The Darkest Part (6 page)

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.