The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood 1)

I bark a laugh. “I have no doubt.”

I don’t turn to see the death glare I’m sure she’s giving me. Instead, I fiddle with the skull keychain hanging from the ignition. The one Tyler sent me for my last birthday that matches my shifter knob that he also gave me. Waiting for her verdict.

Zipper gliding open, rustling, and then, “All right. Here.” She unfolds a map. Right away I see the highlighted route, and can figure out some of the stops. Tyler was born with wanderlust—that’s what our mom called it—and it was a shame that our parents were rooted to the island. A thrill spikes my blood at the thought of getting to do this for him.

Sam lays the map down between us on the seat. “First stop is Talladega, Alabama.” She quirks her lips as she c

onsults Tyler’s hand written notes along the margin. “Because of one of his favorite movies, Talladega Nights.”

I laugh. “This is not going to be your average road trip.” I look over and watch as a bright smile overtakes her face.

“No, Tyler was anything but average.”

She’s happy, I can tell, but a hint of sadness laces her voice. I feel the urge to reach out and take her hand. I curl mine into a fist. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

I zip through the Wendy’s drive through, stocking up on greasy road trip food before we begin our five and a half hour drive to Talladega.

The one thing that sucks about driving through Georgia is the lack of good stations. Some country song is playing now, and thank God it’s starting to break up, becoming mostly static. I’ve let Sam have control over the stations so far, but country is my limit.

I nod to the floorboard. “I have a stash of CDs under the seat. Pick something good.”

“Great. I was about to just turn it off.” She laughs. “But CDs? Man, you’re old, dude.”

I balk. “Don’t start that new age MP3, iTunes crap with me. If there was a way to install a record player in my truck, I’d be rocking vinyl right now.”

With a sigh, Sam digs under the seat and pulls out the black leather case. Every CD I’ve collected since middle school.

“Holy hell,” she says. “This thing weighs a ton. You cart around your vinyl in here, too?”

“That’s not even funny. I’d never treat my music so disrespectfully.” She doesn’t return the quip, which makes me anxious. This is the first time we’ve really spoken since we hit 95, and I want the ice barricade to continue to thaw between us.

Her lips turn down, and I think about my words. Shit. I guess I shouldn’t joke about treating anything disrespectfully. Not with how I treated her in high school.

I open my mouth, about to . . . I have no idea. Apologize? I wouldn’t know where to start. Telling her the truth would only make things worse, and I just can’t. Maybe explain that I was a seventeen-year-old asshole who didn’t know anything about girls? If she didn’t see right through that weak excuse—which I’m sure she would—it’d only make things more uncomfortable between us.

She loads a disc into the stereo and clicks through the tracks. Smashing Pumpkins’ Cherubim starts up, and my chest loosens a fraction.

“Good choice,” I say.

“Well, you at least have decent taste in music.” Then she holds up another disc. “But this”—she shakes her head at Eminem’s latest album—“is damn pathetic.”

“What? You don’t love some Slim Shady? Come on. All you girls love him.”

“Maybe the chicks you’re into,” she says under her breath, and pushes the CD back into its holder. And with that, the wall of silence slides back into place between us.

I push my back against the seat, settling into the drive as Billy Corgan’s mad guitar solo thrums through me. I try not to think about her comment, but its poking holes in my brain like a demented woodpecker.

As she pulls out a book and leans away from me to read, I crank the music, and drum my fingers against my thigh. Sam’s been my type for far too long, and being near her now is like using acid to reopen an old wound.

FIVE YEARS AGO

“How long?”

“Shit, Tyler.” I slide the drawing I’ve been working on for Sam under the stack of loose papers on my desk. “You fucking snuck up on me.” I shuffle them and then turn around in my chair. The stony look on his face freezes me in place. “What are you talking about?”

He’s standing in the doorway to my room, his arms taut, sinewy muscles strained as he grips his hands into fists. At first, I think Dad’s done something. But the hate seething from his eyes is directed toward me.