The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood 1)

I shake my head. He’s tired and needs to sleep. “Big Mac, large fry, chocolate shake. Oh, and an apple pie.”

His head pulls back. “And where do you put all that?” His gaze purposefully travels over my frame. Heat splashes my cheeks.

“I’m not one of those girls who doesn’t eat. I like food.” I raise an eyebrow. “And besides, I’m still suffering some of a hangover. The grease will help soak up the alcohol.”

He laughs before placing our order. Once we’re back on the main road, I’m tempted to tell Holden that I can drive. At least in a small town, I might be all right. There’s not many cars on the road, and I might be able to pull it off for a few minutes. But he turns into a park near an old church before I can work up the courage.

I grab the paper bags while he rummages behind the seat. As I walk in the short yellow grass, I look up at the overcast sky. This place looks thirsty, and the dry grass could use a rain shower. I just hope it holds off until we’re gone.

Spotting an oak tree in the middle of the barren park not far from the playground, I head toward it. The tree is beautiful, with a massive dark trunk and huge, sprawling braches that reach into the sky. The lower ones droop and twist just above the ground. I imagine kids love to climb it. I’d love to climb it.

Holden walks up beside me carrying a blue and green plaid blanket. “Wow. Couldn’t have found a better place.”

I glance at him, feeling my brows pull together. “Didn’t know you loved trees so much.”

My comment ruins the moment, and I inwardly curse as his jaw tightens. With no response, he walks up to the huge oak and spreads out the blanket next to one of the low-hanging branches. I set the bags down, then run back to the truck.

I’m trying to keep a visual log of the trip, and sketched the speedway while we were there. I plan to transform the drawings into paintings when I get back home. And even though this technically isn’t one of Tyler’s destinations, the oak is too awesome not to sketch.

Maybe this stop can be one of mine. Or Holden’s. I can’t think of it as ours . . . he’s already tainted one of my favorite places that I used to consider ours. I won’t give him another.

Folding my knees under me, I place my sketchpad on my lap, as Holden digs his food out of the bag. He eats in silence while I sketch, pausing to sip my milkshake. The only sounds come from the birds crying and cicadas chirring, calling for the rain, and the branches creaking in the rising wind.

To keep the page from turning up at the corners, I put the sketchpad on the blanket and lean over it, blocking the breeze. Almost to myself, I mutter, “I wish there were more light.”

Holden balls up his burger wrapper and tosses the bag aside, then lies back, tucking his hands under his head. “What is it with you and trees?”

His question catches me off-guard, and my hand jerks. With an inward sigh, I erase the too-dark line. I shrug and blow away the eraser shavings. “I don’t know.” I begin sketching the branch again. “When I first started drawing, I actually wasn’t any good. I wanted to be, but I didn’t have natural talent.” Unlike some people. Holden came into the world wielding a paintbrush. “My first art teacher started me off on trees. She said they were simple, and I couldn’t really mess them up.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s not a reason to love them. A reason to have one tatted on your body. I call bullshit.”

Hell. “Anyway, I found I could mess them up. And I was pretty pissed off about it. Then I found that old dead tree near our houses.” I keep my eyes on my sketch, away from his. “It was my first piece that I was proud of.”

I’m leaving out a lot of that story, and I hope he doesn’t catch on. But he’s just too fucking clever for his own good.

“I remember that.” A knowing grin slides across his face. “You had just ran away from home”—he chuckles—“and we drew together. I helped you with your tree draw—”

As he cuts off, my hand freezes over the page. I don’t need to see his face to know he’s made the connection. My grip on the charcoal tightens almost painfully, and I’ve stopped breathing. After the way he looked at me this morning . . . after the way he reminded me how very unimportant I am to him . . . having him piece together this part of me is like playing connect the dots with a razorblade on my soul.

Keeping my gaze lowered, tracing my charcoal over the same branch, over and over, I say, “Yeah. You helped me sketch my first tree. You taught me how to draw.”

He doesn’t respond, and his probing gaze is unnerving. I wish I could hear his thoughts. No, maybe I don’t. Deciding the conversation is over, I go back to shading in the bark.

After a moment, Holden sits up, wraps an arm around his knee. His other arm stretches behind him to support his weight. I try not to look at the shaded blue flames engulfing a compass on his inner forearm. “So in some way,” he says. “I’m a part of your tree obsession.”

I clamp my eyes closed. My mortification is complete. When I open them, he’s staring at me—almost through me. As if I’m becoming more transparent by the second. “Yeah. In some distant, obscured kind of way. I guess you are.” And in all the ways that count.

He tilts his head, like he’s trying to read me. Runs his tongue over his lip ring. “And so all the paintings of dead trees? It

’s just because of that one. Some tree we found when we were kids. There’s something more there. There has to be.”

“Fuck, Holden.” I glare at him. “What do you want?”

His pale blue eyes puncture me. “The truth.”

I shake my head, aggravated. Does the truth even matter anymore? I blow out a breath. “I love them because even through they’re dead, they’re not,” I say, my anger conquering my nerves. “Something beneath the surface goes on living. They’re dark and ugly to most people, but I look at something that’s supposed to be hideous and see something haunting and beautiful. Something that’s supposed to be used up and discarded . . . to me, is wanted. Needed. It’s the start of something new.” I suck in a breath, my chest quivering. “Now, will you drop it?”

And like that stupid little girl who crushed on the artist boy next door, who fell in love with his artwork, who wanted to draw something to impress him . . . I feel raw and exposed. That day he tore my heart out, he didn’t just hurt me. He destroyed me. I couldn’t draw or paint or even think about sketching for months.