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Opening my truck door, I decide to make one last stop before hitting the road.
My father’s house is just as pretentious as it was the day I left. A huge, gaudy, two-story plantation house with dark gray stucco exterior, black shutters and doors, two car garage, hot-red Beamer in the driveway.
He was already showing signs of a mid-life crisis before Mom died. Now he’s full-blown into one. If the car didn’t give it away, the hot little blonde with tits about to topple her over sauntering up the front steps with a Victoria’s Secret bag does.
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.
