse my truck and sigh, scratch the back of my head. “Do you know how to drive a stick?” I ask. I pray to the auto gods. I pray hard.

She laughs. “Yes, Holden. I can drive a stick. My Scion is a manual.” She shakes her head.

“What? It’s a legitimate question, don’t you think?”

“Boys and their toys.” She slants her eyes my way, a full smile lighting her face, and something warms in my chest. In that alternate reality, I’d have scooped her up and kissed the shit out of her. A girl that can drive a stick and a truck? Beyond hot.

I push my worry down, deciding I can’t wait to watch her drive. I just hope my poor neglected libido can handle it.

Once we’re back in the room and packing up the clothes we tossed around in a flurry during our fight, I spot the meds on the bedspread. She’s looking at them, too.

I know the way I approached it was wrong, but I’m not wrong in wanting her to take her meds—for wanting her to get better. I can’t take that moment back, but I can hope that maybe something good comes out of it. I don’t want to toss them. If I put them in the bag, will the shit hit the fan all over again?

I’m accepting that I can’t be the one to help her. Fine. She doesn’t want help from me. But I won’t accept her ignoring her psychosis altogether. After this trip, I will be there for her, and this time, I won’t avoid. No matter what. As a friend, or whatever she needs.

She must see the discomfort on my face. I’m probably an open book as I stare down the pill bottles. With a heavy sigh, she picks them up. “I’ll carry these in my bag.”

A shred of hope lightens my shoulders. “Okay,” I say. “That’s fine.”

She shrugs. “I doubt it’s a good idea to flush them here.”

And just like that, the weight crushes me. Schooling my features into a neutral expression, I nod and say, “You’re not supposed to. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Take them back home and give them to your doctor.” My chest constricts with every word I force out. But I’m not going to win this battle with her. And, it’s not even my place. She was right on that front.

I’m not sure where my place is. I know where my deranged self wants it to be. But again, that’s in some other reality. One where my brother is still alive. Where five years ago I stood up to him and told him the truth—that I loved this girl. That even though he loved her, too, we should let her make her own choice.

A reality where our father wasn’t an abusive monster, and I didn’t suffer a world of guilt, trying to do anything and everything to give Tyler a semblance of normal.

Where I could’ve been with Sam.

But it’s stupid to even fantasize about that. We’re in this fucked up reality, where I’ll take any scrap Sam’s willing to give me of herself and cling to it like the pathetic fool I am.

As she shrugs her pack onto her shoulder, I grab my bag, then surprisingly—because just an hour ago, I thought I’d blown any chance—we head out of the room. Together.

Once we’re checked out and walking toward my truck, a wave of sickness crashes over me. Oh, baby. Here we go.

Sam peeks at me and laughs. “Relax. I won’t grind the gears.”

My stomach clenches just hearing her say grind and gears in the same sentence. “I’m not worried. I trust you.” I look at her and let the full meaning of my words sink in.

She doesn’t look away. My heart tightens as she holds my gaze a moment longer before she’s forced to look where she’s walking. Again, I have no idea what Biker Chick said to her, but when I see her, I’m going to hug the crap out of her.

With an internal groan, I hand Sam my keys. “Please, please, be gentle.”

She rolls her eyes and unlocks the door. Sliding behind the wheel, she smiles. It floods me with warmth. My truck is pretty badass. She reaches over and unlocks my door, then as I climb in, she pushes in the clutch and turns the ignition.

My truck rumbles to life. And to my utter relief, it doesn’t sputter or choke out. I glance at Sam. Her hands are gripped tightly to the steering wheel, her gaze staring ahead. As if talking herself into it, she nods and places a shaky hand on the skull shifter knob.

Against my inner voice screaming that I shouldn’t touch her, I extend my hand and lay it over hers. “You can do this.”

Her eyes meet mine before I feel her shift into first. Giving her a lopsided smile, I say, “It’s all yours.”

She pulls out of the parking space, perfectly if not a bit hesitantly, then smiles, her dimple making an appearance. Without a doubt, I wasn’t talking about the truck. This girl owns my heart.

And it scares me shitless.

SAM

Holden is really trying to be cool. Like me driving his truck isn’t about to make him rip his hair out. He’s run his hand through his dark layers about fifty times since I got on the highway. And he’s never worked that lip ring so hard.

A triumphant smile spreads across my face as I press back into the seat. I’m still a bit nervous, but after the first ten minutes of minor panic attacks (it felt like more than one), the fight or flight adrenaline coursing through my veins finally stopped pumping. Now I’m on a high.

I used to love driving. Whenever I’d have a bad day—after I botched a test or had a fight with Tyler, or just needed to think—I’d hop into my car and just drive. Blast the stereo and get lost.

Sure, there weren’t a lot of places to drive around the island, but it was the action. The going. Being away from the world in my own place where no one could bother me.

That is, until Tyler’s hit-and-run. Dr. Hartman tried to analyze it, saying my fear was normal. A car had taken Tyler away from me, and of course I’d be fearful of cars now. It was logical and rational, and what’s more, expected.

Earlier, the idea had just hit me.

As much as I’m doing this trip for Tyler, truth is, I’m doing it for me, too. I’m tired of being scared. Sick of living in fear. I’m doing this to set Tyler free, yes, to help him to cross over—but deep down, I know it’s about more.

I need to cross over, too.

Into the living.

I hate thinking that Dr. Hartman might have had a tiny point during our last session. When she said I needed to learn to live my own life away from Tyler. In a way, I get what she was saying. I’ve always thought of Tyler and me as one. He was always by my side. We did everything together.

Except for the time when I was with Holden. That was the only moment I thought of myself. Wanted something all for myself, despite Tyler.

The irony that I’m again with Holden isn’t lost on me. And I could spend thousands of dollars in Dr. Hartman’s office, sitting in her little blue chair, trying to figure out what it all means.

Or, I could go with it.

Melody’s advice swirls in my head, making me brave. Hold on to me and Tyler, or let things work themselves out. What does my heart want? Glancing over at Holden as he tries hard to look like he’s searching for music instead of dreading my driving, I decide . . . not to worry about it. To enjoy the trip.

One thing my heart wants: carefree.

And then a terrifying thought attacks my brain. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Holden looks up, searching the highway and then me. “What’s wrong?”

“We forgot to spread Tyler’s ashes.”

He releases an audible breath. “Shit, Sam. I thought you were about to plow into something.” He runs his hand through his hair again. “It’s all right. We’ll just veer off course on our way back and hit Springfield again.” He smiles, and my heart slows to a less erratic beat.

I breathe in, breathe out. “Wait,” I say, glancing at the sign as we pass. “What route would we have taken to go to Outdoor World?”

Holden pulls out his phone and punches something on the screen. “Sixty-five. Same as we took in. Why?” His eyebrows scrunch together, but I think he already knows what I’m about to do.

I take the next exit and, finding the sign for my turn almost too late, swing onto the ramp leading us back toward Springfield. Holden curses as I take the curve hard. “Fuck. If you weren’t handling her so well, I think I would’ve just shat myself.”

I laugh. After I get back onto sixty-five, I look over. His expression is strange. I’ve never seen that look in his eyes before. But suddenly, as a memory is triggered, I remember a time when I did. At the dead tree. His gaze flicked over me in something that could only be described as awe.

And he has that same look now.

“I told you I could drive a stick.” I puff out my chest in mock cockiness. I expect him to laugh, for my joke to lighten the intensity shadowing his face. It doesn’t.

My stomach flutters, and I grip the wheel tighter. He finally averts his gaze, and the cab loses some of its tension.

“I didn’t doubt that you could.”

I smirk. “Liar.”

He chuckles. And that fluttering returns. I won’t deny that I’m attracted to him—am still attracted to him. That would be lying to myself, and I’m sick of that, too. Like I was trying to explain to Tyler at the hotel pool, I had loved Holden at one time. It wasn’t in the same way that I loved him. But Holden had been my first crush. My first love. And my first real heartbreak.

I’d tried to convince myself that I was too young to know what real love was back then. And, maybe I was. But I never felt for Tyler what I’d felt for Holden. That intense, raw, all-consuming emotion. And I assumed it was because it wasn’t actually love. Just desire, or lust, or hormones, maybe.

Tyler was my forever. We would have had an amazing life together. Despite his slip with that bar girl, we would’ve worked through it. And he would’ve been a wonderful husband, and an even better father.

But that forever . . . that possible future . . . is gone. I’ve always had a plan. Because of Tyler. He was that type. Everything mapped out. Just like his road trip. And I was a part of his plan. I wanted to be, and I would’ve been content living out that plan.

Content.

It echoes in my head. That word should feel more . . . .satisfying. Happy. But that’s not the definition of contentment. I’d never asked myself before if being content would be enough. I never had to. And what I was trying to get across to Tyler was: I have to now.

More than he needs to let me go, I need to let him go. In order to move on and find something more than contentment. I’m not ashamed that I loved Holden anymore. Those feelings, regardless of whether they were misguided or wrong, were real.

I just don’t know what to do about it. And I can’t fully explore anything until I’ve completed my journey with Tyler.

“You’re going to miss the exit,” Holden says, pulling me out of my deep thoughts.

“Oh.” I turn on the blinker and merge into the next lane. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

His voice is light and carefree. I smile.

As I head down the road, I take in the massive building that stretches the entire parking lot before us. “That can’t all be a Bass Pro Shop. All of it?”

“Looks like it,” he says under his breath and then groans. “Are we going in?”

“Um . . .” I spot a place next to one of the many ponds lining the road. I’m sure Holden will have a mild stroke when I do this, but I say, “No. Right here’s fine.” And I pull into the high grass. The jarring whap of grass blades pelting the sides of the truck and undercarriage makes me cringe, and I peek over at him. “This is okay, right?”

He presses his lips together, restraining a frown or a smile, I’m not sure which. Then he looks at me with a forced calm expression. “I’m not that anal.” He cocks his head. “All right. I am, but it’s fine.”

Parking in first and pulling the e-brake, I shut off the engine and just sit for a minute. Driving is a huge thing for me, and now I have to get my mind straight to release more of Tyler’s ashes.

Holden seems to realize that I need a minute and hops out of the truck. I watch as he sinks his hands into his pockets and walks toward the pond. My gaze sweeps over his broad shoulders, the tattoos on his arm. An unbidden memory of his eyes, intense and wanting, enters my mind.

Not the best timing. I’m trying to focus on Tyler, but it’s getting complicated. With a deep inhale, I open the door and get out. Reaching behind the seat, I grab my pack, then walk toward the edge of the pond where Holden is standing. I soak up the bright sun, let it warm some of the hesitant chill sweeping my skin.

“You really have no idea why your brother was so fascinated with seeing Outdoor World?” I keep my sight on the dark, lily pad-covered pond top.

Holden shakes his head. “Not a clue.”

I reach into my pack and bring out the picture box, my stomach already knotting. I thought the more we did this, the easier it would get. But my nerves are extra shaky now, especially after how upset Tyler got back at the pool.

“Can I have this stop?” Holden asks. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I glance up at him. I open my mouth to ask why, but he continues. “I need a moment with my brother.”

The serious look in his eyes tells me this is a no-nonsense moment for him. I swallow hard and, with my resolve locked in place, hand him the box. “I’ll be in the truck.” I try for a smile, but it feels strained.

As I walk back, I take one last look over my shoulder, regret flooding me. But I can’t deny Holden this time with his brother. For whatever reason, he needs this.

After I’m in the truck, I crank the engine and let it idle to drown out his words, just in case he feels the need to speak them aloud. I turn up the volume to give them further privacy, then watch as Holden looks down at the box in his hands. I can’t see if he’s talking or not, but I note the tension in his back and shoulders. I have to look away.

A while later, I jerk upright when I hear the truck door open. I’d shut my eyes just for a minute, and nearly fell asleep. “Ready?”

He nods, long and hard, before he pushes the box under the seat. “Yeah. I think we’re good.” He looks at me, and a slow smile slides across his face. It’s not guarded. Whatever he needed to get off his chest, it’s out there, and I can feel the relief rolling off him.

A full, unguarded smile to match his tugs at my lips. “All right. Then off to Wichita it is.”

As I drop the brake and shift into first, he says, “Why Wichita?”

I almost laugh, remembering when I’d asked that very question of Tyler. “It’s my stop.” From out the corner of my eye, I see his brows pull together. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any Eagles in your case, would you?” I ask, changing the subject before he can ask.

He balks. “Of course.” He tugs out the leather CD case and unzips the side. “Any requests?”

I pull out onto the road. “Yeah. Witchy Woman.”

HOLDEN

Sam turns into the Holiday Inn near downtown Wichita at 11:45 pm. I didn’t think we’d make it here in under the projected MapQuest travel time, but she pulled it off. She drove the whole way, and even kept the speedometer at around seven miles above the speed limit on the highway.

No panic attacks.

I can tell she’s exhausted now¸ though. Hell, I’m exhausted, and I wasn’t the one driving. For her first time back in the driver’s seat, a four hour stretch from one unfamiliar city to the next is extreme. It’s even more impressive since we’ve already been on the road for days. She’s completely out of her element.

And I was right. Watching her drive my truck was a huge turn on. It didn’t help that she’s still in her jean skirt. I could’ve reminded her about her promise—but I think I’m accepting my fate as a masochist. Thoughts of sliding over to her and running my hand up that skirt, tasting her while she was driving . . . Fucking torture. I had to mentally douse myself with cold water a few times.

With an inward groan, I mentally flog myself for thinking of it again.

Outdoor World was enough to get my head on straight, at least for a while. It’s sad that I had to wait until after my brother’s gone to tell him what I’d been bottling up for years. But, it had to be done. I didn’t lie to Sam. I did promise Tyler that I’d look out for her. We promised that to each other. And I wanted to clarify that agreement.

I may have zero chance with Sam. But if she ever does give me a shot, I won’t back out this time. Not for anyone. Not even his ghost. I know I don’t deserve her, but I’ll try. I’ll try damn hard. I wanted him to know that.

After we drag ass up to the check-in counter, I’m seriously ready to crash. That hour rest wasn’t near enough. With all that’s happened, today seems longer than a day. More like a week. Or a year.

With few words, I get our room, and then we’re in an elevator and on our way up to the fifth floor. Glancing at Sam a couple of times, I take in her proud expression. I envision picking her up and pressing her to the elevator wall and kissing her senseless. I’m that proud of her.

I shake the image from my head.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

The elevator dings and the doors open. I let her walk through first. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She accepts my answer with a nod as we head down the hallway in search of our room. And I realize this is, hopefully, the first time on the trip I’ll actually sleep all night in a bed. I laugh out loud. I might be delirious.

Sam pauses before the door, the key card hovering over the metal reader, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Nothing,” I say, having a hard time wiping the smile from my face. “I’m just overjoyed to have a bed.”

Realization dawns, and her eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. You haven’t really slept much, have you?”

I shrug it off. “I don’t need a lot of sleep. But hell, I’ve never looked so forward to sleeping in a hotel bed before.”

As we enter the room, I’m stoked. One large king and a twin, and the comforters look clean and soft. I drop my bag, unconcerned where, and fall face first into the twin. It’s the first bed.

Sam’s laugh makes me smile into the bedspread. “You can have the big bed. I’m small.”

I don’t argue. She is tiny, and I’m going to stretch all of my six-foot two self out on that huge ass bed. Slogging over, I yank the comforter back and climb in, leaving my shoes on the floor.

Sam eyes me. “You’re not going to—?”

She halts as I hustle under the covers to get my jeans off and then toss them somewhere in the room. “Nope,” I say. “All done.” I look over and grin. “I’m a guy, you know. We don’t take much maintenance.” I crook a smile as I flip her excuse from last night around on her. And honestly, I’m too drained to care if she’s offended. I just want sleep. This is one night she doesn’t have to fear me making a move on her.

I’ve already got my lamp off and eyes closed when she returns from the bathroom. Despite sleep crying my name, I fight my eyes open to get a glimpse of her. And wish I hadn’t.

She’s in her too-short girl boxer things that I can just see beneath her tee. There’s nothing sensual about her night clothes, or there shouldn’t be. But she makes the simplest outfit look sexy as hell.

Running a hand down my face, I exhale. “Night, Sam,” I say as she slides in under her covers.

She lays facing me, her hair spread over the pillow. Her hand curled in front of her mouth. “Night, Holden. Sweet dreams.”

Her voice is so soft, and her words pierce my heart. If she ever discovers what demons haunt my dreams, she’d know just how much I craved sweet ones. With a deep breath, I inhale some of her sweet scent and commit to memory her beautiful face before I roll over and close my eyes, hoping it helps keep the nightmares at bay.

One of the reasons I have a “bed thing” is my dreams. Being comfortable, for whatever reason, means less nightmares. Less vivid ones, at least. I have to admit, despite the lumpy hotel bed, I didn’t wake once. And I’m refreshed and feel like we might actually complete this trip without falling apart.

Or, we might just be entering the eye of the storm.

Sam’s good at sweeping stuff under the rug. Every time we’ve fought, had to face an issue, she’s been the one to call the shots and chose to let it drop. Move on. Not deal with it. And really, for most guys, a girl like that is ideal.

But in Sam’s case, it’s not good. One day, the top is going to blow.

I’m not sure if I want that day to be during our trip or not. I’d rather it be when she’s close to home, feels safe. Protected. Then again, I’m about ready to have it out and force us to work through our shit. In the end, we’ll either be friends, or she’ll decide she’s done with me altogether.

These thoughts churn a hole in my brain as I sip my Starbucks on a bench in Central Riverside Park. We decided to have an easy, laidback day until we’re to meet up with Biker Melody and her people for the show.

Sam’s sitting in the grass near a pond, sketchpad on her lap. The mid-morning sunlight sets off the blue highlights in her black hair, and she looks so at peace, so beautiful, I have the sudden need to draw her.

I haven’t drawn anything on this trip. Which is odd for me. I’m always doodling or sketching anything that catches my eye. But I’ve been so wrapped up in Sam, in whatever is going on with her, me, us—that I just haven’t. And maybe that’s part of my problem. Drawing is my outlet, and I’ve been keeping everything locked up on the inside for days.

Pushing off the bench, I think it’s what I want more than anything. Well, almost. But right now, it’s more than a necessity. Like breathing.

As I settle down next to Sam, I peek at her drawing. Shades of black and gray blend into a landscape of the park and pond.

“You wanna share your supplies?” I ask her.

She mock sighs. “I’m usually pretty stingy”—she blocks the sun from her face with her hand as she glances at me—“but I’ll make an exception. For you.” She rummages through her pack and pulls out another pad and a container of charcoal, pencils, and paints. “Use whatever.”

“All right.” I choose a pencil, only because I don’t feel like having smudged up fingers. “You know, they make holders.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” she says, looking back at her sketch. “I don’t mind getting a little messy. It’s worth it to capture just what I want.” She looks up and smiles, almost to herself. “I’d always wanted my own studio, and used to picture myself covered in paint from working all day.”

The vigor in her words floods me with so much want for this girl. I suppress my need to touch her, and instead grip my pencil tighter. My thoughts drift back to the old oak, remembering her smudged cheek. Although it was a turbulent moment, I couldn’t help my pulse slamming against my veins as I wiped the mark from her face. Even at her worst, Sam is gorgeous, passionate. And the need to touch her thrums through me. All the time.

Her words suddenly hit me, and I look at her. “Used to? You don’t want your own studio anymore?”

She shrugs, but it’s jittery. “Maybe one day.”

Letting the subject drop, because I don’t want to push her, we fall into companionable silence as we draw. Her with her landscape, me with the new design I’d been working on right before I left Atlanta. And it feels right. Despite the immense fuckupery that is this trip, it’s like when we were kids, and we could draw together without the need to talk. It’s easy and just . . . right.

I flip the page in my pad and start a new drawing.

“Can I ask you a question?” Sam says, and my hand stills. My breath stops in my chest.

“Of course. Though, technically, you just did,” I say, hoping to break some of the tension her words created. But I’m sure she can hear the hesitancy in my voice.

She’s facing me now, her legs crossed, and she sits back on her palms. Completely stoic in spite of my lame attempt. “I don’t want to fight or argue, or anything. But I’ve been thinking.” She pauses, and I force myself to hold her gaze, even as panic grips me. “What’s your reasoning? I mean, why are you completely convinced Tyler isn’t here? You believe it without a doubt.” She tilts her head. “I guess I want to know why you don’t question that it could be possible.”

Mirroring her position, I flip my pad closed and lean back on my hands. It’s a fair question. I asked her to think about the possibility of my brother only being in her mind, and it makes sense for her to turn the tables on me. Before I answer, I think long and hard, instead of just spitting out what I think is obvious. That’s not fair to her.

“I have questioned it.” Her eyes widen, just slightly. “Some of the things you’ve said, things that you couldn’t possibly know . . . I won’t lie. I have moments of doubt.” Her forehead creases, and she glances down, some worry or other emotion crossing her face. When she looks at me again, her mouth parts, and I wait for her to speak. I hold my breath, waiting. And when it becomes clear she won’t, “But, the reason I can push that doubt aside is because I believe Tyler’s in a good place, Sam. I believe it with everything in me.”

Her eyes squint. “Like heaven?”

I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know if I believe in heaven, but I trust, after everything my brother went through in life, that whoever is in charge up there wouldn’t make him suffer now.” I press my lips together and think how to word my next sentence. “And being trapped here, a wandering soul or whatever, becoming lost in darkness. No. I refuse to accept that. In life, he was lost in that darkness, and I won’t accept he’s not at peace now. I feel it here.” I tap my chest, over my heart. “He’s where he needs to be. It’s all the proof I need.”

Sam’s eyes are unblinking, intent, as she stares at me. “You must think I’m the cruelest person . . . That I’m trying to keep Tyler bound—”

“No.” I sit forward and take her hand. “No. Don’t go there. I know you would never try to keep him here. Look at what you’re doing. You’re traveling across the fucking country, dealing with me”—a smile breaks across her face—“just to help Tyler. If he was here? If I believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was? I’d be happy he chose to stick close to you. You’ve always taken care of him.”

Her eyes pinch in confusion. “It was the other way around, Holden. He took care of me.”

“You don’t even know, do you?” I smile and lace my fingers through hers. “Sam, you’re what helped him through his darkness. You were his heaven on earth. And you’re still looking out for him, even in death.”

She blinks, and a tear trails her cheek. She sucks in a shuddering breath. And with a forceful shake of her head, she breaks. “I wish I believed that. I wish I believed Tyler was in a better place. I wish I could set him free. Oh, God . . . I want to believe that so badly.” Her shoulders begin to tremble, and I can feel her walls, whatever psychosis is trapping her mind just—for this split second—come down.

She wants to believe. It’s a fucking start. And as her sobs take her, I can’t help myself. I’m on my knees and crushing her to my chest, holding her with everything in me—clinging to hope and prayer and her—while I try to offer whatever comfort she can find in me.

Sam folds into me, and I let her work out her cry. I hold her for a long time, just listening to her hitched breaths, until they become calm and slow. And when she’s done, I keep holding her. I’m scared to let her go. I don’t want to. I don’t want to lose her to her own darkness.

SAM

“I should’ve known.” I stare at the seedy-looking little bar tucked into a pocket of Wichita that no one probably knows exists. It’s so out of the way, but somehow right in the middle of everything.

Holden chuckles. “You were expecting a concert hall or something?”

“Or something,” I mutter as my phone beeps. I pull it from my back pocket and open a message from Melody. “They’re inside.”

“Come on.” Holden takes my hand, and it feels natural. I don’t fight it. “I’ll protect you from the hyper biker chicks.” He says it as a joke, but there’s a hint of threat in his voice. And I know if anyone did try to mess with me, he would protect me.

We walk into the Milk Bar (that’s the name, for real), and I think about my Clockwork Orange poster. This bar does remind me of the one in the movie. It’s dark and loud, and white mannequins are positioned around the room. Lights from the tiny stage dance around the overcrowded room and along the low ceiling. Tall speakers on either side of a three-foot high stage blast out screeching guitars, heavy drums, and distorted vocals. Along the back wall, a giant poster advertising “Hottest Topless Bar in Wichita” proudly displays another neighborhood club.

I have to admit, I was freaked out at first, but I suddenly want to whip out my sketchpad and capture everything.

Holden continues to hold my hand as he leads us to a table near the stage. “She can find us here,” he shouts over the music. I take a seat, and Holden lifts his chin. “You want a beer?”

“Yeah,” I shout back. He hurries off, and I’m surprised he’s left me alone. But I figure he doesn’t feel any real danger from this crowd. As I glance around, I notice a lot of them are teens.

A row has formed right in front of the stage, waiting for the band to start. Dark-clad bodies, leather, pale faces, and wild, multi-colored hair are everywhere. I don’t feel out of place at all, unlike the biker bar we went to in Talladega. Here, there’s a mix from just about every scene.

Sinking into my seat, I let the music drown out the thoughts trying to break through. I haven’t thought too much on what happened at the park. Truth is, I feel like I needed that cry, and Holden hasn’t spoken of it since. But his words stuck with me. Even now, here, as I’m actually looking forward to this show and hanging with Melody and Darla, his words are in the back of my mind, lingering and coiling.

When Tyler first told me he was getting trapped in that dark limbo, I felt so selfish for needing him. Wanting him to stay with me. I just couldn’t imagine my life without us. Then today when Holden voiced why he believed it wasn’t possible, my selfishness felt like a stab right through my heart.

I would never do anything to hurt Tyler. Not on purpose. When he died, it was the worst moment of my life. The days that followed, I had never been so lost. Do I believe my desperation could’ve brought Tyler back to me? Did I pull him out of the light?

I’m not sure. Sometimes I think so . . . only I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want my pain to have trapped him here. But Holden is right about one thing. I don’t want Tyler lost and wandering, surrounded by darkness. I did suck up my fear to do this trip. And I’m determined to free Tyler no matter what.

Only, his words also made me realize that maybe, just maybe, I’m still lost. That Tyler’s darkness is not his, but mine. Holden trusts that his brother is in a good place already. How come I could never believe that? Can I now?

I told Holden the truth. I wish I did. If this was all in my head, I’d take my pills and finish the trip and love the memory of Tyler.

Holden has created doubt.

For the first time, I’m questioning what’s real and what’s not. Because one fact remains: I love Tyler. And I want to believe he’s not suffering.

Arms wrap around me from behind, and I startle out of my morbid thoughts. “You’re here!” Melody screeches. She plunks down in the seat next to mine and sets her beer on the table. “Where’s dickhead?”

I laugh and point toward the bar area. “Getting beers. Where’s Darla?”

Melody rolls her eyes. “She’s a fucking sex kitten, that one. She’s getting it on with Derick in the bathroom.” She sips from her beer bottle. “She’ll find us when she’s sexed up enough.”

I laugh again, and I’m already feeling my mood lighten. For tonight, for now, I try to pretend that my ghost boyfriend is someplace where he’s happy. I try to envision him in heaven, with his mother, and he’s not alone. And suddenly, I wonder why I’d never thought of that before.

Holden enters my line of sight, and all thoughts vanish. My eyes take him in as he works his way through the crowd and I smile. His black T-shirt is loose, but hugs his well-defined, leanly muscled arms perfectly. His low-slung jeans fall just right on his hips, and his hair is sexy-messy.

“Uh, huh,” Melody says near my ear. “So I see you chose to let it work itself out.” She slants a smile at me and winks her heavily lined eye.

I shrug. “For now.”

“That’s my girl.” She shamelessly stares at Holden. “Holy shit. Sex on a fucking stick. I’d down a bottle of psycho pills for him.”

I elbow her side, and she giggles. The fact that Melody giggles like a total girl makes me snort a laugh.

Holden stops before the table, eyebrows raised. Looking just like yes, sex on a fucking stick.

Tyler, forgive me. But Wichita is my stop. And I’m going to try and enjoy a night without you.

The all-girl punk band is just as Melody described: hardcore and kick ass.

Once they started playing and the crowd pushed in, staying seated at the table was impossible. My height has always been an issue at concerts and shows, but Holden led us up to a split section where two stairs lead to a top level. I’m now pressed against metal bars between the two levels of the club.

Melody and Darla are to my left, bouncing, their hands formed into horns and pumping the air. And Holden is behind me. I can tell he’s trying not to press into me, but as the crowd gets rowdier, it’s pointless. Finally, he grips the bar in front of me to hold his place, both arms on either side of my waist.

I’m focused on the band, but his proximity is hard to ignore. His body heat rolls over me. His cologne invades my senses. I’m dizzy from the music, atmosphere, and him.

Melody climbs to the bottom rung of the guardrail and raises her hands. Darla gets lost in the crowd as they dance and thrash. And I just let go. Fuck it. I jump up and down, raising my arms, shouting along with everyone else.

The band really is that good. They do their own songs, but a lot of covers, too. And so far, I’ve loved everything they’ve played. I’m bumping into Holden, but I don’t care. He’ll just have to deal. Then I turn toward him. “Spot me?”

His head jerks back in confusion, but I don’t give him time to ask. I climb up beside Melody and lean my thighs against the top bar. “Yeah!” she screams, clasping my hand before she goes back to cheering.

Then I feel Holden’s hands on my thighs, supporting me, and heat that’s not from the overcrowded room washes over me. The band jams through another two fast-paced songs, tearing up the stage, and then the lead singer hushes the crowd.

“We’re slowing it down with a cover from the Misfits.” Her raspy voice booms through the speakers. “This one’s for someone I’ve loved and lost. Come back, Tony.”

My heart tightens. Holden’s hands are suddenly too hot, seeping through my jeans, scalding. A wave of embarrassment crashes over me. I know what song she’s about to sing, and I don’t feel safe standing on my own two feet anymore. My legs lock at the knees.

A quick drum solo leads into a heavy guitar riff, and I swallow down the ache in my throat. I’m suddenly fourteen. Listening to the Misfits because they’re one of Holden’s favorite bands. And then I’m in tears. Hitting repeat on the song Come Back. Unable to understand how I lost him after only just . . .

My legs buckle, and I’m falling forward. Crap. Holden’s arms reach around my waist and stop me from hitting the floor face first. My back presses against his chest as he pulls me off the guardrail. I reach behind me and wrap an arm around his neck.

“Are you okay?” he shouts. He grabs my thigh and swings me around, like I’m nothing but a doll in his arms, as he turns me to face him.

“Yeah.” I close my eyes. The song pumps hard in my ears, the lyrics puncturing a hole in my heart. Or reopening one I thought was healed over.

Holden’s not putting me down, I realize. And when I open my eyes, his face is just inches from mine. His arms secure me to him, and he quickly adjusts me so that my legs are anchored around his waist. I allow my other arm to wrap around his neck. We’re locked together. Just like too many years ago under the tree.

And I’m trembling all over again. Unable to break away from his eyes. Drowning as the phantom feel of rain water submerges me in memories. The singer hits the chorus, repeating come back, over and over.

The look he’s giving me . . . I’m terrified. As if this song means something deeply to him. As if the words pumping through the speakers are driving right home for him. Then his lips move, just barely, but they do.

He mouths, come back.

A current pulls me closer to him, and like static electricity, I’m clinging. One of his hands releases my back to snake into my hair, griping at my nape. His force is pulling me to him. Only we’re motionless. Frozen. In a sea of dancing bodies time stops. And I’m falling so hard into him that I halt breathing.

Then, like being thrust suddenly and violently out of a dream, the overhead lights come on, and Melody is saying something to me. My head rings. The music still blasts my eardrums as I’m dragged out of my daze.

“Best fucking show they’ve ever done!” Melody shouts.

I blink, and Holden swallows. His hand is still in my hair. His arm still wraps my waist. He closes his eyes and sets my feet on the ground. The spell is broken.

The spray of nearly scalding water washes away the club from my skin. But the pathetic pressure from the showerhead isn’t enough to blast away the confusing and consuming thoughts from my head.

Reaching for the nozzle, I adjust the temperature even hotter, trying to scorch my body and brain clean.

Since Melody and her biker peeps are headed back on the road tonight, Mel wanted us to follow them to another bar for drinks. But after the show, I was done. I told her we’d try to catch up with them again later, and I meant it. I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.

But as I stand in the shower, just a curtain and door separating me from Holden, I wonder if I made the right call.

Yes. I did. Alcohol would’ve been a bad idea. My head is still swimming just from breathing in Holden’s scent. Being so close to him, touching. I clamp my eyes closed. “Stop,” I whisper. Now I’m talking to myself. Great.

I just need to go to bed and put an end to this day. So much has happened, and my brain is spinning. I turn off the water and then wrap myself in a towel. Leaving my hair wet, I yank on my sleeping pants (best to cover all skin) and a tee. Then I stare into the mirror and nod once. Nothing sexy about me. I open the door and walk out, determined to act casual.

Holden’s spread out on top of the comforter on the king bed, watching the flat screen. “I’m done,” I say, and hate that my voice wobbles. He offered me the shower first. I accepted, needing to wash his scent off right away.

With a groan, he pushes himself up and off the bed. “Thanks.”

I dash to my bed so that as he passes, I’m nowhere near him. I’m acting like an idiot. Real casual. I’m sure he’s not as rattled by me. Recalling how carried away he’d gotten when we danced at the club, I decide it’s the same thing. The atmosphere at the show was intense. The Misfits are one of his favorites, and hearing a cover probably got him worked up.

I nod to myself, then roll my eyes.

The shower turns on, and I bite my lip. To take my mind further off tonight, I dig Tyler’s journal out of my pack. With everything that’s happened in the past two days, I haven’t been able to devote much time to my search. And honestly, after reading about that bar girl, I haven’t wanted to.

But no matter the conflicting emotions tormenting me, no matter what else Tyler’s journal reveals, I’m sticking to my commitment. Because I’m still committed to him.

I refuse to let anything happen between Holden and me. I may have come to terms with my feelings for him in the past, and my conflicting feelings for him now, but that doesn’t mean he gets a free pass. I can accept that he was going through something difficult back then. And maybe he didn’t even mean to hurt me, but that’s still an obstacle between us.

And I’m not that girl.

Regardless of my guilty conscience where Tyler’s concerned, I am a free woman. I’m free to be with someone else. I understand the logic of it, even if my heart is struggling.

Holden, though. No. I can’t let my heart hope for anything between us. I’m not the girl who gets treated like shit by the asshole just to run back into his arms to have it done all over again. I hate those girls.

Grow a pair.

Skimming Tyler’s words, I start reading when I glimpse a section about a fight between him and Holden. My heart lurches.

A fight about me.

It was after Holden came back from boarding school. Huh. I flip back through quickly, thinking I missed a section. There’s a gap in the timeline. I shake my head and then read hurriedly. Holden doesn’t take long showers.

Oh, God. My eyes take in every word slowly. Rereading and then reading again. Tyler had suspicions about me and Holden, and followed his brother to the dead tree that day we met there. The day we kissed for the first and last time.

He saw everything. He didn’t just suspect. He knew. And he never said a word to me.

But he did to Holden.

I flip a couple of pages, and my chest constricts. The next time Holden met me at the tree and told me there was nothing between us, Tyler knew about that, too. And he knew the reason why.

Hearing the bathroom door squeak open, I lay the journal next to me on the chair. My eyes snap to Holden. I must be in shock, and maybe he is, too. Or maybe it’s the expression on my face. I don’t know. But . . .

He loved me.

In Tyler’s own words, according to his own account, Holden Marks was in love with me.

And he gave me up for his brother.

He loved me.

“Sam?” Holden’s voice is low, edgy. “What’s wrong?”

I only know one way to answer him. I’m on my feet and racing before my brain can catch up with my body. Then I’m slamming into him with full force. My arms go around his neck, pulling his face toward mine, my lips crashing into his.

HOLDEN

Shock freezes me in place. My brain empties. And then I grasp Sam’s neck and her back, pulling her body closer to mine before I realize what I’m doing.

Her tongue darts into my mouth, and every nerve in my body combusts. My hand is in her wet hair, my fingers entwining, gripping, angling her head back as I meet her hungry kiss with the raw and unstoppable need setting my body on fire.

Then with a biting clarity, rational thought splinters through my head. I want to beat the shit out of it. With an ache in my chest and groin, I pull back and break the kiss. Pushing through a shaky breath, I ask, “What are you doing?”

Fuck. Yes, those words did just leave my mouth. But I can’t let her do this. She’s been through too much in too short a time. Her emotions and mind are all messed up.

Her arms are still locked around my neck, and her chest is rising and falling with her heavy breaths. “Just answer me one thing,” she says, and I swallow, terrified of what she wants to know. I force a nod, my movement stiff.

“There’re things you can’t tell me. I get that. But I think I deserve to know just one.” She blinks hard, and I watch as fear covers her eyes. “Did you ever love me?”

The world shifts under my feet. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m relieved or angry she asked that. Relieved because she didn’t ask the one thing I can’t tell her, or angry because I’ve wanted to tell her so badly for so long, but if I admit the truth—it means I don’t deserve her.

My mouth parts, and before I can grasp a full, coherent thought, I hear myself say, “I never stopped loving you.”

She licks her lips, and my heart beats like a freight train. “Make love to me, Holden.”

And it’s my fucking undoing.

I bend at the knees and grasp the backs of her thighs, lifting her into my arms. Unlike the show, or at the tree when I was a screwed up teenager who didn’t have a clue, I don’t stop. I walk her across the room and press her against the wall, so hard, I can feel every one of her curves against my body.

But hell if another thought doesn’t stick my brain. Lowering her feet to the ground, I step away. Sam releases a soft groan, and it tears at my insides. I have to do this first, though. I look into her eyes. “Do you trust me?”

She nods. “Yes.”

Untangling her arms from around my neck, I place them by her sides and then walk to her pack. Finding the bag of prescriptions, I read the labels. Then I pinch one of the antipsychotic pills between my fingers. I inhale a massive breath as I stalk back to her.

Standing before her, I hold up the pill. Her eyes widen. “Open your mouth.”

If she’s truly in her right mind, if she’s given us any thought at all, if she’s ready to release my brother’s ghost . . . This is it. If she’s not, all she has to do is tell me no.

I’ll fucking jump out the window if she does. Because there’s no way I’m coming down from what she just said. But I do love her. And this . . . between us—it has to be right.

With a trembling chin, she opens her mouth. I’m just as shaky as I place the pill on her tongue. Her throat moves as she swallows the medication. And then just as quickly, my lips are on hers, tasting the bitterness of the pill on her tongue. I work hard to make that taste disappear.

Every emotion, every pent up frustration, is barreling out of me at once. I’m worried I’m going to hurt her if I don’t slow down. But I can’t. My hands are on her hips. Then her ass. Her tits. I’m all over the place.

“I don’t know where to start,” I say, my voice quivering with my restrain.

She laughs, and it’s the best sound. “Don’t hold back. You won’t break me.” It’s like she read my mind. I’m suspended for one moment while I stare into her eyes, then with a groan, I sink to my knees.

She gasps as I strip off her God awful pants. Her hands go to my shoulders, and I look up. “Spread your legs.” Her eyes hold mine as she does, and then I’m touching her hips, my fingers skimming her pink underwear. I kiss her stomach, trailing my tongue across her skin.

I desperately want to finish tasting her. For this first time—because, oh, there will be many more tonight—I want to make her come how I wanted to that night in Memphis. My thumb grazes her clit through the material, and my cock extends rock hard at the feel of how wet she is.

I have to reach down and adjust myself, or I’m going to hurt. Then I’m sliding her underwear to the side, staring at and loving her smoothness. Softness. The scent of her body wash mingles with her desire, and I can’t take it. I pull her underwear down and help her step out of them. Then with a want I’ve never felt before, I close my mouth around her, and she digs her nails into my shoulders.

Sliding a finger into her, I stroke my tongue over her clit. Her thighs tremble against my arms. I pull one of her legs over my shoulder so she can balance, because I’m not stopping now. As she gets wetter, she tightens around my finger, and I suck her into my mouth.

“Oh, shit,” she breathes.

A deep rumble vibrates from the back of my throat as I work my finger harder against the swell. Her leg wraps tighter around me, pulling me to her, and I nip, just a slight tease with my teeth. She begins to shatter under my touch, under my mouth and tongue. And I fucking love it.

Her hips arch into me, begging for release. “Come for me, Sam. So hard. Right now.” My voice is raspy and low, and I can’t believe I’m able to talk—I’m about to come out of my skin.

And as she as does, she tightens around my finger to the point where I can only press against the swollen mound. I swirl my tongue over her clit as she trembles and arches one last time. Her breathing intensifies until she’s panting, her body tensing, and then she sags against the wall.

I look up at her, beautiful and satisfied, as she lowers her gaze. “You do know I’m far from finished.” No other words have ever been truer. Just feeling her . . . and watching her . . . I almost blew in my boxers. I’m not sure if I can hold out, but I have to be inside her. Now. Then I’ll take my time. Making sure I memorize every inch of her. Inside and out.

Then, “Shit.” I thunk my forehead against the wall between her thighs.

“Oh—” She jerks, and I realize my hair just grazed her sensitive area.

“Sorry.” I sit back on my heels and raise my head. “Just . . . I didn’t bring anything.”

She tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth. “You mean a condom?” I nod, and I want to ram my head right through the wall. “Holden, I’m on birth control.”

“But you haven’t taken any pills the whole time we’ve been on the road.”

She rolls her eyes. “There are other kinds other than pills. Shit.” She laughs, and her voice is music.

“You’re not worried about . . .” Hell.

A slow smile crawls across her face. “Well, you know who I’ve been with. And”—she hikes her brows—“would you really be with me if there was something I should worry about?”

I feel my forehead crease. “No. Never.” I grasp her thighs and stare into her face, worshipfully, like I’m knelt in prayer. “I swear to you, I’ve always been safe.”

Sliding down along the wall, she lowers herself, her legs spread and her knees bent on either side of me, and it’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen. Her arms slip around my waist, and my want for her is on fire again. She trusts me.

Reverently grasping her face, I lean in and kiss her slow and deep. Then running my hands down her shoulders, arms, waist, I find and clutch the hem of her tee. I only break the kiss to lift it over her head and toss it behind me.

My pulse goes right to my dick as I take in her breasts. Perfect. Round. Sultry as hell. Her nipples, beautiful and a perfect shade of pink, harden under my admiring gaze. The tatted stars gracing her collarbone only accentuate her beauty. She’s fucking gorgeous. And what’s more, there’s no shame on her face. She allows me to look her over unabashed, and that’s the biggest turn on yet.

Then, fear thunders in my chest. I have to remove my shirt. Once I take it off . . . fuck. She’s going to think I’m demented, if she doesn’t cringe in revulsion first.

Her fingers trail my stomach. “I’ve been dying to see your tattoo.” And as her hand reaches the bottom of my T-shirt, I grasp her wrist.

“Wait.” I swallow hard. “I’ll do it.”

Her face twists in confusion. Closing my eyes, I quickly yank my shirt off by the back of the collar before I lose my nerve, and hear her slight gasp. I don’t know if it’s because of the tat or the scar.

My muscles tense as I feel her warm, soft hands touch my skin. The pads of her fingers trace one of the wiry branches that wraps my shoulder, then roam down, over my pec. Further exploring to my rib cage, and to where the black trunk extends to the top of my hip. And then, to my horror, her fingers search the scar. The callous, mangled skin that the ink would only take in parts. So much like her tree. Dead. Lifeless. Unfeeling. I ache, craving to feel her touch through the numb scar tissue.

“Open your eyes, Holden.”

Slowly, I do. And the depth of acceptance in her yellow-green irises startles me.

“You did this . . . for me?”

I nod once, my neck rigid. “Something beautiful to cover something ugly. Something I wanted, loved, needed so badly . . . but had to settle for a memory.”

A tear falls from her eye, and I palm her cheek, catching it. Bringing her into me, I press her soft skin to mine and caress her lips in a tender kiss. One that reaches into my soul.

I pull back just enough to whisper, “I’m going to make love to you now.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “I don’t want sweet, Holden. That would be fake. I need to feel every emotion. Every raw, grating, painful emotion we’ve ever felt, and every bit of the desire and love we’ve denied ourselves.”

The dam that’s been holding me back fragments, and with an unstoppable force, I burst through it. My lips crush hers, and I’m pushing her against the wall. Then grabbing her waist, hauling her to her feet.

Her hands go to my boxers, and I suck in a breath against her lips. She tugs the elastic and then uses her foot to push them down my legs. And, oh, my shit. It’s the hottest thing a girl has ever done to me.

She takes me in her hand, and I groan as her palm works to make me harder than I’ve ever been. And the thought hits me. No condom. I’ve never not used one. No barrier. But with Sam, I can’t imagine any other way. I want to feel her. Completely. Nothing between us.

She continues to stroke me, and if she keeps it up, I’ll be through. With one last, long kiss, I inhale her, then grip her shoulders and turn her chest to the wall. I press up against her and grab her wrists. Sliding them above her head and securing them there, I drop my mouth to her neck.

Need pours through me, and I sink my teeth into her skin, eliciting a moan from her. Then I’m pushing her hands harder against the wall as my body pins hers, my mouth devouring her skin. Her wet hair touches my heated skin, the mix of cool and hot spiking my blood with hunger.

Shackling her wrists together with one hand, I reach down with my other to spread her legs. My hand finds her wet center, and my eyes roll into the back of my head as I slide a finger between her smooth lips. Making sure she’s ready.

Hell, she is so ready. Her hips move with my hand. “Fuck, Holden. Now.”

A shuddering quake seizes my body at her breathy words, and then I’m stabbing between her thighs, sliding against her lips, her wetness soaking me. I cup her in my hand, and my fingers find her opening. For one second, I keep myself there. Savoring the feel of her ass kicked out against me, my cock pressed against her softness, before I enter her with a long, deep and slow thrust.

Skin against skin. Sam against me . . . I’m crashing. There’s no more holding back. As she lets loose a moan, I pull out and push inside again, deeper, and harder. She feels so fucking good, I have to rest my forehead against her shoulder, just to try and pace myself. But as her body moves with mine, intensely meeting each of my thrusts, something primal reaches into me. I have to have her all at once.

I slam my chest against her back, and she cries out. Calls my name. And the plea in her voice, my name on her lips . . . It’s fucking heaven. She tries to whisper, her breaths clipping her words. “The people . . . in the next . . . room . . .”

“Fuck ‘em,” I grit out between clenched teeth, but I drop my hand from her wrists and place it over her mouth. “Bite down if you have to.”

Then I slam into her with a raw, unguarded thrust. She bucks against me and her teeth sink into my fingers. The pain mixed with the overwhelming pleasure only speeds my rhythm. I seize her hip, my fingers digging in to find purchase against her slick skin, and drive deeper. A groan rips from my throat. I’m losing control.

“I want to look into your eyes,” I growl as I pull out of her. Spinning her around, I lift her by the waist and carry her to the bed.

As I fall with her to the mattress, her legs wrap around me, and it’s like we’ve been cast together. We fit together too fucking perfect. Finding her center easily, I brace my elbows on the bed and grasp her face so I can stare into her eyes as she comes . . . so she can release me.

As I thrust into her, she arches her back, her nipples grazing my chest, and her throaty moan is so sexy. Straight up missionary has one advantage. I bear down, sliding my pelvis against her clit, and she writhes beneath me . . . fuck.

Again, I rest my hand over her mouth so she can cry out without the worry of being heard, and she does. She bites the fuck out me, and I pump into her harder as she demands more. “Sam . . . Fuck . . . that’s it. Come for me.” She tightens around me, and I force my eyes to hold hers as she breaks over the edge. Then I bite down on her shoulder as I’m pulled deeper into her as she peaks. And I fall apart.

With a final thrust, I come undone. A guttural noise is wrenched from the back of my throat as I release deep into her, my body trembling. And then I drop against her. My breaths labored and my chest heaving with hers.

I hear the vibration of her sweet laugh, and then, “Holy fucking hell.”

Lifting up, I look down at her, taking in the glow of her cheeks, the shine of her skin, her eyes bright and jewel-like. I fucking love this girl. “I promise, it will only get better.”

I kiss her.

SAM

I wake with a hunger. Not the kind that craves food. Holden’s arm is draped over my bare hip, his chest pressed to my back. I can feel his shallow breaths as they stir my hair.

Rolling over to face him, I place my hand on his pec, splaying my fingers over his tattoo. It’s gorgeous. An exact replica of our tree. And I can’t believe how perfectly he captured it. My heart pangs.

My finger traces the scarred skin beneath the ink. I wanted to ask him how so badly . . . but I already know. Well, at least some of the answer. His father. He must have done something awful to Holden to make a scar like this, and I promised him I would never bring it up again. Wouldn’t ask. Not until he’s ready to talk about it.

He’s covered the pain with more pain. I imagine him getting this tattoo, thinking of us. Of our one, short, unfulfilled moment. And my chest is so heavy it aches. I gasp in a breath. I can only try to make it something beautiful, like he said. From now on.

His eyes blink open and, before he has a chance to say anything, I’m moving on top of him. He rolls so that I’m lying chest to chest against him. “Damn, girl. More? Already?”

I nod. “You made a promise. I’m seeing that you keep it.” Then I let my hair fall to his chest as I press a tender kiss to a branch covering the tip of his scar. He releases a shuddering breath, and I kiss him again, working my way along his rib cage.

As I scoot down, I find him already hard and ready. And I don’t deny him. I ease back and feel him sink into me.

“Fuck, Sam . . .” he whispers huskily.

I look up with a wide smile stretching my lips. “That’s what I intend to do, Holden.”

A deep laugh escapes his mouth. And I love the sound. I love that it feels like we’ve been like this forever. We fit together seamlessly. Without effort. I don’t have to hold back, ever.

I loved being with Tyler . . . but it wasn’t like this. Carnal. Raw. Demanding. I never knew I wanted or craved this until tonight. Like my body has just been waiting for it. Waiting for me to get a clue.

And I know, without a doubt—understanding for the first time—it’s possible to love more than one person. Just in different ways. I’ve been saying just that—but didn’t really believe it. Not until now. Holden completes me on a deep and honest level, to the core, where Tyler couldn’t reach.

It’s bittersweet. That I finally found it, and it was with Holden all along, but painful that I still love Tyler so much. No one will ever replace his spot in my heart.

I could be angry about the past . . . about how Tyler handled things. About how Holden handled them. But there’s no use. Nothing will come from it. I just want to revel in this moment. And I always have my sessions to unleash if I have to later.

Letting my thoughts drift away, I raise up and begin to move on top of Holden, rocking my hips, taking him in deeper. His hands go to my thighs, gripping and guiding, as I let my head fall back. Lost in him.

I should be exhausted, completely and utterly, unable to speed my rhythm, deepen our love making. But within seconds, we’re meeting each other with heavy, powerful thrusts that nearly make me climb over the edge.

Holden sits forward and wraps an arm around my waist. “No, you don’t. Not yet . . .” And then I’m brave, stopping his advance as I lift off him.

“Trust me,” I say, and he smiles, slow and sexy. My heart flutters.

Turning myself to ride him backward, I brace my knees on the bed and lower myself over him. He releases a hiss, and then his hands are on my shoulders, pushing me down hard on him.

One of his hands cups my breast, the slat between his fingers pinching my nipple, and he applies just enough pressure to make me feel it deep in my core. Pulsing. It travels into my stomach, my back. Through my whole body. That ache and charge, a flowing current.

My hips work harder, rocking and slamming against him as he thrusts to meet me each time. His fingers dig into my skin as he tightens his hold on my shoulder, his forearm anchored across my chest. His other hand moves between my breasts, giving each one attention, or maybe in an attempt to try and feel every part of me at once.

I’m becoming just as desperate as I try to take all of him into me, needing every inch of his impressive cock inside me. “Holden . . . there . . . fucking harder . . .” And when the ache builds to the point of pain—when Holden is growling and driving in as far as he can, my body screaming for release—I tumble. Falling over the edge, my body pulsing with shock waves of pleasure.

“Shit . . . Sam . . . you feel fuck . . . too good . . .” He tightens his hold around me and thrusts deep as he comes. I feel him; warm, pulsing, hard, pressing against my walls. It heightens my orgasm until I cry out, and then I’m sagging against his chest. Our labored breaths in sync.

He sweeps my hair aside and presses his lips to my neck. Then he falls to the bed with me in his arms. It’s bliss. Pure, exhausted and spent.

As I roll to my side, he holds on to my leg, draping it over him. Then he slaps my ass and then rubs it. I laugh. “I don’t know which part of you I love more.” His words zing right to my heart.

I look up and rest my hand over his heart, on the branches covering it. “I can tell you which part I love the most . . .” I slip my hand between us and roam down teasingly. He chuckles, and I stop, unable to control my laughter.

“Oh,” he says. “I figured that out. But if I’m going to keep up with you, I need to hydrate.” But then, his smile falters, his face turning serious as he runs his hand over the top of my ass cheek. “What’s the anchor for?”

Holding his gaze, I say, “Tyler.”

He nods once against the pillow. “His anchor.” Nothing in his voice betrays that he feels anything but understanding.

“Yes. I was his anchor.” Palming his chest, I push up to kiss him, loving the feel of the metal against my lips. Then, lying back down, “I wanted a reminder that I grounded him here. But wanted it somewhere no one would see.”

“Because you branded it there.”

A bit of shame swells in my chest. “Well, I wasn’t leaving the house. So going to get a tattoo was out of the question.” I breathe in deeply. “Crafting the design and heating the metal wasn’t hard. But, it was painful. And now, I kind of wish I’d gotten it inked.”

His eyebrows raise. “I can fix it for you.” My heart tightens, thinking of how he did just that with his scar. “If you want. I mean, I’m no tattoo artist. But I have been known to doodle here and there.” He winks.

Holden fixing my brand with ink, for me, for his brother, means more to me than he could ever know. “All right,” I say. “First, though. Hydrate.” I smile before rolling out of bed.

My thighs, stomach muscles, back and shoulders . . . just about every part of my body aches. But the pain is a good one. Holden worked muscles I didn’t even know I had. I smile to myself as I tug open the bathroom door and reach for the light. Then deciding I don’t want to add aggravated eyes to my list of ailments, I leave the light off, waiting to adjust to the faint light coming from the hairdryer cord.

As the bathroom lightens from black to gray, my eyes taking in the shower curtain and toilet, I turn to the sink and grab a cup. I reach for the faucet, and freeze. The room is suddenly brighter, a dim white light filling the small space.

My heart twists in my chest as Tyler’s aura appears, and then Tyler.

His eyes are knowing. How could they not be? Setting the cup on the counter, I hold his gaze in the mirror. “Hi, Tyler.”

“You took your meds.” His voice is low, husky. Accusing.

I wet my lips, my mouth too dry. “Tell me about the fight between you and Holden. The one where you found us at the dead tree.”

His nearly transparent frame stiffens. “I punched him,” he says, matter of fact. Just like Tyler would. “I fought for you. To keep you.”

With a shiver, I nod. “Yes, you did.” I swallow. “Now tell me what happened right before Holden was shipped off to boarding school.”

Confusion settles in the lines of his face. “I . . . don’t remember.” A deep ache pinches my heart.

Turning to face him, I say, “I need to get something.” He tilts his head, but I don’t give him the chance to ask as I rush from the bathroom.

Casting a glance at Holden, I push a relieved breath past my lips. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow as his chest slowly rises and falls. I can’t believe he passed out already. But I’m thankful. I need to do this on my own. Locating my pack in the dark, I reach down and grab my phone from the side pocket.

I’d already begun to question, but a part of me is still scared. Scared to accept what I fear is the truth. If I do, I’ll have to admit that all this time, I’ve been alone. And that is beyond painful. And fucked up. It would mean that I really need help.

With purposeful, light steps, I find my way to the bathroom and Tyler waiting for me. At the doorway, I look into his eyes. His dark, chocolate eyes. The eyes of my best friend. The man I could have married and had a fulfilling life with. And then I bring the phone from behind my back and snap a picture.

The flash brightens the small room, and Tyler’s head jerks back. “What the hell, Sam?”

From the beginning, when I first started my research into the field of specters, one thing stuck with me. One thing I, for some reason, was always too afraid to attempt. Maybe because I didn’t want the truth. Maybe I’m better at lying to myself than I am at convincing others.

But, the specialists claim a dark entity can be captured with flash photography. And for a specter like Tyler, one that is very present, his spirit should appear in a photo. I never needed the proof before, because I told myself it was all bullshit. I already had all the proof in the world.

Holden’s words, though . . . his proof? Makes more sense. I want to believe Tyler’s not stuck here on this plane, or fading into limbo. I want to free us both from the darkness.

With a shaky hand, I turn my phone around and look at the screen.

A hotel bathroom.

No Tyler. No aura. No dark entity.

“Sam.” Tyler’s voice slices through me. “I told you. I’d stay as long as you needed me.”

An ache builds in my chest, suffocating me. I breathe through the searing. “I know . . . and you did.” A tear releases from the corner of my eye. “And I think . . . I’m okay now.” I smile.

His full lips stretch into a sad smile. “You are. And I promise I’m somewhere good. And no matter what, I’ll always love you.”

Hot tears spill from my eyes. I shut them, releasing more down my cheeks, and when I open them, Tyler’s fading. His aura growing dimmer until finally he’s gone. “I’ll love you, Tyler. Forever.” I hold out my hand to the emptiness of my mind. “Goodbye.”

HOLDEN

Resting my temple against my fist, I stare down at Sam as she sleeps. Her hair is spread over the pillow, and she releases little clipped snores that are so adorable I can’t help the dumbass smile on my face. Oh, I’m a total creeper. But I’m owning it. On a full-on high, and I’m going to watch her and touch her until she’s sick of me.

But right now, nature calls, and my morning wood that went from firm to rock hard the moment I woke with her in my arms is becoming painful. Easing out of bed so I don’t wake her, I drop my feet to the floor and then saunter, like the sex god that I am, to the bathroom.

Memories of last night replay in my head. Vivid images of Sam. Hot as hell. We have shit to discuss today. Lots of shit. But for right now, I just want to enjoy her. Not worry about how I’m going to see her when I live more than four hours away. I mean, if she’s taking her meds, and she’s getting better, she’ll want to go back to college. And she should.

Then there’s still the issue of my brother’s ghost. Even though last night she committed herself to getting well, she’s not there yet. It’s going to take time. And therapy. I’ll be there for her, but I know this will be a battle.

And then . . . there’s the real shit. The stuff I’ve kept from her. Stepping away from the toilet, I brace my hands on the counter and stare at myself in the mirror. Fuck. I’m a bastard. An evil one. But I’ve kept things from her for so long, I can’t stomach her finding out now. I can’t lose her.

Because when she does know, she’ll want to get as far away from me as she can.

It’s only a matter of time, though. I can’t continue on like this. I don’t want to keep lying to her. Shit. I slam a fist against the counter.

My fucked up brain has effectively ruined any chance at a good day with her. Shaking my head, I push off from the counter and curse.

As I enter the room, I search the floor for my bag. Leaning over next to the desk, I dig through it, then slip on a pair of boxers. My sight lands on a small notebook lying on the desk chair. More of Sam’s sketches, maybe. I pick it up and thumb through the pages. Pages and pages of scrawl.

My brother’s sloppy scrawl.

I feel my skin pale as the blood drains from my face, sending a million pinpricks all over my body. Then anger bites at my chest, fire-hot.

Sam stirs in the bed, drawing my attention. “Hey, you.” She beams, then her smile falls right off her face as she sees what I’m holding.

“This?” I ask her. “This is how you knew those things?” She flinches at my harsh tone, but I keep on. “Tell me this is not how you knew all that shit. I thought . . .” I press my lips together and grip the notebook. “I actually thought, during really messed up moments, he could be here. You had my head fucking reeling. And then I find this.” My words are spitting from my mouth in heated accusation. And I know, with all my lies, I have no right. But fuck.

Sam pulls the covers around her as she sits up, suddenly hiding herself from me. “He didn’t want anyone to know about it, Holden. I couldn’t tell you.”

I scoff. “Yeah? And he gave it to you? His ghost gave you permission to read it?”

Her face crumples, stricken. Like I just reached out and slapped her. But then, composing herself, she narrows her eyes. “Why are you really so pissed off? Huh?” She tosses the covers off and then stalks toward me.

I drop my gaze. “Put some clothes on.”

She laughs darkly. “After last night . . . are you serious?”

My eyes lift to hers. “I can’t think straight otherwise,” I grit out.

Shaking her head, she reaches down and scoops her shirt off the floor. As she’s slipping it over her head, she says, “I thought he might’ve written something in it before the accident.” She flips her hair out from beneath the collar, then pins me with a hard glare. “That I could find something for you to use . . . I don’t know. To help with the case.”

And like I’ve been punched, my stomach clenches. “Did you?” I wait, my breath stuck in my chest.

She huffs. “No. I haven’t read that far yet.”

With a whoosh of air past my lips, my chest loosens. “I’ll be back later,” I say, storming toward my jeans slung over the foot of the bed.

“What?” Sam marches up beside me and grips my arm, trying to turn me to face her. I hold my place. “Where are you going?”

Ignoring her attempt, I slide on my jeans while trying not to drop the notebook, my movements sloppy and rushed. “To burn this.” Then I pull out of her grasp and yank out a shirt from my bag.

She jerks the tee out of my hand. “What the fuck, Holden?”

“I’m going to burn it, Sam,” I say slowly, pronouncing each word. “Trust me. It’s for the best.” A small sense of relief washes over me. If she was with me last night, then she didn’t get far enough in it to know . . . anything. Maybe there’s nothing in it at all. Maybe there is. I don’t know. But either way, it’s gone. If I get rid of it right now, she and everybody else will never know.

Then I make the mistake of looking at her. I can see the tremble of her shoulders. The shimmer glazing her eyes. Last night was perfect, and now . . . I’m ruining everything. Shit. Fuck. Dropping to the bed, I put my head in my hands. What the hell am I doing?

Sam lowers herself before me, and I close my eyes. Block her out. I don’t want to see the pain I’m causing her. “What is it, Holden? Tell me?” Her voice is shaky and pleading, reaching into my gut and twisting. “What are you trying to hide?”

An ache lodges in my throat. I work to speak past it. “I can’t.” And everything I’ve been holding in for so long comes rushing to the surface. All the nightmares ripping apart my head. Images I can’t ever unsee. I squeeze my eyes closed harder. But they’re still there.

I feel her hand on the side of my face. “I love you,” she says, and I shatter.

Looking into her eyes, I suck in a breath and commit to memory the last time I’ll ever hear those words. “Tyler wasn’t killed by a hit-and-run.” I watch her face transform from compassion to confusion. Before I can back out, I force the words past my lips. “He killed himself.”

Her forehead creases, her mouth parts. But then anger flashes in her bright eyes. “No.” She shakes her head, stone conviction on her face and in her voice. “No, he didn’t. Why the hell would you say that?”

Sharp pain tears through me at my next admission. “He was the one driving his car the night our mom died.” My limbs are quaking, and the words won’t stop. They flow from me unguarded. Like last night when the dam broke, it finished me off. She’s finishing me off. And I’m at her mercy. “I sent him back to his dorm in a cab, and then I left. I should’ve driven him back myself. But I was tired and didn’t want to drive all the way out there.”

She nods slowly. “I know. You’ve told me this.” Then her head yanks back. “Wait. You said dorm this time . . .”

Shaking my head, I admit, “He didn’t take the cab home or to the dorm. He paid the cab driver to turn around and take him back to the bar.” I swallow hard. Her eyes are locked on mine. Unblinking. “After I got a cab for him, I left his car in the parking lot, figuring we’d get it the next day. I drove my truck back to the house, and an hour later, got a panicked call from him. He was talking fast and slurred. Freaking out about an accident.” I have to stop, take a breath. The images banging against my head are turning my stomach.

Sam lays her hands on my thighs, looking straight into my eyes, nothing in her face betraying her thoughts. “What happened?”

I nod once, getting through the rest. Just get through it. “Mom had called him. She’d been out with her friends, and her car wouldn’t start. So she called Tyler to pick her up. She never would’ve called my dad, that’s for sure.” I look away, knowing I’m about to break her heart. “At the time, Tyler was in the bar with the redhead. He went back to be with her, Sam. I’m sorry. He was drunk . . . I tried to stop him . . . but—”

“It’s not your fault,” she cuts me off. Her words are strong, but when I look at her, I can see the hurt dimming her eyes.

“Fuck,” I hiss. “If I’d just stayed for five minutes longer, I could’ve stopped everything. If I’d just driven him to the dorm . . . but I didn’t.”

I drive a hand through my hair, and Sam says, “What happened after he called?”

I blow out a breath, my head light. “I raced through the woods to find my mother dead.” I’m shaking now. “He’d crashed into a tree not far from the house . . . and I couldn’t help her. She was gone.” I close my eyes against the images of my mother’s limp body. Lifeless eyes. The blood. “I got sick on the side of the road, and Tyler was so fucked up. Drunk, freaking out, and when I looked into his eyes, I just broke. I wanted to protect him. That’s all I could think. And I knew when the cops got there, they’d arrest him. He’d go to prison maybe for the rest of his life.” I look into her eyes now, praying. For what, I don’t know. “I couldn’t let that happen. Tyler didn’t mean it . . . it was an accident. He was smashed. And it was beyond wrong and fucked up. But this was our mom. Our fucking mom.”

A violent sob takes me, and Sam moves to sit beside me. I can’t believe I’m losing my shit. “I’m fine,” I say. “Shit. I’m fine.”

Her arm reaches around my waist, her warm, soft skin affecting me. For one moment, I long to be lost in her. Just disappear. Because when the full truth hits, I’ll never feel her again.

Her fingers comb through my hair, and I shiver at her touch. “Tyler wrote in his journal that you always looked out for him. That you always tried to protect him from your dad, and everything.” Her hand takes mine, her tiny fingers lacing through my large ones. “You were just doing what you thought was right at the time. Still trying to protect him.”

She’s right on that. I nod hard. “I’d only had one beer because we spent most of the night arguing. And that was over an hour before then. So I thought . . . I could send Tyler home. Call the police. Tell them it was me who was driving Tyler’s car, and that I’d tried to swerve to miss a deer in the road.” I pull in a breath. “I kicked dirt over Tyler’s puke, told him what to say to the cops, and made him go to the house.”

“But what about the cab driver?” she asks. “Wouldn’t the police question him?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I thought about that. But I was at the scene. I confessed, so they never investigated beyond that.” I shrug shamefully. “I always thought if I ever needed to tell the truth, the cab driver would be the one to back up the story.”

She nods. “Is it that time? Now?”

“No.” I look at the wall, everything growing black in the edges of my vision. “I missed that chance.”

“What do you mean? You can always tell the truth. I know that you don’t want your father and others to think anything bad about Tyler . . . but. This is about your life, too, Holden. You shouldn’t have to suffer because of Tyler’s mistake.”

A dark laugh barrels out of me before I can stop it. “I think Tyler would’ve been better off without me trying to protect him.” I shake my head. “Seems that my interference only fucked shit up worse.”

She sighs, deep and heavy. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for all this.”

“Yes,” I say. “I can.” Then looking into her jewel-like eyes, I crush them as I say, “If I’d told someone the first time Tyler tried to kill himself, he never would’ve succeeded in the end.”

SAM

My heart jumps in my throat. I don’t want to—will not believe Tyler committed suicide. “Stop saying that.” My voice is raw and angry. I’m trying to take all this in and be here and understand what Holden has suffered, but I can’t listen to him saying that about Tyler anymore.

Holden’s jaw tightens. “Tyler was different with you.” And I know this much. In just under a week, I’ve learned too many painful secrets about the guy who was my best friend and who I loved dearly. I don’t think I can learn anymore. My head is splitting open.

But Holden presses on. “One night, our dad flipped out. Tyler forgot to add oil to his dirt bike and burned up the engine. Dad grabbed a pan from the stove where Mom was cooking and pinned Tyler against the wall.”

I swallow hard, trying to brace myself, while the images his words create sear my mind. “I pushed Tyler out of the way right before he slung the pan. Hot grease caught me in the chest, burned through my shirt, and hurt like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

Tears well in my eyes. “Oh, God.”

Holden shrugs, like talking about your father burning you with cooking oil is an everyday convo. “Tyler was already on a downward spiral before that. But after I’d gone to the ER, telling them, of course, that it was my own dumbass fault, he spiraled out of control.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “He took a bottle of some shit I had in my room. I found him face down in his own vomit on the bathroom floor. I stuck my finger down his throat and made him puke up the rest before putting him in the shower to wake him up.”

The missing section in the journal, I realize. The broken timeline. Tyler had to have only been thirteen then, and it must have been right before he spent a couple weeks at his grandparent’s house. It’s why he was sent there that summer. His parents hid everything so well. I never even questioned.

“Dad was pissed,” Holden says. “He tried to whale on Tyler while he was completely out of it, and he probably would’ve finished him off in his condition. I lost my shit. Just went to town. Beat the hell out of him.”

“He deserved a lot worse,” I say, not able to hold back my hatred for their father.

“Yeah. Well, after that, he put me back in my place. Shipped me up off to boarding school, and Tyler went to our grandparent’s to recover before school.”

Pieces are falling together, and I don’t want them to. I don’t want . . . “This is why you think Tyler killed himself. Because of that one time?”

He nods. “That car didn’t hit him, Sam.” Holden’s eyes don’t release me. “I know this, because after he killed our mom in the wreck, he went down. Harder than I’ve ever seen him. He was drowning in guilt, and it was killing him.” He clenches his hand into a fist. “I should’ve told someone the truth. I thought I was looking out for him, but if I had, he’d still be here. He might be in prison, fuck, I don’t know. But they would’ve gotten him help to deal with it. I wasn’t there for him. I just went back to my life.”

My heart is aching so badly I can’t hold back the tears. I drop my head in my hands and have to release them. I feel Holden’s arm around me, then cradling me to his chest. Like at the funeral, I feel ashamed. I should be comforting him, not the other way around. Inhaling deeply, I breathe in his strong, masculine scent. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“I just unloaded a shit ton of fucked up on you,” he says. “I’m surprised you haven’t bolted from the room.”

My head whips up. “Why would I do that?” Whatever’s happened, Holden has only tried to do what he thought was right and help his brother. He just needed help himself.

“Because it’s my fault you don’t have Tyler now,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice and eyes scare me. He truly believes it’s his fault. “Tyler walked out in front of that car on purpose. He couldn’t live with the guilt anymore.”

“It’s not your fault. And Tyler didn’t kill himself.”

He runs his thumb over my cheek, clearing away the tears, as his hand palms my face. “I’m fucked up. Been fucked up for a long time. And if I wasn’t so fucked up, I would’ve known the right things to do to help him.” He bows his head. “Keeping Tyler’s suicide a secret is all I can do for him now. I can’t let everything he was in life be ruined like that.”

And realization dawns. That day in Talladega. Why Holden was so upset that I knew about their dad. He was afraid I also knew about Tyler’s suicide attempt, and that I’d tell someone. That they’d put the clues together, and then Tyler’s perfect memory would be disgraced. Their father, I’m sure, would do something horrible to make sure of that. I don’t know what, but the man is psychotic. He’s the one who should be found at fault. For everything.

Placing my hands on Holden’s face, I kiss him. Soft. Gentle. Letting him feel my love, and hopefully, comforting him. Pulling back, I say, “You’ve carried this guilt around for too long. It’s time to find out the truth.”

His eyebrows pull together. I place a quick kiss on his lips before I stand and go to the dresser where I take one of my pills. Then turning toward him, I say, “I’ve let Tyler go. Now you have to.” I point to the journal sitting next to Holden on the bed. “It’s the only way you’ll know for sure. Read it.”

A flash of terror crosses his face. He’s owned this guilt for a long time. I know releasing it won’t be easy. But he has to. I watch as he works up the courage to pick up the journal, then flip to the last entry Tyler made before he died.

I have to trust that, just like Holden believes beyond a shadow of a doubt Tyler is in a good place, the boy I’ve known forever didn’t bow out of life. Didn’t walk away from everyone who loved him. Didn’t leave us behind to suffer his loss on purpose.

Tyler hid things from me . . . was suffering from things I didn’t know and he felt I wouldn’t understand. Or maybe he was trying to shield me from that part of his life. In his mind, trying to protect me. I don’t know. But he needed help. He didn’t get it, and his actions from one night hurt so many lives . . . lives he cared about.

But he did not do it on purpose. It was a horrible accident.

I feel it in my heart. It’s the one truth I’m clinging to. It’s what I believe beyond a shadow of a doubt.

And when Holden looks up at me, his face is strained and tears fill his eyes. “I don’t think . . .” He chokes on his words, then, “He didn’t do it. He didn’t kill himself.”

I rush over and hug him hard. His arms circle me, and I feel the tension in his body give way to relief as he trembles. Holden can work through his guilt. He can let it go, and we both can find a path out of the darkness that’s trapped us.

Holden’s lips find mine, and he kisses me with the hope thrumming through him. I kiss him back, my hands on his chest, feeling his heart pounding against my palms.

He rests his forehead against mine, inhaling a shaky breath. “I need to call the cops,” he says. “And we have to cut our trip short.” He pulls back to look into my eyes. “I know you were determined to finish this for Tyler, but—”

“We are finishing this for Tyler,” I say. “Right now.”

HOLDEN

I make the call to the Beaufort County Sherriff’s Office. We’ll have to leave soon to bring them the pages in the notebook. They’re now evidence.

If Sam wasn’t here, centering me, I’d probably hop in my truck and break every posted speed limit back to the island to find the fucker who hit Tyler myself. Maybe even kill him. I know I’d at least beat him to within an inch of his life. But my emotions are running too high. Those fucking emotions, dammit. They’ve been climbing for nearly an hour while I’ve poured my screwed up life out to Sam. Now, I just feel drained.

Relieved. But drained.

After reading Tyler’s words again, I still can’t believe I never thought of it. The redhead’s boyfriend. I didn’t even know she had one—didn’t think of her one way or the other. But she’d told her boyfriend—James—about her getting with Tyler at the bar, and James had been threatening Tyler.

He never told me. Why didn’t he tell me?

Maybe because he was too ashamed to admit he’d actually slept with her. I’m sure he didn’t want to tell me, knowing I’d try to make him fess up to Sam. But hell. In a disgusting bar bathroom? And now, Sam knows anyway.

Tyler feared this guy enough to write about it, claiming he was mental, and he was even trying to figure out a way to report him to the dean or the cops without involving Sam. His last entry said he was meeting James to work things out.

I’d always wondered why Tyler said he was meeting me that night. The one thing that drove me crazy, making me wrack my brain to figure out why he’d told that to Sam. I wasn’t even in town. But like his words state, he didn’t want her to ever find out about the redhead. He was trying to handle it himself.

Witnesses said the car that they caught glimpses of speeding away from the hit-and-run was small and red, but no one could tell the make. According to Tyler’s journal, the douchebag drove a red Civic.

It’s a leap. And the cops still might not be able to charge him, or a judge be able to convict him, but Tyler’s journal gives them a starting point and enough new evidence to reopen the case. And I’m sure once they start digging, more evidence will surface. I have to trust that.

All the pieces fit together now, and it’s unbelievable that one fucked up night could cause this much pain. For so many people.

But no matter the outcome, Tyler’s words offer me one thing: freedom.

I’ve been carrying my brother’s death on my shoulders for the past five months. And before that, the burden of my mother’s. Just with Sam knowing the truth, an enormous weight has been lifted.

As Sam folds her shirt and puts it in her pack, she looks over at me. “Are you going to tell them the truth?”

I know she means the wreck. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Does it matter now? The only person who would’ve benefited from it is gone. And honestly, I wouldn’t accept an apology from my father if he offered one, anyway. I’m through with him.”

Tossing her pack to the floor, Sam walks over and stands before me, then climbs onto the bed and straddles my lap, her arms linking around my neck. I lock my arms around her waist, loving how perfectly she fits against me. And trying like hell—and failing—not to get a hard on at the thought of her being naked all but her tee. I know it’s bad timing, but hell. She’s sexy. And I love this sexy woman.

“I think you should come to a few sessions with me,” she says, and I raise my eyebrows. “Dr. Hartman can be a pain, but she sometimes says smart stuff. “ She smiles wanly.

For Sam? I’d do just about anything. But I have a feeling she wants me to do this for myself, or some shit. One of those twelve-step things. And maybe it wouldn’t hurt.

I shrug. “We’ll see how it goes when we get back.”

“Good enough,” she says, then places a soft kiss on my forehead, keeping her lips there. I breathe in her sweet scent, my own personal drug.

“You’re handling all this with a scary calm,” I say against her throat. She hasn’t said anything about Tyler’s admitted infidelity or his attempted suicide. It’s scaring me to think of her holding it all in, falling apart on the inside. If she needs to rail at someone, I’ll take it for her. “Are you okay?”

Lacing her fingers in my hair, she pulls back to look at me. “I will be,” she says, a sadness glistening in her irises. “Thing is, Tyler and I were growing distant before any of this happened. I guess, college and all. But I was just too afraid to admit it, or I didn’t want to. I was afraid of losing my best friend, and I should’ve been brave enough to make us talk about it. I’ve just never been good at ‘dealing.’” She unlaces her arms from behind me to make air quotes. “And I’m more upset that Tyler obviously didn’t trust me enough to let me in.” She sighs. “I want to feel guilty, thinking maybe I should’ve seen the signs myself . . . but I know that’s not right. Tyler’s actions had consequences. And he suffered them more than anyone. He also held the responsibility to tell someone, anyone what was going on . . . with his dad, the bar girl, everything. He wasn’t a child anymore.”

I feel my brow furrow. A sharp pain knifes me right in the chest. “I didn’t tell you, either.”

She tilts her head. “Yes, you did.”

And I realize, she’s right. Sam didn’t discover any of this from the journal. I’d already been battling with myself on this trip about keeping so much from her. And earlier this morning, I’d been coming to the conclusion that it was time. Then I just let everything rip.

I press my lips together and clutch the back of her shirt. “I wish I’d told you sooner.”

“We had our own shit to work out before that could happen,” she says. “And I think for two extremely fucked up individuals”—she smirks, and I chuckle low, pulling her closer—“we did the best we could.”

I kiss her chin and say against her skin, “You’re right. So fucking smart.” I move to kiss her neck, reveling in the way she shivers at my touch. “And smart girls are so damn sexy.”

She laughs, and it lightens the heaviness in my chest. Oh, we have a long way to go before we’re fixed, and declared sane, but I can see the light peeking through. The darkest part is behind us.

Bringing Sam with me, I fall to the bed, loving the way her hair drapes my face, my chest. She braces her elbow on the bed and runs her fingers over my tattoo. I lift her wrist and kiss her inked tree, like I wanted to do the first time I saw it—the first glimmer of hope that she could be mine.

Then, with a wicked, sultry smile, she nips my lip ring, sending a blazing current through my body. This girl loves me. I don’t know how, but I’m going to try like hell to prove that I deserve her.

As she runs her fingers through my hair, her lips caressing mine in a passionate kiss, a pure thought breaks through the carnal haze. Sliding my fingers under her jaw, I lift her face from mine. She blinks down at me. “We should finish the trip,” I say.

Her mouth parts. “But we need to take—”

“I know. And we are. Well,” I say, shifting her to lie beside me. I grasp her hip. She’s still not wearing any pants . . . or underwear. I give my head a quick shake, focusing my thoughts. “We can send it through the mail.”

Her forehead scrunches. “You trust the mail to get something that important to the police department?”

Good point. “Okay, we’ll photocopy the pages and send them the copies.” I raise my eyebrows, tempting her to consider this. I can see it churning in her head.

She bites her bottom lip, and I bring her closer, just wanting to taste it. I’m not ready to go back to the island. I need time to think through everything, and Sam and I need time together. Period.

I want to see the sorry son of a bitch who hit Tyler punished. And I will. But it’s like . . . I’ve been trapped. Locked in my own private hell. When I read Tyler’s words, I was finally freed. And I want my first steps away from that prison to be with Sam.

She pulls away and says, “This isn’t you avoiding, is it?”

A tight smile tugs at my lips. “No. Not avoiding. I swear.” I kiss her quickly. “This is the right thing to do. Finish the trip for Tyler, and along the way, maybe we’ll . . .” Hell. How do I tell her that I don’t ever want to leave her? Never. I need time to work out telling her that I want us to live together. That I’ll move back to the island to be close to her if that’s what it takes. So she can go back to school. Shit. My head is bursting with everything I want.

“Maybe we’ll figure out us,” I finally say.

She returns my smile, and my heart skips a beat. “Okay. Yeah, I think that is exactly what we need to do.”

And I’m unable to hold back. Trapping her wrist, I roll her onto her back and move between her legs, then grabbing her other wrist, I pin her to the bed. My lips catch hers, working her mouth into a desperate kiss. Someone’s going to have to drag me from this room. We might never actually make it back on the road—I’ll never be able to get enough of her.

Her hips arch into me, and I groan against her mouth, wishing like hell I’d never put on my stupid jeans.

Releasing her wrist, I run my hand along her arm, feeling her shiver under my touch. I move higher and tunnel my fingers into her hair, resting my thumb along her jaw, and tilt her head up to look into her yellow-green eyes that I swear, one day, I’ll find a color to match. Just so I can paint her likeness to perfection.

“I’ve never stopped. And I’ll never stop, Sam.” I swallow hard. “I’ll love you so hard it will make your head spin.”

Her breath catches. “I love you, Holden Marks.” She feathers her fingers through my hair, pulling me closer. “Now start making good on that promise.”

I kiss her. I kiss her hard. Damn straight I’m making good on it.

HOLDEN

After signing the papers, I smile at the guy and push the key into my pocket. Then I’m leaving through the office door and heading down the sidewalk, anticipation speeding my steps over the pavement.

Obnoxious honking, engines revving, and the squeal of brakes. Voices climbing over the constant roar of wind tunneling around soaring buildings. This is the soundtrack of New York City.

I won’t lie. At first I was uncertain. Not sure if I could actually live here. But after I knew how badly Sam had always wanted to attend NYU, I sucked up my doubt and made it happen.

Zipping up my coat, I shut out the biting cold, the key burning a hole in my pocket. I couldn’t give Sam what I wanted for her birthday, but I can for Christmas. A huge, cheesy grin spreads across my face as I turn the corner toward the apartment building.

Once we made it to the final destination on my brother’s map, we decided that staying there wasn’t for us. After we’d spread the last of his ashes along the coast of Santa Rosa Beach, we picked another spot—just ours—to unwind from the road trip. Lounging on the beach, the sun shimmering off her dark hair, Sam admitted that she still harbored the dream of going to school in New York and eventually owning her own art studio.

I couldn’t deny her that dream.

She didn’t believe I was serious. That I’d pack up my stuff in Atlanta and move with her. And I was freaked. Not knowing if I could even find a job. But once she was able to transfer to NYU on late submission acceptance, I got my shit in gear and had my boss call in a favor.

He was born and raised here, and was able to pull a few strings to land me a job at an auto body shop not far from the university. It’s strange walking to work instead of driving. I still have my truck—because there was no way I was giving that up—but it’s not a necessity here. And parking it in a garage and only driving on weekends will be worth everything and more when I see the look on Sam’s face.

In about one minute.

I cross the lobby and hit the elevator button for my floor, bouncing on my toes. Like a total kid. I’m that excited. This, along with the news we’d gotten from Amber about Tyler’s case, is the perfect ending to the worst year of our lives. Everything now is in direct contrast to the beginning of this year.

But it’s far from over.

My brother’s murderer was found guilty and convicted last month. The legal system is painfully slow, and moving here with Sam was the best thing I could’ve done—since I didn’t want to go to prison for murdering him. James was out on probation when new evidence put him away until his court date.

The redhead, Sadie, surprisingly provided that evidence. Apparently James’ Civic needed a new headlight, and instead of taking it to a shop to have it replaced, he’d ordered one from an online dealership. He never got rid of the old one, though. And Sadie turned it into the police.

They found trace amounts of my brother’s blood in the cracked headlight. It had been cleaned, but they were able to get enough to match it to Tyler’s DNA. And with the journal pages, the lawyer was able to prove it was no accident. James had deliberately met with Tyler that night for one outcome. It was premeditated, and the judge sentenced him to life without parole.

I know how these things work, though. I know that in just a few short years, James could be up for parole on good behavior and all that bullshit. But we’ll face anything else that comes our way.

Shaking my heavy thoughts from my head, I push in the apartment key and open the door.

And my heart thumps my chest hard, a dumbass smile sliding across my face.

Sam’s on her tiptoes, paintbrush extended above her head, working on her painting of the last stop of our road trip. She’s in her paint-covered smock . . . and nothing else. My eyes drift over her bare shoulders to the tightly cinched belt, and then down to the too-short bottom that reveals her sexy thighs and a hint of her sexy ass.

Her head whips around, her high ponytail following. The tip of it is covered in paint, and it leaves a slash of green across her collarbone and tatted stars. “You’re home early.”

I love it. I still love hearing her say home. As in our home. “Yeah, I had some things to handle, and I took the rest of the day off.”

Stepping out of my boots, I kick them near the door, then toss my coat over the couch along the wall. Above, a collage of framed paintings showcase black wiry trees. Sam and my paintings from high school.

I coast across the hardwood floor, drawn to her like a magnet.

She drops the paintbrush to the tarp and holds up her hands. “Wait. I’m covered in paint. You’ll get all—”

I strip off my jeans and yank my shirt over my head by the back of the collar. In under five seconds, I’m in my boxers—which I could give a damn about—and I’m pulling her against me. The chilly paint on her skin and smock touches my skin, and it only heightens my need to feel her.

She laughs, linking her arms around my neck. “I could get used to you coming home early.” Her eyes sparkle as they meet my gaze.

I sigh, mock heaviness in my tone. “And I’m really going to miss coming home to you in nothing but a smock.” I press my lips together. Since she’s nearly destroyed all her clothes with paint, she’s taken up painting in the nude. Which you will never hear a complaint from me about. Ever.

Her eyebrows pull together. “What do you mean?”

Bringing my hand between us, I open it, the key resting in my palm. “It’s early,” I say, my nerves strung tight. “But I couldn’t wait. Here’s your present, Sam.”

“Holy shit,” she says, and I chuckle. I couldn’t have asked for a better reaction from her, until she jumps into my arms and wraps her legs around me. “Are you serious? How?”

I shrug. “It’s not much . . . yet. It needs a lot of work. But I figure that just means we can turn it into our own studio.” Her eyes brighten with every word. She doesn’t hear work, or any other word, just studio. That’s my girl. “And it’s all yours. Leased for one year.”

“Ours,” she stresses. “It’s all ours. And now, as I’m officially your boss, I demand for you to take at least two days off from the shop and put time in with your real work.” She narrows her eyes, trying like hell to intimidate me.

I feel a smile curve my lips. “And if I don’t?”

She bites her bottom lip. On fucking purpose. I groan and trap her lip between my teeth, and then inhale her sweet scent as I cover her mouth with mine. She pulls away and shakes her head. “No. You don’t get to do that or anything else until you promise you’ll at least spend two days there working on your art.” Now she’s serious.

I’d already planned to take time off and work there with her, but I just like seeing her fired up. “I promise,” I say. “And you have to promise to wear this”—I drop my gaze, taking in her cleavage popping over the top of the smock—“at least . . . hell. Fuck that agreement. I want you in nothing at all every day. And right now”—I lower us to the floor—“I want to peel this smock off your hot ass.”

I guide her back to the tarp and run my hand over the material, finding the belt tie, and pull.

SAM

“Wait.” I trap Holden’s hand over my smock belt. “I have to tell you something.”

His face pulls together and he pins me with his blue eyes. “Nope. I’ve been dying to get you out of this—”

“For all of five minutes?” I laugh. “You can wait five more.”

He groans and falls beside me on the tarp, resting his hand on my stomach. “You have no idea how painful those five minutes were.”

I roll my eyes and turn on my side to face him. Then, with a determined breath, “Dr. Hartman cleared me to come off my meds.”

His face doesn’t change. Holding its playful expression for a moment longer until my words sink in. Then his facial muscles reveal the hesitance creeping over him. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Yes. You know how hard it is for me to focus on my art and school at the same time while taking them. They just make me so tired.” His brow furrows. He’s seen me battling the side effects for months. “And I haven’t relapsed, Holden. I’ve been cleared. She said she thinks it’s time.”

This gets a smile from him, and I know he’s relieved. I hate being on the pills. I never felt I needed the antidepressants, but I stuck with the antipsychotics. Even though I accepted my condition, and through therapy was able to understand why it happened, sometimes I’d still see glimpses of Tyler out of the corner of my vision. Just a quick flicker. Him there, and then gone. I’d hear someone laugh, and it would sound just like Tyler’s laugh. I’d see a movie we watched before, and it’d trigger a memory. I’d feel his presence, if only for a moment.

Dr. Hartman continued to work with me via Skype, and said that it was expected. That the mind takes time to heal, and the heart takes even longer. Beneath all that stuff I’d thought of as psychobabble, she’s actually a romantic. And she said when my mind and heart were ready, they’d release me from the psychosis. The meds helped, but I want to have my life back now. I want to be able to do everything I want with the energy I need.

“How long has it been?” Holden asks. His hand roams over my hip, comforting.

“Three months.” I eye him seriously. “I haven’t had any episodes in over three months. So I should be able to come off the meds safely now.”

He pulls me to him, anchoring his strong arm around me. My chest presses against his, to the dark ink of the dead tree tattoo covering his warm skin. “Then yes,” he says. “It’s time. You know what you need.”

I drive my fingers through his hair. It’s longer now, and I love the way it falls against his pale eyes. “I do. Come here.” He doesn’t hesitate, crushing his lips to mine.

He moves on top of me, his hand working to unrobe me from the smock in hurried, impatient movements. “Did you double knot this thing?” He grunts and yanks the tie loose. Pushing it off my shoulders, his eyes flick over me, hungrily taking me in.

Linking my arms around his neck, I bring his face to mine and kiss him deeply. Then I say against his lips, “Thank you for getting the studio. It’s the best present ever, Holden.”

He palms my cheek, and his thumb sweeps my skin, his intense gaze holding mine. Warmth pools in my stomach. “Just say you’ll be with me always, and we’ll call it even.”

I feel a smile tugging at my lips. Done. Always it is.

He buries his lips in my neck, and I lock my legs around him, pulling him as close as I can get him.

We still have a ways to go before we’re both completely mended. But we’re working at it, every day. And with Holden and me both in sessions twice a month, he’s finally getting the help he needs, too.

Now that his father has married Amber, I try to keep close to her through email. Just letting her know that we’re here, even if Mr. Marks has forbidden her to talk to me now that I’m with his disowned son. She’s an adult, and it’s her choice who she’s with, and who her friends are. But Holden and I hope that if she ever suffers any of the abuse he and Tyler went through, that their mother went through, then she will either ask for our help, or seek it herself.

All we can do is be there for her, and continue to try and work through our own issues.

As Holden’s hand caresses my thigh, I lose all train of thought. I want to revel in the amazing moments we create together. Life is so short, and you never know when something will come along to change everything. Spinning your world into a downward spiral. Trapping you in the darkest part of a mental hell.

But Holden and me, we’ve been to the dark. We’ve faced it. And we now have the tools to pull each other out. Together.

The darkest part is where I found Holden. And he found me.

All the other colors of the rainbow are only a path to our future.

Our always.

–The End–

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to everyone who had a hand in the making of this book. I couldn’t have done it without you.

My phenomenal, talented critique partners: Rachel Harris, Shannon Duffy, and Patrice Michelle. Thank you for your tireless patience, your spot-on critiques, and for being a girl’s go to best friends.

To my wonderful team of beta readers, early readers, and cheerleaders! In no particular order, thank you to Nereyda Gonzalez, Katrina Tinnon, Naomi Hop, Cameron Yeager, Jennifer Stasi, Amber Troyer, Nikki Gibbs, Jaime Arnold, Jessica Estep, Kayleigh-Marie Gore, Lindsay Mead, Pavan Hansra, Julie Brazeal, Valerie Fink, Damaris Cardinali, and Kelsey Ketch.

To the Tuff Girl Legion Street Team! Girl power FTW. You are the best. You’re unstoppable. And you rock. Thank you for your support and your praise, and for just being the best street team ever.

To my mother and best friend. Thank you for your love and faith, and for your constant nagging to amp up the romance. Without you, my books wouldn’t be half as steamy. Dad, you’re always there for me no matter what. Thank you for your faith and encouragement. Without your support, none of this would be possible. I love you both so much.

To all the super amazing book bloggers! Without you, a lot of authors wouldn’t have a voice in the market. Thank you for rocking it so hard. I can’t praise you enough.

To the very talented ladies of YA Bound. No one swoons like we do! Thank you for your support. Tara Fuller, Rachel Harris, Nereyda Gonzalez, Kelly Hashway, Kelsey Ketch, and Jessica Baker.

A special thank you to Helene Stoller, Psy. D. for accepting my (odd) request to diagnose my fictional character. I know that it’s not every day an author walks into your office with a request like this, and I was overjoyed to talk with you about Sam’s conditioned. I learned so much, and couldn’t have written her story without your insight. Truly, thank you.

Thank you to my husband, Daniel, for tolerating my ceaseless editing, writing, canceling of vacations, and talking to myself. My son, Blue, thank you for always being there when I need some input on the male POV. I love you both more than you know.

Arijana Karčić of CoverIt! Designs, thank you for so much. Not just for creating a stunning and striking cover, but for also all your encouragement and belief in this story. I had a blast working with you, and was in awe of your talent. Truly, I couldn’t love this cover more.

Thank you to Jaye Manus for formatting the beautiful interior. You never cease to amaze me with your talent, and I’m always blown away by your ideas and the finished product. This interior is perfect and gorgeous.

To my readers. There are no words powerful enough to express how grateful I am to have such a loyal fanbase. Because of you, I get to live my dream of being an author. Thank you for your praise and encouragement, and for rocking so hard it isn’t even funny. The biggest hugs to you all!

I owe everything to God. Thank you for everything.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

From an early age, Trisha Wolfe dreamed up fantasy worlds and characters and was accused of talking to herself. Today, she lives in South Carolina with her family and writes full time, using her fantasy worlds as an excuse to continue talking to herself.

Get updates on future releases and special bonus material at www.TrishaWolfe.com

MORE BOOKS BY

AUTHOR TRISHA WOLFE

THE GODDESS WARS SERIES:

Of Silver and Beasts

Of Darkness and Crowns:

slated for release the end of 2013

THE KYTHAN GUARDIANS SERIES:

Astarte’s Wrath

Destiny’s Fire

THE FIREBLOOD SERIES:

Unveiled

Fireblood:

slated for release November 2013

THE LIVING HEARTWOOD NOVELS:

The Darkest Part

Untitled: Coming 2014

Information about all available books can be found on author’s website at www.TrishaWolfe.com