Pricked
Her voice drifts for a moment, her shoulders rising and falling. And then she lifts a finger to her cheek, brushing away a small tear.
“I’m sorry … I haven’t been back here in over a decade. I didn’t think it would hit me as hard as it is …” She swallows a gulp of air before continuing. “Anyway, so that night, I was asleep upstairs. I’d actually fallen asleep listening to my iPod, headphones in my ear and everything. Back then I always had to have something to listen to when I fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up and headed downstairs. The house was quiet, which I thought was strange because my grandparents were early risers. My grandma was known for her 5 AM walks and my grandpa would always have breakfast on the stove and the news blasting on his radio. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I realized my sock was wet. I looked down, and I’d just stepped in a puddle of dark red liquid.” She pauses, glancing down into her lap. “When I looked down the hall … I saw my grandparents, lying face down, covered in blood.”
Her hands lift to her face, and she wipes the fat tear tracks that dampen her cheeks.
“They caught the guys who did it,” she says. “I guess my grandfather shot and killed one of them. The other’s in prison now. The police said it was a botched burglary.”
And just like that … I remember now why Hidden Oaks sounded so familiar to me.
It was my father.
It was my father who killed her grandparents.
Her gaze returns to the front of the house and the saddest smile colors her expression. I’m sure she’s thinking of happier times.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t miss them,” she says. “They were my favorite people in the entire world.” She looks down again. “Still are. Wish you could’ve met them. They would’ve loved you. I mean, they loved everybody, but they really would’ve loved you.”
“I’m sorry, Brighton.” It’s the only thing I can say.
“I always think about what my life would be like had that never happened,” she says. “I mean, as far as my parents are concerned. They were so terrified that someone was going to come after me, that whoever did it had purposely targeted my grandparents and that we’d be next, that they pulled me out of school, hired a tutor, put me in therapy, and didn’t let me leave the house for almost an entire year. It wasn’t until my therapist told them they couldn’t imprison me like that, that they finally relented, but only a little. Everything they’ve ever done has been because they were terrified they were going to lose me. Though I’ll give my mom most of the credit. She’s the one who truly went overboard. I think losing her parents and, in her mind, almost losing her daughter, pushed her over the edge.” Brighton turns to me. “She was never the same after that night.”
I give her a few more minutes to bask in … whatever this is. Grief. Nostalgia. Bittersweetness. And then I say, “It’s getting late.”
“Yeah.” She pulls in a breath and lets it go, giving the house one last hard look. “We should go.”
We drive home in silence, though my mind is loud as hell.
Life has a sick sense of humor sometimes.
Who’d have thought this woman, this gorgeous, gentle-hearted creature, would be the granddaughter of the two innocent people my father murdered?
And the granddaughter of the man who shot my twin brother in the chest at point-blank range.
37
Brighton
It’s past one in the morning when we get back to the apartment. I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow, but it was worth it. I hadn’t been back to my grandparents’ house in over ten years, and though I’d wanted to drive by it a hundred times, I never wanted to go alone and I never had the courage to ask my mom to come with me. God only knows it doesn’t take much to put her in a tailspin.
We strip out of our clothes, and I set the alarm on my phone before crawling into bed. He slides in beside me, rolling to his side, his back to me.
I’m not sure what changed, but these past several nights there’s been something colder about him—or colder than usual, anyway. There’s always been a distance between us, but lately that distance feels like it’s the size of an entire universe.
When I told him I wanted to show him something tonight, my hope was that if I opened up, maybe I could make him realize that it’s not so hard—and that maybe he might open up to me.
Of course he sat there in silence the whole time.
Maybe he didn’t know what to say as tears streamed down my face. I can’t blame him for that. He didn’t sign up to be a shoulder for me to cry on.
But at least I tried.
I’m hopeful that with a little time and a little more patience, he’ll one day tell me something, anything about him. In the short amount of time that I’ve known him, I’ve already racked up a list of things I’m dying to know about him.
Why is his last name different than Devanie’s?
Why doesn’t he talk about his childhood?
Why doesn’t he have any tattoos, and why is the reason such a closely-guarded secret?
Who is Dallas?
And last but not least, is he still in love with Veronica?
“Madden,” I whisper his name before reaching across the bed and placing my hand over his arm. “Are you still awake?”
He rolls to his back, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah.”
I scoot closer to him. “I can’t sleep.”
I move in, lifting his arm and draping it over my shoulder before resting my head on his chest. His skin is warm beneath my ear, and the steady thrum of his heart relaxes me.
“Can I ask you something?” I trace the divots of his chiseled stomach.
“Sure.”
“Have you ever been in love?” I ask.
His chest rises and falls and he doesn’t answer right away. “We talked about this once before.”
“You told me no one’s ever loved you,” I say, “but have you ever loved someone?”
He clears his throat, situating himself. I can tell he wants to roll over, but he can’t because I’m sidled up against him. Unfortunately for him, I’m not letting him see his way out of his conversation.
“When I was with Devanie last weekend, she mentioned you dated this girl before,” I say. “Veronica, I think she said her name was?”
His body tenses beneath me.
“Sounds like you two were pretty crazy about each other,” I add. I’m fishing for information and maybe it’s blatantly obvious, but I’m dying to know.
Madden slides his arm out from under me and rolls to his side. “Get some sleep. You have to get up in five hours.”
I move back to my half of his bed and pull the covers up to my shoulders, rolling in the opposite direction.
Maybe opening up to him tonight had the opposite of the intended effect? Maybe it weirded him out? Maybe it did nothing but close him up more?
“Madden?” I need to ask one more question.
“Yeah?”
“We’re friends, right?” I ask. “You consider me a friend? Not just a friend-with-benefits?”
“Go to sleep, Brighton.”
I roll back over, vowing to call tonight a loss and write it off, though my mind won’t stop spinning.
There might as well be a stranger lying beside me.
I don’t understand how I can know so much about someone but still know so little. I know his favorite color is emerald green. His favorite pizza is sausage and mushroom. I know he’s a side sleeper. I know his favorite sexual position is reverse cowgirl. I know when he’s had a bad dream at night because he does this twitchy thing and makes this angry face. I know when he can’t sleep because he tosses and turns and puts his arm around me when he thinks I’m out cold. I know he takes his coffee black, his favorite movies are anything starring Al Pacino, and I know he’d do anything in this world for his sister.
But all of that means nothing.
My knowledge of him is only skin deep.
He won’t let me in beyond that.
And I wish he would.
So much.
Because I still think he’s pretty amazing.
And if all the parts of him I do know are good, how bad could the rest of him be?
38
Madden
“You coming over tonight?” Pierce asks Friday morning as we open the shop.
“Yep.”
“Bringing the girlfriend?” he asks. For all intents and purposes, everyone thinks we’re an item. It was easier to keep up the illusion across the board in the beginning, but then we just kept going with it because at the end of the day it’s no one else’s business but ours. “She skipped out last week.”
“I don’t know what she’s doing tonight.”
He gives me a look, scoffing. “What do you mean you don’t know what she’s doing tonight? She’s your girlfriend. And it’s the weekend. You should know exactly what she’s up to.”
I shrug, flicking on the neon “Open” light in one of the front windows.
“Come on. Don’t act like you’re not batshit fucking crazy about her,” he says, swatting my shoulder. “You can drop the act. I mean, man, she’s good for you. And we’re all glad you were finally able to move on from Whore-onica.”