“I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back.” My voice is weak, low. And the shame of blurting his secret—a secret that hurts him to the core—is eating away at my anger. “I promise, I’ve never breathed a word about . . . that . . . to anyone. I would never—” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I fucked up last night and said anything, other than I was stupid drunk. But I remember now when I said it. And it was because you were there. So close. And you were looking at me, and I saw my own pain reflected in your eyes. And shit, Holden.” I inhale a breath. “I just wanted you to know . . .”
At some point during my babbling, he stopped packing. His back is stiff and straight, his gaze away from me, on something else. The wall. The beach painting hanging above the headboard. I can see the tension in the corded muscles of his neck.
“You just wanted me to know what?” he asks. His voice is so soft, hollow. It cracks a seam down my heart.
With a determined breath, I suck up my pride. “I just wanted you to know that I was sorry I never knew the truth. Back then. That maybe if I had, then I might’ve understood your anger. You pushing me away. And I never would have let you.”
I see the moment my words hit him. His body loses its rigidness, and his shoulders slump. But he doesn’t face me. “I’m sorry I called you a silly college girl.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me, and I’m thankful he doesn’t say anything about what I just said—because I’m not ready. “Sometimes I am.” I note that he doesn’t retract calling me crazy.
“No,” he says. “I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry . . . for a lot of other things. I wish I could give you the explanation.” Before I can let him off the hook, telling him its ancient history, he continues. “We need to be at the speedway in less than an hour. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
And just like that, he throws up a wall between us. Locking me out.
Stuffing my hands under my arms, I don’t say anything else as I walk toward the door. There’s so much more that needs to be said. Like whether or not he’s going to confront his father. Has he ever confronted him? Whether or not he ever plans to press charges. I wonder if there’s a statute of limitation on child abuse. Why he’s so angry that I know now. What difference does it make when I discovered the truth?
And why he said “give you the explanation” instead of “an explanation?” I didn’t miss that. I just don’t know how to connect the dots. Yet.
But none of this is said. I’m not sure it ever will be. He’s got some deep-seeded anger, a past that haunts him, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to wrestle his ghosts.
Not while I’m dancing with mine.
HOLDEN
On the drive to the speedway, the tension in the truck could’ve strangled me. I think we said about two words between each of us. If Sam never really talks to me again, I wouldn’t blame her. I flew off the handle back at the hotel. I never fly off the handle. Not anymore.
I can blame it on lack of sleep. Or a hangover. Or grief over Tyler and my mother. Any number of things I can pluck out of the air and say that’s why I lost my shit.
But Sam would see through my crap. I can’t be truthful with her on this front, but I’d like to try not lying to her, either. I’m sick of lying of to her. But since I can’t be honest, then I just need to keep my fucking mouth shut.
Right now, as we walk up the bleachers of the Talladega Superspeedway, the sun glinting off the tops of race cars, her smile stretching ear-to-ear despite my asshole behavior, I’m having a hard time doing just that.
At some point, I’m going to have to man up and talk to her. Make her understand that she holds knowledge that could impact people’s lives—but I need to sort my shit out first. I need to find out how much she knows without giving away anything she doesn’t. Because shit. I can’t believe Tyler told her. How much else did he let her in on?
I guess I could always get her drunk, fish for answers . . . but I think I’m at my douchebag limit for the day. I was caught off-guard earlier by my emotions, and fuck emotions. I swear this girl is turning me into the biggest pussy.
With that thought, I settle onto a seat next to Sam and let the purr of powerful engines thrum through me. For the offseason, there are a lot of tourists. The stands aren’t packed, but crowded enough. As the drivers rev their engines, Sam turns toward me, her mouth parted and eyes wide, like she’s going to say something. I hold my breath expectantly.
She presses her lips together and turns her attention back to the racetrack.
Damn it. Whatever progress we’ve made, however small, we’ve taken two steps back. I didn’t think we’d become best friends by the end of this trip, and I definitely didn’t think she’d forgive and forget the shit I said in high school, but I thought, maybe, we could start fresh. She could get to know the real me away from Hilton Hell, and I might have a reason to go back there sometimes.
Now that Tyler’s case has been swept under the rug, I don’t have any reason to return to my hometown other than to visit the cemete
ry. And even though I wanted to believe I was happy staying away from there . . . from her . . . I’ve been a ticking time bomb. You can’t ignore your past.
Even if I couldn’t admit it to myself before, I was hoping she could be part of some new future where I wouldn’t have to keep running. Diving into that bottomless dark pit, I realize that now—I can own it. It’s why I’m on this trip. Sure, to keep her safe. I couldn’t deal if anything happened to her that I could’ve prevented. But it goes deeper—I wanted to be close to her again. I’ve been lying to myself thinking it’s for any other reason.
Funny how we believe our own lies.
That couldn’t be truer in Sam’s case.
After this morning, I don’t think I can fix this. I should’ve stuck to my guns and taken her home. This is only day two. Day fucking two, and we’re already about to crack. She’s off her rocker, and I’m losing my shit all over again for a girl who doesn’t belong to me. I wonder what Tyler would think about us on this trip together.
“Tyler would love this,” Sam says, like she read my mind. Not sure that’d be her response if she really had, though.
I take a swig from my water bottle; my throat dry and scratchy. “He would. Though I think he’d love seeing them actually race more, this is pretty cool.” I try for a smile, but it feels fake on my face. I think she knows.