The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood 1)

In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.

—Francis Bacon

SAM

There’s a universal truth. One that I never questioned. One that, when planning out the rest of my life, I felt confident was solid. This truth was my rock, my constant. And all the other bullshit didn’t matter.

Tyler Marks loved me.

He would always be there. By my side. The one beautiful certainty in my bleak existence.

My forever.

But then a cruel and bitter reality stole everything.

Only, I refused to accept it. When you’re so sure of something, when you trust in it, believe in it with your whole being, nothing can change it. Not even death.

And this alternate reality? The one where I sleep until three in the afternoon, don’t shower for days, forget to eat . . . garnering strange, pitying looks from my parents and friends when I’m caught talking to myself . . . . ? It’s just a temporary limbo I’ve stumbled into.

Everything is hazy and faded gray around the edges like a dream. Or a nightmare. One that I will wake up from and Tyler Marks will be there, his strong arms holding me. Comforting me. And the world will make sense again.

It has to.

With a half-hearted sigh, I sink farther into the too-soft chair, trying to become invisible—like the love of my life standing off to the right in my peripheral.

“Sam won’t begin to get better unless she starts taking her medication,” Dr. Hartman states seriously, her perfect manicured fingernails visible as she laces her fingers together on top of her lap. She tucks in her chin, her dark eyes looking up to pin my mother with a severe glare. “If you’re not helping her, you’re enabling her. Sam needs to be on her meds.”

My mother swats a stray hair from her vision and then crosses her arms over her chest defensively. “I’m not enabling her,” she says, and glances at me quickly. “She’s nineteen . . . almost twenty. I can’t force-feed her pills as if she’s a child. Don’t you think I want her to take them? But it’s her choice.”

Sure. My choice. As if I’d choose any of this. As if I’d choose to be sitting here right now, being talked about like I’m not even in the room. Technically, I am an adult and didn’t have to consent to “treatment.” And I really shouldn’t have allowed my mother to talk me into letting her come to this session. But no one really has control over any of their choices in life. They just find some measure of control in choosing from options after the fact.

Like the options I have now: take antipsychotic pills to treat a condition I don’t have, or continue to argue with my family and doctor, digging myself deeper into this limbo wasteland.

I couldn’t bear the worried looks anymore, though. The whispering when I walked into a room. My father nervous to even be around me, up and leaving for pretend business meetings because he can’t deal.

After my mother made the initial appointment to talk to a psychiatrist (behind my back), I was then strong-armed into “giving it a shot.” For them, I did, and was diagnosed with (let me make sure I get this right) major depression with psychotic features. That’s a mouthful.

I smooth my hair back toward the rubber band, feeling three-day old grease and tangles. I probably should’ve showered and actually dressed today—then maybe Dr. Hartman wouldn’t be as concerned.

Nope. That’s not true. I doubt my lack of hygiene fazes her. The fact that I’m seeing and talking to my dead boyfriend is why I’m here. I should’ve never let my parents know. I should have kept it to myself.

But when you’re fearful of even leaving the house, stuck inside watching reruns of Ghost Whisperer, it’s hard to keep something like that hidden. And, maybe I did think I was going a bit crazy. And maybe I wanted someone to tell me that I wasn’t. That’s not what happened, though. Now, I’m trapped in this situation with no way out.

I need an out.

“Dr. Hartman,” I say, and both my mother’s and my shrink’s gazes snap to me. “I’ll take my medication.”

My mother’s perfectly groomed eyebrows shoot up. “Really, Sam?”

I nod. “I don’t want to be sick anymore.” I don’t want to be here anymore. “I promise. I’ll really try this time.” I smile for good measure. It feels odd, foreign. Not sure when’s the last time I did so genuinely. I see Tyler flinch in the corner, and my stomach sinks. My fake smile falls.

Dr. Hartman watches me intently, her expression skeptical, but she decides to take my offer. “That’s wonderful, Sam. And you’ll see, in time, these visions will cease. You’ll be able to return to your life again.”

I didn’t take her for a liar. A wound-too-tight-control-freak-who-needs-to-get-laid maybe, but not a liar. Her words cause my fingers to curl into a tight ball, my unclipped nails digging into my palm.

Return to my life . . .

I glimpse Tyler out of the corner of my vision, his dirty blond hair beautifully disheveled, like always. His chocolate brown eyes brilliant despite his faded appearance. And his full, downturned lips, the knowing look on his face that screams there is no return.

This is my reality now.

He’s my only reality.

I died with him that day.

FIVE MONTHS EARLIER

“How about Wichita?” Tyler suggests as his index finger traces the map spread out on the bed before us.

I wrinkle my nose. “Wichita? What the hell’s in Wichita?” I study its location on the map. “Oh, no. Kansas? Wouldn’t they try to burn me at the stake or something?” My hand goes to my black hair and I scrunch my recently dyed pink bangs. Then I wink at him.

He chuckles. “It’s a city. A big one. I think your witchy ways are safe.” He kisses the star tattoo on my shoulder before marking Wichita with a highlighter. His lean, muscled forearms flex with the movement.

I smile. Tyler’s joked about my “Goth” look being “witchy” since I started dying my hair in high school. It’s neither Goth nor witchy, but he’s really cute when he says this, so he gets away with it.

And I’m relieved to hear him joking at all. After his mother died six months ago, I thought I’d never hear him laugh again. He’s taken it so hard. Has been in such a dark place, where I feared he’d never fi

nd his way out. Lately, I’ve seen glimpses of the old Tyler peeking through the pain. So I whip out my best witchy smile, hoping to bring him back to me, if only for this moment.

Since we haven’t been intimate for just as long, I’m hoping that changes tonight, too. Truth is, I haven’t wanted to pressure him. I almost roll my eyes. But yes, I haven’t wanted to pressure my nineteen-year-old boyfriend for sex. Because I know he’s struggling not only with his mom’s death, but the absurd amount of stress his father puts him under . . . but damn. We haven’t gone this long without sex since we were freshman in high school. I think I’m past blue balls.

I’ve been looking forward to this night for the past month, since his classes and interning at his father’s office have taken up most of his time. He works late hours on the island, and when we do have time to ourselves, he’s usually too tired to plan any part of the wedding. And with everything that’s happened, I haven’t pushed. Not even for a ring.

The honeymoon is a different story, though. Tyler’s been talking about traveling the country since before we were both walking. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But he’s been dying to do it for as long as I can remember.

I suggested we travel before we actually get married, but he doesn’t want that. He wants our trip to be special, to be the first time we see everything together, our start of forever. Only we have to set an actual date for the wedding first.

I was starting to feel like maybe he was second guessing it—us. Getting cold feet. We’re only nineteen, sophomores in college, but we’ve been together forever. In some form or another. Always together. Best friends since diapers. A couple since our freshman year in high school. Wrestling partners in elementary school when he wanted to run off and join the WWF.