The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood 1)

My head yanks back. “Did I do something to piss you off last night?”

He shakes his head tersely, as if he’s battling something within himself. Stopping himself from saying whatever it is he wants to say.

“Just spit it out,” I say. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You had a blast last night. I had a blast. We both had a blast.” He bounds up and heads for the bathroom. “Go get ready. We check out in an hour.”

His biting tone digs under my skin. I think about last night, trying to jog my memory. I danced with Melody and Darla, and downed shots. Lots of shots. And then a faint memory of dancing with . . . Tyler.

My face prickles with heat, and I wonder what those people must have thought—how crazy I must have looked. But honestly? Most of me doesn’t give a shit. I’ll never see them again. And I was so happy that Tyler finally came back, that he was able to materialize.

This is Tyler’s trip. Our trip. The least I can do is dance with him. He never liked to dance when he was alive, and when he waved me onto the floor, I know it was because we’ll never get the chance again.

But that shouldn’t have been enough to anger Holden. Unless it embarrassed him. Considering Holden’s never been one to care about what others think, I doubt that. Only, I have no other explanation for why he’s being so crass.

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” I call out. “I’ll try to keep my crazy to a minimum for the rest of the trip.”

“Stop.”

One word. But it’s enough to fire me up. “Stop what?”

“Stop playing the victim. I hate that.”

Something snaps in my head, a loud click that forces me from the chair and onto my feet. The sound of running water halts, and Holden steps into the room. He starts tossing clothes into his bag. He won’t look at me.

“I’m not playing t

he victim,” I say, my words slow, deliberate. “I know you lost Tyler, too. I know this trip is hard for you . . . as much as it is for me, but—”

“But what?” He cuts me off as he looks up from his task. His eyes are hard and cool. Icy blue.

“But this trip is more than just . . .” Unable to finish, to explain, I hang my head.

He laughs. And the sound triggers a frantic response in me. I’m reminded that no matter what he suffered at the hands of his bastard father, no matter how considerate he’s been lately, he’s still the same asshole that treated me like shit five years ago. I stomp toward him, look him in his frosty eyes.

“This is all a joke to you?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. My breaths are short and heavy.

Holden’s gaze travels over me, so slowly, as if he’s trying to figure out something. His eyes come back to rest on mine. “No joke. I admit, when you first told me you wanted to steal some of my brother’s ashes, I did think you were a bit crazy.” He pinches his fingers close together, indicating the amount of my craziness. “But then, I don’t know. It seemed right. Like Tyler would’ve wanted it. And I wanted to do something for him.” He exhales audibly. “But this isn’t about his memory for you, is it, Sam? In fact, you haven’t even come to terms that Tyler is a memory yet.”

Anger wells in my chest. “Just because you heard some gossip bullshit on the island, don’t think that you have one clue about me.” I narrow my eyes. “Tread lightly, Holden.”

He rolls his shoulders back, bringing him to his full height. I have to angle my head back to look into his face. “Does Tyler talk to you?” he asks. “Do you see him now?”

His questions knock me off balance. I take in a couple of slow breaths, gathering my bearings. “And so what if I do? Are you telling me that it’s impossible?”

He presses his hands to his face, digging his fingers into his eye sockets. Then he drops them with a frustrated noise that rumbles from the back of his throat. “How the fuck did you know about our dad?”

And that question levels me. Shit. Shit shit shit. My dumb, drunk ass. I close my eyes, trying not to see his livid expression. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Tell me!” My eyes snap open and I flinch at his outburst. Holden’s chest heaves, his jaw flexed. “When did Tyler tell you?”

I step back, shaking my head. “Why does it matter when? ”

He advances, invading my personal space. “Because I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have a drunk, silly college girl letting shit like that slip when she’s wasted. Or some crazy chick spouting it off during therapy sessions.”

I don’t think. Reflexively, my hand flies out. But he’s faster, clamping his hand around my wrist before my palm meets his face. We’re locked together, my arm trembling, his body rigid.

He tosses my arm aside. “Trip’s over. I’m taking you home.” He turns his back to me and stuffs his computer into his bag.