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The only thing I can think of is . . . The memory closes off, my brain trying to shut it down. I force through the barricade. Drudge up the horrific and painful memories.
The night Mom died, right before . . . Tyler and I were out at a bar celebrating his birthday. A little redhead had been hanging all over him, and we’d gotten into a fight. Me telling him that he was going to fuck everything up with Sam. And him drinking himself into oblivion. He was having second thoughts about marrying Sam so young. He was freaked out, claiming he’d only ever been with one girl. That he wanted to have one fling before he tied the knot. I was pissed. Beyond pissed. Sam was . . . everything. Everything I had wanted and given up. For him. And I drove my hand through the bar bathroom wall instead of his face.
“Sam,” I say again, trying to collect my thoughts. “I promise you, Tyler didn’t sleep with her. He was drunk. That’s all. I sent him—” I cut off. Shit. I rake my hand through my hair.
Her eyes narrow. “You sent him where?”
I told this story so many times—to police officers, my dad, lawyers, everyone—I should be able to spit it out without thinking. But I slow myself, making sure I don’t slip now. “I called a cab and sent him home. That was the night I got into the wreck. With my mom in the car.” I take a breath, finding my words easily now. The lie falls from my mouth. “I sent Tyler home and drove his car. Remember? He was at home, passed out, when the cops got there.”
Realization flashes in her eyes. She’s going over that night, too. After I was taken into custody, the police told my father that his wife was dead. Sam stayed with Tyler the rest of the night, comforting him. I watch as it finally clicks in her mind.
She turns around and says, “Okay. Okay. So you didn’t sleep with her. But how could you even think about it? With some chick you don’t even know?” I can hear the tremor in her voice. The pain splintering through her. “And I’m just finding out now?”
A blast of cold air seeps into my pores, freezing me from the inside out. I’d been so focused on getting her to calm down that I hadn’t stopped to question why now—in the middle of nowhere Mississippi—she’d chose to confront her invisible, dead boyfriend about his infidelity.
With a backward step, I stumble over my own feet.
I won’t buy it. I don’t. My hands start to shake, and I clench them into fists. Then I latch on to the anger building below the fear. It pushes away the cold chill sweeping over my skin.
“You’re this desperate to make me believe Tyler’s a ghost that you’d stoop to this?” I shake my head, fury igniting my insides. “Stop. Stop it now.”
When she looks at me, her face is pale, her eyes large and round. The hurt in her expression slams my chest hard. “I’m not trying to do anything, Holden. I just found out. And . . .” She furiously swipes at a tear. The charcoal from her fingers smears her skin. “I can’t do this. It’s too messed up.”
It’s the first thing she’s said that I agree with. This is messed up on so many levels.
Her chest is heaving, her breaths coming in quick bursts. She lets loose a scream, piercing the air and my eardrums. Her whole body is wracked, shaking, and she turns her attention back to the empty air. “I can’t even slap your ass!” She tries unsuccessfully to strike something solid, her hands flailing. This girl is losing it. Right now.
Chancing getting slapped or kicked, I move in and grab her arms. She breaks free and balls her hands into fists, beating my chest. I close my
hands around her wrists and haul her against me. She shakes her head, over and over, and I can see the sanity being lost. She’s tripping over the edge.
“Sam.” I tuck her arms between us. Keeping her fists pressed against my chest, I wrap an arm around her back and grip her jaw with my free hand. I hold her firmly in place, force her look into my eyes. “Sam!”
The haze covering her eyes, whatever crazy is torturing her brain, starts to clear. Her breathing shallows, and her gaze locks on to mine. My fingers loosen, spreading over her soft skin. Brush her snarled hair from her face. Wipe the black smudge from her cheek. As I’m staring into her yellow-green irises, my hand fists at the back of her shirt, and our breaths begin to sync. Our bodies are connected by a taut cord, charging the sliver of air between us.
She blinks.
I swallow. “Get in the truck.” Slowly, I uncurl my fingers from her tee. Pry my hand from her face. And release her.
She backs away, her eyes never leaving mine. Then, before she’s halfway across the park, she turns back toward the emptiness. “Don’t come around me. Not until I ask you to. I don’t want to see you right now.”
My breath whooshes out painfully, the ache in my chest deep and fire-hot. I look around. For what, I have no idea. Sam is going to drive me crazy. In so many ways. Scrubbing my hands down my face, I curse under my breath.
As the sky opens up, releasing the rain, I bunch up the blanket and trash and Sam’s uneaten food, and head toward the truck.
Sam hasn’t said a word since we got back on the highway. She’s curled into a ball, reading her book. She just shut down. Why she chose back there to have a yelling match with Tyler, I have no clue. I don’t know what set her off, but I need to figure it out. To avoid it.
Fuck. Now she has me thinking of my brother in the present tense. If Tyler—oh, my shit—were really ghosting it around, he’d have some choice words for me, I’m sure. He’d have done everything in his power to stop Sam from being alone with me. I have to keep reminding myself of this fact. All the lies, all the bullshit, being around Sam and having to hold everything in . . . I’m getting mixed up.
This is how her mind has to work things out, though. She’s making excuses so she can keep her fantasy going. Like apparently, he’s forgetting things and being sucked into limbo. But it’s what her mind has to do to keep believing her own lies.
I know all about believing one’s lies. It’s exactly what I’ve been doing for nearly the past year. We can convince ourselves, if we lie to ourselves long enough, of just about anything.
I have no right to think anything bad about Sam, though. I’m just as fucked up as her. But she, at the end of this trip, gets to go back. I don’t. I’m stuck with all the blackness and lies. And I should never have dreamed that I could be around her and not become just as unhinged. Especially when I knew going in that she thinks she’s talking to my dead brother.
I grip the wheel, tighten my fingers until my knuckles go white. The cut on my hand was almost healed, but it’s throbbing now. There’re so many levels of pain and wrong and I hate dealing with them all. Up until now, I’ve been handling my brother’s death. But this shit is trudging painful things up, and I’m having a hard time beating them back down.
Death Cab for Cutie is blasting over the speakers, and we’re about twenty minutes outside of Memphis. Stop number two on The Most Fucked up Road Trip of All Time. From here on out, I have to decide how to handle her outbursts. I still have the backup plan. But I don’t want to go there. Not yet.
