The Darkest Part (10 page)

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.”