He doesn’t look away. “But somebody did, didn’t they?”
My whole face goes hot. He’s quoting me, my diary from the pages Mark photographed and sold. The questions I’d tormented myself with by writing them down, because I couldn’t ask Jason.
Why did you do it? How could you kill him?
I don’t understand.
I don’t understand.
I don’t understand. I loved you, we all loved you. Cal was your friend and you killed him. Why, Jason? We didn’t do anything wrong, did we? Laura and me? Mom and Dad? But somebody did, didn’t they? What did Cal do?
Heath leans toward me. “Did you ever ask him? Your brother ever tell you what mine did that he deserved to die?”
I recoil as though slapped. Heath doesn’t look contrite in the slightest.
“We don’t have to dance around, right? That’s the whole point—I can say stuff like that, and you don’t get to act wounded.”
I’m not acting. I can feel my eyes stinging, but I blink the sensation away. “I didn’t write that for anyone else to see—”
“Just the entire internet.” Then he stills and looks at me as if realizing what I mean. “You didn’t give anyone those pages to publish.”
“I wouldneverhurt my family like that, not for anything. They’re barely hanging on now, and it was so much worse then.”
“But it’s better now?” That brief flicker of compassion snuffs out and he comes close to sneering. “My sister lost her job and had to move back home and my mom spends the majority of every day at Cal’s grave, talking to him like he can still hear her. And my dad? Haven’t seen or heard from him in six months. If it weren’t for my job and my grandparents we would have already lost our house.”
“I didn’t know,” I say quietly.
“But you’resorry, right? That’s your line? It’s what you say, but it’s not what you believe or what you write when you don’t think anyone will ever see it.” Heath’s face tightens like he’s going to say something else, something that would hurt worse because he hurts worse. But his words don’t come.
Mine do.
“I wrote that the night Jason confessed. I didn’t want to believe that my brother was a—” I choke on the word “—murderer. I wanted to believe anything else. That there was a reason, some explanation that would make me understand what made him do it.”
He nearly spits the question at me. “Did you ever find your reason?”
I can’t answer him. I haven’t found a reason, but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on there being one. I have to believe my brother isn’t a monster, even though he did something monstrous.
“Whatever happened between them that night,” I say, “my brother deserves to be in prison for what he did. I know that. I wake up every day knowing that.” So, so slowly, Heath’s features relax until he’s just staring at me. Letting me see whathewakes up with every day. My heart squeezes too tight in my chest. “We’re not supposed to think about each other, or care that ours isn’t the only family affected by this, but I can’t help that anymore.”
“No,” he says in a low voice, shaking his head at me. “You’re not supposed to do that. I don’t want you to be nice to me right now. Don’t you get that?” He’s breathing too fast and blinking too quickly. “I want you to get mad, to—” His chest heaves and I catch the sheen in his eyes before he lifts them skyward and locks his jaw. “Please, can’t you just...”
When his voice breaks off I don’t even think. I reach for his hand and slide my fingers into his. He jerks but doesn’t pull away. For me too the touch is jolting, both from how warm his skin is compared to mine and from how rough the texture is. Touching Heath’s hand feels intimate in a way that should make me draw back, but instead makes me hold on. I find myself wishing that the ice had left its mark on me for him to touch, to feel that indelible part of me.
Heath eyes our hands and his chest rises as he inhales, but it’s steadier this time. Then his thumb glides over the back of my hand, rough against soft. A single movement that he doesn’t repeat, but the whispered touch ignites something in me that chills even as it burns.
Gently, I begin to draw my hand back, but at the slightest resistance from him, I stop. I close my eyes even as I feel his linger on me. I meant to comfort him, to remind him that he isn’t alone and that even if we’re not supposed to, I do care. More than I should. More than I realized until this moment.
A heartbeat later, the resistance is gone and our hands slide apart.
The hot, humid air feels cold in place of Heath’s warmth. I feel him looking at me, and rather than meet his gaze I let mine sweep over the tree and the names carved into it, avoiding Jason’s former spot and snagging here and there on names that I don’t recognize.
“Where’s yours?” If he spent any time here as a kid it has to be somewhere.
Heath moves to the far side of the tree and I follow, glad to leave the scarred remains of my brother’s initials behind. He backs up and cranes his head. I follow his line of sight to a branch some thirty feet high. Normally, the higher the branch the less legible the name. The branches are bone thin toward the top, and anyone climbing that high risks a branch snapping rather than supporting much weight for longer than a hasty scrawl.
Heath’s first name is both high and readable, even from the ground. It’s more than readable, I realize, moving closer. His lines are straight and even and thick enough that the name hasn’t faded like many of the ones surrounding it.
“Did you bring a router with you or something?” I ask, thinking of the power tool Dad uses to add decorative details to his furniture. I don’t add that that’s kind of cheating, but my tone implies it.
