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I feel like I’ve been smacked, like the air has been sucked from my lungs. “I-I didn’t know.”
“Like I said, you don’t know shit.”
He leaves me like that, shaking his head, face red with anger and eyes that express nothing but disappointment.
Daisy’s mom took us shopping at the mall later on that afternoon and treated us to dinner. I think I pulled it off. I kept up with their conversation, commenting when it was expected and smiling on cue, but I was somewhere else entirely.
Filled with regret, I wish I’d had the courage to cross over. I should have taken those two small steps that separated us and wrapped him in my arms. I was scared of him in that moment, for sure, but I finally saw him. And then I was sorry, so very sorry. I understood now. I understood why he didn’t trust, why he kept everyone at arm’s length. I understood why he saw me as some out of touch, privileged princess. I was like everyone else in his eyes: prone to think the worst of the kid from the trailer park, while accepting the false innocence of the fortunate son—the Christian Masons of the world—without a second thought.
On Sunday I keep to my own side of the street, too ashamed to face Simon. I use the back door when my shift ends, slinking into my car and driving off without chancing a look in the direction of the hardware store.
When I hear voices cheering the team that just made a touchdown, I change course and use the back entrance to the house. I can’t bear to see him, to see any of them. If what Simon said is true, then my brother is a pathetic excuse for a human being. When there’s no one around to impress, when he drops the act, does he feel ashamed? He must. I want to believe that he feels remorse. I want to believe, I do.
Not an hour later, Wes peeks his head in and then makes his way over towards me smiling. I didn’t think to lock my door tonight.
“I hated that book,” he says as he lifts the spine to see the cover. “Couldn’t get through it…Had some girl write my paper for me.”
I have no energy for small talk. “Tell me about the accident, Wes. I want to know what happened.”
He looks back to the door that he just closed a moment ago, making damn sure my brother is out of earshot. “What are you talking about?”
“My brother’s accident. Tim Wade. What really happened that night?”
“Where’s this coming from?”
“I’ve never heard the actual story. I don’t really know how it happened.”
He lets out a breath. “Tim Wade crashed his car into Christian’s. That’s all there is to it.” He takes the book out of my hand, folds the page down to mark it, and smiles. Wes has decided the conversation is over. “I’m making a pizza run…Take a ride with me.”
We’re in his truck riding along a stretch of highway on our way back home. Since regaling me with every tiresome detail of his latest arrest on the way to the pizzeria—lamest diversion tactic ever—Wes has been quiet. His silence is confirmation in and of itself. If there was nothing to hide about that night, Wes wouldn’t be staring out into the distance with the troubled look he’s sporting.
“Come on,” I plead on a weary breath. “Will you just tell me? You and I both know there’s a lot more to it than what you said back there.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “You’re digging up some painful memories. I’d advise you not to go asking your brother about any of this.”
“I’m not asking my brother, I’m asking you.”I stand my ground, crossing my arms over my chest to let him know I’m serious. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll ask someone else to fill in the blanks.”
“There’s nothing more to tell.”
“Was Timothy Wade on drugs when he hit Christian or were they drag racing?”
He’s fidgety, shifting in his seat and tapping a rhythm out on the steering wheel even though the radio isn’t on.
“Wes, answer me. Were they friends when it happened?”
“We were all friends…Played football together all through high school.”
“So what, you all turned on Tim Wade and backed my brother after it happened? Acted like Tim was the only one at fault?”
He shoots me a warning look and then stares ahead. It’s a full minute later when he says, “It didn’t seem like it back then, but now, yeah, that seems a like a pretty accurate summary of what went down.”
“Did my brother try to kill him?”
Wes slows, pulls the truck over and shifts it into park. He studies me with a look that isn’t the least bit friendly. “I suggest you choose your words very carefully, Charlie.”
“I want to know…Did my brother beat Timothy Wade up so badly that he almost died?” I don’t wait for him to answer before letting out a cheerless laugh. “I can totally picture it. Poor baby didn’t get what he wanted so someone had to pay. Someone else had to take the blame, right? Christian couldn’t accept the fact that he was responsible, that he screwed it all up.”
Wes’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel and his jaw is tight. I remember Simon’s words and it all clicks into place. “You all did it, didn’t you?” Shaking my head, I whisper, “How many of you against one?” He doesn’t answer. “Did you use bats, pipes? Or did you punch and kick his body lifeless?”
