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“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” I lift my head to look him in the eyes as I tell him, “I can’t be with you. I can’t look at you. She saw you…”
He crawls over to me and tries to pull me into his arms. I shove against him—deny him—fight the urge to hate him. I want to hate him. He stole my gram, my hope, and my heart.
“Has that Camaro ever been in a crash?” I’m grasping at straws, but I have to try.
“No,” he answers, curling his hand behind my neck. “Tell me you believe me.”
“You tell me about the car.”
He averts his eyes to the wall. “I have to know you believe me first. I have to know love can win.”
He knows something. I have no idea how he can explain this, but I don’t believe my Battle did this. He couldn’t. He’s experienced too much loss, been hurt too badly, has too big of a heart and too large of a conscience.
Somehow, Mrs. Vernon is wrong.
“I believe you.” I sob violently, collapsing against his chest.
“Come upstairs with me.” He takes my hand, and I let him help me up.
Though confused, I follow him to his room and sit on the bed. He pulls a box from the top of the closet and sits down next to me. His eyes cloud with tears, as he lifts the lid. “I’m as devastated as you are,” he says, reaching inside and lifting a picture. He hands it to me, and I watch tears fall from his eyes.
I take the photo and stare at it in utter disbelief.
“His name is Gentry,” he says, his voice full of pain. “This photo was taken the day we turned twenty-one.”
The photo shakes as I bring it closer. Battle leans against the red Camaro, but there are two cars—two Battle’s.
“You have a twin?”
More tears fall from his eyes as he lowers his gaze to his lap. “I had a twin.”
“Oh, Battle. I’m so sorry.”
I climb into his lap, and throw my arms around his neck. We cling to the love we share for one another and the pain of a loss we never knew connected us. When I feel my composure return, I slide off his lap, and say, “Tell me about him.”
He smiles, but it washes away instantly. A crease forms between his brows. “We were twelve when my parents split up. The court let us decide who we wanted to live with. Can you believe that? We had pick-a-parent day at the courthouse. I picked my mother. Gentry chose my father. Gerald groomed him into the perfect prodigy, but Gentry rebelled and started getting into trouble. He didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps, but my father continued to smother him. He alienated Gentry from Mom, from me—his friends.”
I remember how distraught Battle was when he thought he was alienating me from my friends. The hatred he feels for his father molded him into the man he is today. He’s worked hard not to turn out like Gerald McCoy. I can’t imagine the pain he felt being separated from his twin, and worse, losing his brother for good.
“Why have you never told me about him?”
He exhales with his eyes closes. “It’s easier to live pretending I never had a brother than to admit how much I miss him.”
My heart breaks for him, but he mentioned Gentry getting into trouble, and I have to know, “Did you know he was involved in a hit and run?”
“No, God, no. I would’ve said somethin’ when you told me about your gram. I swear to God I would have.”
I believe him.
He heaves a breath and continues, “I knew he got into some kind of trouble. Gentry slept at my place after showin’ up drunk, sayin’ he made a huge mistake, and Dad was pissed. I assumed it was work related. My father turned up in the morning and demanded he come home. I tried to convince Gentry to stand up to him, but he left, and the next day…” he pauses, shaking his head. I’ve never seen him more vulnerable, not even when Evelyn died, and it pains me.
“He killed himself, Faye. I thought he hated our father so much that he would rather be dead than live another second under our father’s thumb. But now I know he couldn’t live with what he’d done, with takin’ your gram from you. My father covered Gentry’s mistake, but I didn’t know what it was. He blamed Gentry’s drinkin’ and suicide on me. Hell, I blamed me, but I swear to you I didn’t know about the accident. I haven’t driven the car, because every time I sit behind the wheel, I remember Gentry, and I hate myself for not helpin’ him.”
The answers I’ve longed for since the day I lost Gram doesn’t bring the closure I’d hoped for. They open doors for new problems that could potentially put a wedge between me and Battle. My family deserves the truth. If Battle’s father did cover up Gentry’s crime, they’ll prosecute. They’ll demand justice, which they should.
I’m not concerned with Gerald McCoy’s future, but I’m terrified that my family will harbor resentment for Battle simply because his last name is McCoy.
