My Secret to Tell (2 page)

I shrug. “You’re just scared for your brother.”

“Yeah,” Chelsea says, slowing by the shelter. “I’m scared I’m going to lose him too.”

Before her mom died, before Landon, maybe I would have told her that would never happen, but I know better now. Sometimes we do lose people. As bad as I want to reassure her, I know enough to keep my mouth shut and let her be afraid.

“You gotta get in there,” she says. “Give my brother hell for that ticket.”

“Call me tonight when you’re done?”

Her slim brows pull together. “Done with what?”

“Oil change? Joel’s picking you up at the repair shop at seven thirty.”

“Oh crap, that’s right.”

“Chelsea, you have
got
to get more organized.”

“What for? I have you for that.” She sticks out her tongue and waves.

Deacon wasn’t scheduled for this afternoon, but Chelsea was right about him being here. I spot his motorcycle in the back lot. Figures. He’s always good for an extra shift when he’s fighting with his dad. Or when a dit-dotter from the Midwest gets too clingy.

I step inside and straighten the volunteer time sheets before I write myself in. Deacon’s the only volunteer I know who kept working after graduation, but it’s no shock. He and I have always been animal people. When we were in preschool, we constantly set up a veterinarian station on the picnic table in my backyard. We never had Band-Aids at my house, because they were all on Chelsea’s stuffed animals, especially the turtles. They’ve always been my favorite.

I pass through a tiled hallway with rows of cat cages and the smell of fresh litter heavy in the air. There’s an “Adopted” sticker on Chester’s empty cage. I smile and take his old heart-shaped name tag before I head into the prep room. Deke’s not here either, which means he’s in the dog zone.

I find him with Rocky, a ninety-pound Rottie mix missing half an ear. He’s a special-needs adoption, a deaf senior with that
scary-dog
look that keeps families walking. We keep him in the back on busy days, because too many squealing four-year-olds wear him out. Deacon’s sitting on the floor, rubbing Rocky’s shoulders—they get a little stiff sometimes and the massage seems to help. Rocky noses at the pockets of his faded jeans.

“Nothing left in my pockets, Rock,” he says, switching to scratch his ears.

Nothing left, but I’m sure that dog’s had a few smuggled shrimp from the boat today. Deacon always brings him something. And I always go soft at the edges when I see it.

“Twice in one day. Lucky me,” Deacon says. He’s got an uncanny knack for sensing people behind him. Made water balloon fights a real pain over the years.

“Did you hear the bad news?” he asks. “Dr. Atwood had to rescue a stray today.”

“How is that bad?”

“Well, you didn’t get to do it yourself.” He turns to smirk at me, and my insides do annoying fluttery things. “You’re one rescue away from a spandex outfit and a catchy name.”

“Yeah, well, Chelsea thinks we’re both going to get bitten and catch rabies.”

“Her paranoia is dependable. Remember when you went up that tree for the cat?”

My breath stutters at the memory. “How could I forget?”

Deacon chuckles. “Chels was screeching like a banshee. She kept punching my arm, telling me to call the fire department.”

He didn’t though. He scolded her instead, telling her I was perfectly capable of climbing that tree. And then—the part I remember best—his hands touched my waist when I hopped down and stumbled. It was the briefest touch, just a graze to steady me on my feet, but I was a fourteen-year-old with a crush, and that half second is burned into my memory like a tattoo.

“You still going to climb trees and save mongrels when you’re a fat cat lawyer like Joel?”

I sigh. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“I just never thought the law thing would stick. You’ve always been an animal lover. You were going to save sea turtles, remember? You’d walk around with that damn lunchbox full of gauze and tape, looking for injured crabs. What did you call that thing again?”

“The coastal critter kit.” I grit my teeth, trying to bite back my irritation. “There are practically zero jobs in marine biology. It’s not sensible.”

“You could be a vet. There’s money in that.”

“There are already plenty of vets in Beaufort,” I say. It’s true, but it’s not the real reason. But how do I explain that it’s not about money? My mom’s family is a sea of medical practices and law firms. It’s a legacy thing, and since the disappointing child slot in my family is full, it’s my job to fill the role.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to rile you up.” Deacon’s voice is low and tender.

He doesn’t mean to do a lot of things to me, but he does them all the same. I reach for paper towels and a subject change.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” I say. “Don’t you have an issue on one of the boats?”

“I have an issue with my Dad riding the guys’ asses like a jockey.” Venom is injected in every word. “Figured I’d rather check on my favorite boy than deal with him anymore today.” He leads Rocky back to his cage and latches the door with a reluctant sigh.

“He needs you, you know,” I say. “You’re talented with the mechanical stuff.”

“According to Dad, my
talent
is looking pretty for girls who might buy tickets.”

True, but he’s being a mule. I should say something about the ticket and the constant fighting. About the way he’s trashing his future a little harder every year. I chicken out and wipe down an empty cage that I already disinfected two days ago.

“You’ve got that look, Emmie.” Out of nowhere, he’s right behind my shoulder. His arm brushes mine. “You’re biting your tongue, aren’t you?”

I laugh softly. “So hard that blood’s about to shoot out of my ears.”

I turn to look at him. The air hums like power lines between us.

“Go on and say it,” he says.

“Say what? What
can
I say?”

“Something,” he says, voice softer, eyes cast down. “Hell,
anything
. You’ve known me forever, haven’t you?”

Our sleeves are touching. People don’t stand this close…I don’t think. I don’t know what this is. I’ve got a handful of cards, but I’m not sure what game we’re playing.

I swallow hard. “I’ve known you long enough to remember when you weren’t so angry. When Chelsea and I didn’t sit around worried sick about what crazy thing you’ll do next.”

He arches a brow. “Maybe you two need to get lives.”

“Maybe you need to be a little more careful with
your
life.”

His face twists into a scowl. “Like you, right, Emmie? Crossing every
T
and dotting every
I
.”

My cheeks go hot. I don’t know how this became a fight, but his face is red and my jaw is so tight, my teeth hurt.

He runs a hand over his hair and steps forward. Like he’s going to reach for me. Touch me maybe. “Emmie, I’m sor—”

The door bangs open, sending all of the dogs into a barking frenzy. Deacon springs back in time for me to see cargo shorts, battered sneakers, and a stack of dog food bags coming through the door.

Seth French. Incoming senior like me. Half-assed sprinter on the track team and my not-quite-but-almost boyfriend last winter.

He drops the bags, and Deacon slinks away, palming his keys off a storage cabinet. The unspoken things hanging in this room make it hard to breathe, but Seth doesn’t notice. He just adjusts his baseball hat over his dirty-blond hair and winks at me.

“Well, if I’d known you were going to be here, I’d have come earlier.” His gaze shifts to Deacon. “Hey, man.”

Deacon barely glances at him. “Hey.”

Ah, our little awkward triangle of doom. I’m crazy about Deacon, Seth’s crazy about me, and Deacon’s just crazy.

Fantastic.

“So, Sunday night,” Seth starts, flashing me his smile. It’s not a bad smile. Charmed me once upon a time, as Mom constantly reminds me. “Let’s go get burgers.”

“Burgers?”

“Yeah, burgers. Maybe some fries. If we’re feeling really wild, we could even commit to coffee at the Cru afterward. We used to do that. It wasn’t so bad.”

I grin. Seth brings that out in people. He’s easy. Goofy. The kind of guy any girl should fall for. My mother fell for an easy, goofy guy. I flinch.

And that worked out oh so well in the end, didn’t it?

“Have I convinced you?” Seth asks.

I like Seth. I don’t want to not be friends because I don’t see happily ever after every time he looks at me. Maybe dinner would be a good way to clear the air. Set things straight.

“Help me clean out the darn cages and we’ll talk about it,” I say. I’m about to clarify that this is not a date, but then I see Deacon waiting at the door.

He’s checking his phone, but I know him. He doesn’t care about his phone. He’s watching this, and I don’t like it. Maybe he thinks he has the right to know my business too, but he doesn’t. I don’t butt into his exploits on the boats, and he doesn’t have an all-access pass to my universe either.

I shoot him a glare, and he heads out, the door clanging shut behind him.

“So I’ll take it this Sunday won’t be a date,” Seth says with a meaningful look at the door Deacon just exited.

I’ve got to give him credit. He’s not as oblivious as I figured.

I snatch another paper towel from a roll and fold it in half. Scrub at a perfectly clean spot on the counter. “I’m not dating Deacon, Seth.”

“No, but you’ve got that weird
something
vibe going on. It’s fine. I got the message when you cooled off last winter.”

I quirk a brow at him. “Then why do you keep asking me out all the time?”

“I don’t know. I like seeing you flustered? It’s a small town?” I make a sound somewhere between bewildered and outraged, and Seth laughs. “I do like you, Emmie. Friends is fine. Really.”

I soften. “Are you sure? If we go Sunday, it won’t give you the wrong idea?”

“It’s all good, I promise.”

“Then Sunday it is.”

Even after all day playing with dogs and mindlessly scrubbing cages, I’m still mad at Deacon on the walk home. The heat isn’t helping. The sun is low in the sky, but the wind feels too heavy and moist. It’s like walking through soup. I’m ready for air-conditioning. And a gallon of iced tea. My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out, grateful to see Chelsea’s name.

Maybe she can explain why her brother is being a complete tool.

I bring the phone to my ear and say hello. I can tell by the way she takes a breath—ragged and shaky—that something isn’t right.

Present

I pocket my phone and crouch on my bathroom floor, careful because he’s shaking. Shaking
so bad
. He’s been crying too. Tear tracks on his cheeks make my fingers itch. Our earlier fight is gone. There’s no irritation. Nothing but Deacon covered in blood and terrified into silence.

“Okay.” I’m quiet and still. “I’m here.”

I don’t ask what happened. It’s obvious he tried to help his dad—God, I can’t even imagine what that did to him. How he even got here. Chelsea will know the details, and she’ll fill me in later. For now, I have to get him back together. No one else really knows how bad he gets. Joel and his dad have noticed, but Chels and I are the ones who track him down. We clean up his scraped elbows and busted lips, and we have for years.

I feather a finger over the side of his hand, and he flinches.

“Hey,” I say. “This isn’t our first rodeo, right?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes or respond. Just sits there, trembling on my once-white tile.

I spot a bobby pin on the floor, pick it up, and drop it on the side of the tub. It tinks against the ceramic—the only sound between us.

“I’m going to clean you up,” I say. “Then we’ll talk.”

He looks at me with those eyes that steal my breath, even now, but he doesn’t speak. I don’t know what Deacon saw when he found his mom in the bathroom all those years ago, but this blood thing is one of the scars it left.

I grab the first aid kit and some makeup wipes. There’s nothing but the drip of the bathtub and the sound of me breathing—fast, because Deacon’s staring now. I’m always nervous when he’s watching me.

I clean his hands first. Most of the blood is on his palms. Did he have to put pressure on a wound? It’s…a lot. I clean from wrists to fingertips, using a makeup wipe to get the worst off. Everything’s pink-brown-red, but it doesn’t matter. It needs to be done.

Next, I move on to the sterile wipes inside the kit. He’s mostly uninjured, but two of his knuckles are puffy and split, like he hit something. My stomach pulls tight looking at those knuckles. Did he fight back?

I’ll ask when I’m done. I clean up his legs, his shoes, the floor. I’m careful not to miss a speck. His knuckles are the only injury I find, not counting the old bruise on his face.

I pull out the antibacterial cream and squirt some on a cotton swab before I take his hand. He looks away, and it’s just like every other time I’ve done this.

It happened first six years ago. I was ten. He was eleven. Scraped his elbow in a bike wreck. It was six months after his mom died. Lots of kids freak over blood, but this was crazy. Back then, I didn’t know how it all tied together with his mom. I just knew he needed help and he was scared.

He was really embarrassed, so Chels and I promised to keep his secret. It was just a quirk in our eyes. Chelsea’s allergic to eggs. The color yellow gives me a headache. Deacon goes catatonic at the sight of blood.

Two Band-Aids later and the knuckles are good. I place all the trash in the can and cover it with toilet paper folded into a neat square. Then I spot brown-red splotches on his shirt.

I go to my room to find something else for him to wear. My hands are shaking as I flip through the T-shirts, finally settling on a Pirate Invasion freebie from two years ago. Back in the bathroom, he’s still in the same position, but his eyes and fists are clenched tight. Neither of us has said a word since I started cleaning him up. That had to have been half an hour ago. The clock reads eight forty-five, and my stomach drops away.

Mom.

She’ll be leaving work soon. I look around, a little frantic, grabbing wet wipes from my end table to clean the windowsill, the smear beneath the doorknob. Have I been careful enough? Because if Mom finds him here, if she sees this blood, she’s going to assume Deacon did something awful.

I pause, taking a breath. Am I sure he didn’t? Banged-up knuckles and bloody clothes don’t look too goo—
Stop. You need to stop.
This is Deacon. He’s a lot of things, but violent isn’t on the list.

“Deke, we need to get rid of that,” I say, pointing at his shirt.

I offer my replacement, and he just blinks. I’m not sure he heard me—I never know when he’s like this—but then he tugs his shirt off in this easy, over-the-back-of-the-head motion.

I’ve seen him shirtless countless times but never in my bathroom. Deacon’s worked on a boat after school and on weekends since he was a kid. Every inch of him is ultra-cut and ultra-tan, and screwed-up timing or not, I notice. I’d have to be blind to not notice. Still, I avert my eyes and fold his T-shirt neatly until it’s the size of a napkin. I drop it in the trash on top of everything else and tie the bag. Trash day tomorrow, so there will be nothing for Mom to see.

But tying the bag brings my own questions. If Deacon cleaned up the blood—even if he tried—why isn’t he at the hospital? Why is he here?

My mind flashes back to the argument outside Joel’s office, the dark looks he shot his father. I take a step back, and pain blooms in Deacon’s eyes. Not just pain.
Hurt.

“I didn’t do it, Emmie,” he says, voice rough.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” His sigh is a shudder. “I
couldn’t
. You know that.”

I
do
know that, but I also know what I’m looking at. Something happened with him at that house. I just don’t know details. Interrogation will have to wait though. He needs to get out of here and to the hospital with Chelsea. Right now.

“I have to go,” he says.

“Good. Right. I’ll find out what room your dad’s in.” I go for my phone to text Chelsea.

He roughs his dark hair up with his fingers. “I can’t go to the hospital.”

Fear moves in, cold and slithering in my belly, those bandages on his knuckles looking more sinister by the second. “You said you didn’t do this.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then you need to go. It’s your
dad
. Chelsea’s alone in there.”

He shakes his head. “Joel’s with her. He’s better at this kind of thing.”

“Joel isn’t
you
, Deke. You’re her brother.”

He paces another lap in front of my sink, and every breath comes faster and sharper for both of us. Everything I’ve ever known about Deacon is weighing against everything I’m seeing. I’m not sure I like the way the scale is tipping.

Because he looks like he’s guilty of something.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice as raw as I’ve ever heard it.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid of me. I can’t stand seeing you afraid.”

But I
am
afraid. Afraid of him? For him? I don’t even know. Deke’s the saver of spiders. Rescuer of cats stuck in porches. He doesn’t hurt people. Not ever.

So act like it!

I force myself to touch his arm. It’s like grazing a live wire. We both go still.

“Just tell me what happened,” I say. “
Reader’s Digest
version.”

His face crumples up, and then I hear the unmistakable crunch of tires in the driveway.

Mom.

Deacon’s face goes hard, and he eyes the door, the window, and then me. I’ve known him long enough to get the look in his eyes. He doesn’t want her to find him here.

That makes two of us.

I flinch when Mom’s engine shuts off. The car door wrenches open and then closed. She’s on the back steps, and I still have so many questions he doesn’t have time to answer.

Deacon moves to my bathroom window, and I help him with the old, fiddly locks. It scrapes and grunts. We get it halfway open before it thunks to a stop. There’s almost but not quite enough space for him to get out.

He grips the frame. Pushes hard, but it’s good and stuck.

The back door jangles—the owl wind chime I made in fifth grade singing out my mom’s arrival.

“Emmie? Sugar?” Her voice is both faraway and right next to me.

I open my mouth and find a tone that isn’t blatant terror. “Just a minute!”

I flush the toilet and turn on the water to buy some time. Then I take Deacon’s hand and drag him into my bedroom. I trip over my slippers, and Deke tugs my curtains aside. He’s halfway out, the glow from the streetlights catching across his face. Half angel and half demon. That’s how he looks when he reaches for me.

I hold my breath, wondering if I should say something. Call for my mom. Turn him in. But, God, it’s
Deacon
! There has to be an explanation for this.

“Please believe me, Emmie. Please.”

I want to answer, but I don’t. I brace my hands on my open window frame and watch him escape into the night.

• • •

Hospitals have a smell that gives me the creeps. It’s not just the industrial cleaners or the faint whiff of bodily fluids that can’t be washed away. It’s a scent that seems to drift up from the linoleum floors and out of the pale yellow walls.

A carefully coded message crackles through the intercom, and I grip my shopping bag from the drugstore a little tighter. Two new nail polishes and a stack of magazines. We bought them this morning before coming in. Mom held off opening her antiques store. Wednesdays bring a lot of midweek “we’ve had enough of the beach” tourists, so this is a major deal.

Mom hustles beside me, arm linked with mine as we head past the vested volunteers and easy listening music in the lobby.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do flowers too?” Mom asks. “We could grab some from the gift shop.”

“I don’t think they can have flowers in ICU,” I say. I’m not sure if it’s still true, but we had an ICU nurse at the high school on career day. She said it’s highly restricted. People in the ICU are on the edge of life and death, and every tiny thing can upset that balancing act.

With that in mind, I probably shouldn’t be worried about flowers. I should be worried about how Deacon affects that balance. I didn’t tell anyone he came to me. Not my mom or even Chelsea, though I tried to text her twice. God, I just hope that’s the right choice.

Mom squeezes my arm. “Well, I love your ideas with the polish and magazines.”

The elevator on the left gives a soft
bing
as we approach. A thin man with dark circles under his eyes and a pack of Winstons wheels an IV behind him as he heads for the lobby. Presumably for a smoke break he could probably do without.

Inside, I press the button for the fourth floor, and the doors swish closed. The elevator lifts, and my stomach drops away. Chelsea’s dad is in the ICU, hooked up to machines, fighting for every breath. I think of my dad. Bristly beard and flannel shirts in the winter. What if my dad were in here?

I jerk when the doors open. We’re right at the edge of the waiting room. I hear the soft warble of more announcements over the intercom, the tinny murmur of a television in the corner. A haggard woman sleeps fitfully in an uncomfortable-looking chair. My stomach bunches up. I want to leave.

But I need to stay.

We step off, and Mom touches my shoulder. “Emmie, you don’t have to do this. You can wait downstairs, and I can take this to them.”

“I need to be here for Chelsea.” I smile at her. “That’s the way you raised me, right?”

Mom lifts her chin, touches my cheek. We walk into the waiting room, and Mom speaks with the nurse at the information desk while I resist the urge to straighten a painting of flowers.

“They’re visiting with him now, but I’ll let them know you’re here,” the nurse says.

They? They meaning Chelsea and Deacon? A smile flutters across my lips. God, I hope so. If he’s here, everything is okay.

Mom returns and repeats what I just heard. I nod, and we take a seat on two cushioned chairs. I try to ignore the woman who wakes up to take a call, where she tearfully relays information about failing kidneys and not much time.

I smooth the plastic bag and try to look around. There’s not much to see. A coffee station. Boxes of tissues. Racks filled to bursting with untouched magazines. I tighten my grip on my own bag, suddenly feeling uncertain.

Maybe this is a terrible idea. Nail polish feels childish in here. My chest constricts. I should have done something better, something she might actually—

The heavy door that leads into the ICU opens, and I stand up. There’s Joel, tall with his shock of white hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Those eyes are sad today.

He’s got his arm around Chelsea. She’s still got a scab on her knee, and that cuts right through me. It happened last week when she tripped off a curb, texting. Her dad had laughed about it when we stopped by the dockside office. Last week, he was laughing, and today, he’s in here, fighting for his life.

She lifts a tissue to her face, and Joel squeezes her in, kisses the top of her head, and says something I can’t hear. It must be about me, because Chelsea looks up. I drop the bag and cross the room, and we wind up tangled in a hug somewhere between the chairs and the nurse’s station.

Her sobs bring my own. It’s been that way since forever.

“You came,” she says into my hair.

“Of course I came. I wanted to come last night.”

She leans away from me and wipes her swollen eyes. I find her a fresh tissue and push her hair back behind her shoulders.

She gives me a weak smile. “Always the mother hen.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

I look over to where Joel’s nodding with my mom, filling her in on details, I’m sure. I don’t see Deacon. I don’t think he’s here, or Chelsea would say something.

Everything that happened swings back at me like a sledgehammer. The blood on his hands. The fear in his eyes. What did I clean up in my bathroom?

I can’t think about that now. My focus and my worry shift to Chelsea. Her lips are chapped, and she looks tired. Even her signature diamond studs—a sweet sixteen gift from Joel—lack their usual sparkle.

“Have you slept?” I ask.

“No.”

“Eaten?”

She shrugs, and I take her arm gently. “Come on. Let me get you a little something.”

She stalls, and Joel walks over. He winks at me and pulls a long arm around both of us. “I knew if someone could get you to eat, it’d be this one. We’re real glad you’re here, Eddie.”