After keeping his location on the down-low for nearly a year, Col inevitably resurfaced. Unfortunately, his roots were too embedded in the Ravenshoe area to officially cut ties. At first, his dealings appeared above board, but as the months rolled on, rumors circulated.
Even though I don’t have proof, I’m certain Col is back to his old tricks. You can strip a man of every possession he owns, and he will still see himself as a king. You can even remove his heart, and he will continue functioning without it.I’m living proof of that.
“Jesus Christ, Chris,” I babble under my breath when he spills a year’s worth of cigarette butts into my lap as he grabs for the remote control. “Watch what you’re fucking doing.”
While I stand from the stained couch, Chris snarks, “Do you really need another? How can you pay the electric bill if you spend all your money at the track? Why don’t you tell me I look pretty anymore? My god—you nag more than Molly does. Blah, blah, fucking blah. No wonder Damon hit her. An old geezer who popped three blue pills only an hour ago would have difficulties keeping it hard with her voice yipping in his ear. I’m tempted to smack her just for a minute of peace.”
I glare at him, too shocked to form words. The snarky smirk on his face shows he’s trying to be playful, but it doesn’t lessen my anger in the slightest.
“I swear to God, Chris, I will turn a blind eye to your obvious obsession with a bong, and god knows what else you’re hiding with a couple of well-placed magazines, but if youever—I mean even once—lay your hands on a woman, I will arrest you, I will haul your sorry ass to jail, and I’ll tell Bruno to ride it until you’re screaming your momma’s name for help. Do you understand me? This shit isn’t funny. Beating women isn’t funny.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Chris stabs his half-smoked cigarette directly onto the coffee table. “One, I was joking. Two, I was fucking joking. And three, don’t go acting like the stick shoved up your ass hasanythingto do with me. You’re not here to ‘help see me through my grief’ or even mourn the death of your father. You’re here because you don’t want to think abouther.”
The tick in my jaw turns manic. I'm not fuming at the mention of my father; I'm peeved at the way he said his last word. Just like my dad, Chris hasn't said Savannah's name since the day she left. Not once. I thought he was doing that to save me the anguish. Only now am I realizing my assumptions are wrong. My dad's death was a godsend; Savannah's disappearance wasn't. She didn't just hurt me when she left; she hurt Chris and Brax as well.
“My brother died, Ryan. He is fucking dead.” The pain in Chris’s voice cuts me like a knife. “Sheleft of her own choice. That isn’t even close to the same thing.”
I work my jaw side to side, reminding myself that I’m not interreacting with a lifelong friend and brother. I’m talking to an addict—a person who can’t see sense even when it is staring him in the face.
“This isn’t about Savannah, Chris—”
“It isn’t?” he interrupts, his short reply incapable of hiding the slur of his words. “Because this sure as fuck seems to be about her. Everything you do, every word you speak is done with her entering your mind first. You preach for me to move on, yet you sit in denial, waiting for her. You’re wasting your life as much as I’m squandering mine.” He grins a nasty smirk. “But at least I’m giving it a decent shot.”
My chest puffs when I huff out a laugh. “A decent shot? This isn’t living, Chris. Drinking yourself into an early grave isn’t living.”
He stands from his chair, swaying like a leaf in a hot summer breeze. "How many times did you read her letter today, Ry?" he asks, not even attempting to deny my accusation. "How many times have you read it in the past week, month, fucking year?"
I feign ignorance, pretending I don't have a clue what he is talking about. My acting skills are as hopeless as Chris's promise to quit drinking last month. We're both shit. I read Savannah's letter a minimum once a day, as it is the only reminder I have that she existed.
I have access to the best tracking equipment in the country, and I still haven't located a single reference on a Savannah Fontane her age and description the past four years. I even searched for her father, confident his extensive medical bills would leave a trail of crumbs for me to follow. They didn't. It is as if they never existed. They vanished without a trace.
I don’t know if I’ve spent the last four years in grief or denial. It is probably a bit of both. I am also angry. Not just at Savannah, but myself as well. I shouldn’t have lied. Her disappearance is my punishment for breaking a promise I swore I’d never break. I took her choices away from her. In my eyes, that makes me as bad as Axel.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when I spot Chris prowling toward me like he always does when he plans to use his height to his advantage.
“Chris. . . don’t!” I warn, my voice one I generally reserve for when I’m on the clock.
Chris is a few inches taller than me, and a couple of inches wider, but with my mood the worst it’s ever been, I’m not in the right mind frame to wrestle a drunken idiot who thinks we’re still in high school.
“Not today, Chris. I can’t handle your shit today.”
Today isn't just the anniversary of Chris's brother's death; it is also four years to the day my brother killed my father, meaning in only a few hours, it will also be four years to the day I last saw Savannah. Four years to the day I broke her heart into a million pieces. And four years to the day she returned the heartache with a letter I've read a million times since.
She never said she was coming back, but she never said she’d stay away forever either. One day she will come home. One day soon.I hope.
Chris saw my lips move, but he didn’t hear a word I spoke. His focus is locked on his target, and he won’t stop until he gets it.
“It’s not your letter; it’s mine,” I snarl, praying he will stand down before our words are replaced with fists.
Chris has always had a playful edge to him, but it has become more aggressive since Michael’s death. “Bullshit,” he shouts, his voice rumbling through the shambles he calls home. “Savannah was part of our grouplongbefore she was yours. That means her goodbye letter doesn’t just belong to you. It belongs toallof us.”
Some of what he is saying is true. Savannah didn’t address her parting letter, but the signature reveals whom she intended her recipient to be: me.
“Let me read it, Ryan. I want to see what it says,” Chris asks, holding out his hand palm side up.
I shake my head. It’s all I have left of her. I’m not going to risk handing it to a drunk. The paper has already thinned significantly the past four years; imagine how much worse it will be with additional grubby mitts on it?
"I told you what it says; you don't need to read it." My voice is lower than Chris's, and less arrogant as well.
