Running in Place (Mending Hearts) (17 page)

We took the Civic to Daniel’s uncle’s garage, where they replaced the alternator and suggested that I stop dumping money into the piece of shit and just tell her to get a new car.

Yeah, no shit.

Daniel left from there and I brought the car back to my house to find Tatum awake, drinking coffee in my clothes, which was sexy as hell. I still can’t get the image out of my mind. After thanking me and promising to pay me back, she gave me a friendly side-hug and a pat on the back before bolting and heading to her mother’s house where she was meeting Sadie.

A fucking side-hug. And a you’ve-been-friend-zoned pat on the back.

I get it. I do. I deserve it.

But, shit. Really?

I really don’t know why it bothers me so much. It’s what I wanted, right?
Right?

Well, this question plagued me all week which brings me to now, five days since I’ve seen her, when I hear the familiar click of Tatum’s engine as her car pulls up outside. Another thing I was discouraged from fixing.

Placing the brush down in the pan, I wipe my hands on my jeans and walk to the front door. As I open it, I catch sight of her bending over to get something out of her passenger seat, clad in her signature jean shorts and boots. The ones that give me a great barely-there view of her ass as she leans over even further.

Fucking side-hug.

Placing my arm on the doorjamb, I lean into it as she closes the door and turns in my direction, surprise marking her face when she sees me. I can’t help but smile as she approaches, holding a book in her hand. Well, I hope she plans on reading while she’s here because she sure as shit isn’t working.

“Long time, no see,” I say, moving aside so she can come in. I breathe an inward sigh of relief seeing that her face looks noticeably better. Her gashes are completely healed and her eye, although still a little puffy, is marked with only faded yellow bruises. You probably wouldn’t be able to tell anything even happened to her if she were wearing make-up.

“Yeah, well,” she passes by me, “I was re-evaluating my life all week. And you know what I figured out?” She stops in the middle of the living room and turns in my direction, sheepish smile on her lips.

“No,” I say, wearing a huge grin as I close the door. I can’t help it. “Enlighten me, please.”

“Well, I have come to the conclusion that I am an evil, thoughtless snoop. So, I’ve brought you one of
my
many journals, for
you
to read, as a peace offering. You can now know some of my deepest and most intimate thoughts, since I so carelessly invaded yours.”

Standing there, I stare at her standing in front of me, holding probably the biggest puzzle piece in figuring her out. Something I’ve wanted to do since the first time we crossed paths. And she offers it to me with absolutely no reservation. Lightheartedly, even.

It’s not often that someone offers you their
soul
served up on a silver platter with a smile on their face. I’m starting to question the effect that Friday night had on her mentally and have a strong suspicion she’s closing in on another breakdown because I happen to know from recent experience that there’s only so much pain you can harbor until you hit your breaking point.

 “Tate, while I appreciate the gesture, I’m not reading your
journal
. Yes, you read a small sample of my music, but that’s nothing compared to
this
book. That’s like opening your entire life to me, and I wouldn’t feel right reading that. That actually
is
an invasion of privacy.”

The smile disappears from her face as she holds the journal out, practically forcing it into my grasp.

“Please, take it, Noah. I need you to. You have no idea how much your words, when I read them, touched my soul. To know that someone out there feels the same pain, the heartache…well, it makes me feel not so alone. I’m not asking you to invade my privacy. I’m asking you to provide me solace in knowing that someone knows me,
really
knows me.”

She let out a weary sigh. “I’m fucked up, Noah, that’s no secret. But the knowledge that someone actually understands the things I’ve lived through…well, it makes me feel less abandoned, I guess. It’s hard to explain.”

We stare at each other for a couple of seconds before she adds, “Read it. Please.”

Hesitantly, I begin to take it, but she whips the journal out of my reach, holding it behind her back.

“But, I have to ask you
one
question before I hand it off. Something that I just need to know, for myself.” A devious smirk replaces her previously somber expression.

I narrow my eyes in response, trying to figure out where she’s going with all of this. Her mood fluctuations are giving me whiplash.

One question. Well, it
seems
harmless. But, so do praying mantises and we all know what happens to the males where they’re involved.

“Okaaaaay,” I’m unsure about her motives, but then just as suspected, she goes in for the kill.

“Do you even
want
to go to med school?”

With that one question, the world slows and my heart drops straight to my feet. I can feel the blood draining from my face as I try to rebound the answer successfully.

“Yes.”

She narrows her gaze, peering deeply into my eyes, and then shakes her head as she responds, “
No
, you don’t, Noah. Your passion is in your music. That’s what drives you, am I right?” She watches me for a second. “That’s what I thought.”

I try to rein in my defensiveness, but my response is clipped.

“You don’t know me.”

The corners of her mouth dip down, and she shrugs her shoulders.

“I know you more than you think I do. In fact, I think we’re actually quite similar and after you read, you’ll see it too. Different situations, but it’s obvious to me that we both live our lives according to someone else’s plan. Dead or living.”

She releases her hold on her journal, leaving it in my hands and heads towards the door. She slows, placing her fingers on the knob before looking down at the newly carpeted floor.

“You know, I thought you were the one judging me, but it turns out, I was judging you too. And I’m sorry for that. I really am, Noah.”

Turning the knob, she exits the duplex, leaving a whirlwind of doubt and regret for my actions in her wake.

I watch the door close and stand there for what seems like an eternity, the back and forth in my mind regarding opening the puzzle piece in my hands not helping with the previous bout of Tatum-whiplash. But eventually, I come to my final decision and sit where I stand, slowly opening to the first page.

“Dear Daddy,

I had a dream last night. It was a good dream…
”

Letter after letter, I read.

I read of her guilt regarding her role in her father’s death, the guilt that her mother mercilessly rammed into her head day in and day out. I read of her longing to see him, to have one more moment with him — and my heart breaks knowing the same pain.

I read of the abuse. The nights she spent crying in agony, when her mother’s drunken rages would manifest, leaving her unable to sleep not only because of her open wounds, but out of fear that she’d be heard crying and disciplined further.

I read of the starving little girl who locked herself in a closet every night — forgoing her dinner rather than dealing with the retribution of asking for food.

I read of her dreams of the big brother she prayed endlessly would come home to save her from her torment, the brother she dreamed would one day return to rescue her from her pain. The big brother who, when he did eventually make it there, destroyed any hope she had for salvation as he carelessly discounted her stories of her mother’s many cruelties, only to leave her again, alone, to deal with the shit he should have been protecting her from.

The same brother who put me in charge of her, to protect her, to save her — all from a comfortable distance.

I clench my teeth in anger as two realizations hit me at the same time:

One, Tatum has been left alone her entire life. No one to depend on, no one to protect her, no one who even remotely cared about her. She’s been living day-to-day since she was a child, just praying to make it from one to the next. Completely defenseless and alone. Well, that shit stops today.

Two, Trace needs to step the fuck up. He put me in charge of protecting her, and I will for as long as I can. Starting with my next phone call.

After finding the name I’m looking for, I walk back toward the kitchen and snake my keys off the counter as I hit send. Trace’s voice hits my ear as soon as I open the door to my Jeep.

“What’s up, man? How’s it going?” he asks, papers rustling in the background.

“Do you love your sister?” I ask, putting the keys in the ignition. He stalls a bit, obviously surprised with my line of questioning.

“Yes, of course. Why would you ask that?”

I swallow the irritation as it begins to rise up the back of my throat. I need this to be a civil conversation if I plan to get through to him.

“Let me rephrase, Trace, do you even
know
your sister?”

“Yes, I
know
my sister, Noah. What the hell is this about?” Silence filters through the phone, so I assume I now have his full attention.

“I don’t really think you do, Trace. You know what I think?” My voice rises with uncontainable frustration and fury.

“I think you need to man the fuck up and start
getting
to know her because she’s drowning, Trace. Every day she’s sinking further into the hell that is her life, and I’m worried one day soon she won’t be coming back up. You are her
fucking
brother. Step up and be the man she’s been waiting on to rescue her since she was a little girl. She needs someone to do that. And as much as I would like to be that person, I just can’t.”

 “Noah –”

“Listen, I know she told you about what your mother did to her. I also know that you didn’t believe her. Well, I can tell you, she has journals —
journals
, Trace — of this shit. She left me with one, and I can’t even begin to tell you the horrors she went through. In fact, you know what? I won’t because it’s goddamn time you faced it yourself. You owe her that at least.”

“Journals? What journals?”

I completely ignore his question, because the longer I remain on the phone, the more pissed I become.

“You wanted me to watch over her, to protect her. Well, this is me doing just that. I’m protecting her from you and your indifference. Man up or you
will
lose her forever. Your choice.”

With that said, I hit the end call button and search my phone for the one number I’m thankful I programmed in during Friday’s sleepless night.

“Hello?” Tatum asks.

“Hey, it’s Noah. I need to talk to you,” I answer, starting up the Jeep.

“How did you get my number?” Since I hear her boots clanking over the phone, I pray that she’s home.

“I programmed it in on Friday when you were snoring away in my bedroom.” She responds with a light laugh, and my heart literally stops at the sound of it. I don’t think that sound will ever get old.

“I was
not
snoring. I was…breathing heavily.”

“Right.” I put the Jeep in reverse, backing out of the driveway. “Where are you?”

“At home. Why?”

“Like I said, I need to talk to you.” The sound of her boots comes to a halt.

“Noah, if this is about the journal, I didn’t give it to you so you would feel sorry for me. I don’t want to talk about any of that. I just wanted to give you a piece of myself, that’s all. There’s nothing that needs to be said.”

“Well, I strongly disagree. It’s not about feeling sorry for you. I just want to talk to you, to understand you. See where your head is at.”

I put the Jeep in drive, hoping like hell she gives me a destination.

“Let me in, Tate. Please.”

After a long bout of silence, she lets out a ragged breath.

“126 Angelo Circle.”