If it was earlier and the rink was still open, I could try to convince myself that it’s pure happenstance, us running into each other again. But not when we’re closed and it’s this late, not when I remember how angry he’d been last time we saw each other. That last thought is the one that keeps me from taking more than a few steps after him so as to remain in illumination of the overhead parking lot lights.
“How did you know I’d be here?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I know the answer. The story I told him about his brother letting me drive his truck to work at this rink. It would have taken only a small gamble on his part to assume I still did. The question I should be asking is why he waited until after closing when I’m alone in a deserted parking lot to approach me.
When he at last meets my gaze, I know from the renewed set to his jaw that he’s not here to thank me for his truck repairs—not that I expected him to. My pulse kicks up as he walks toward me, stalks really, and stops just shy of the parking lot light that feels less and less like it can protect me. He pulls something from his pocket and holds it out in a tight fist.
Cash.
CHAPTER 6
“It’s all there,” Heath says, cool as the rink I just left. “Count it.”
I swallow before responding, and my voice isn’t half so chilly. “You don’t need to pay me back.”
Heath’s voice drops in volume but seems to double in intensity as he leans toward me, his dark brown hair skimming his cheekbones. His gray eyes catch the reflection of the lights and seem to flash. “I don’t need you to pay for my truck.”
My skin ripples, chilled by the animosity rolling off him and rendering me mute. I’ve gotten used to hostility from people I know and even complete strangers. I welcomed it at first—what else could I do when people started saying horrible and vicious things about my brother and vile things about my parents and my then barely thirteen-year-old sister? My first instinct had been to vehemently defend all of us against every insidious—and at the time, I thought, wholly unfounded—speculation bandied about by people who used to smile at us when we passed in town. I didn’t let even the softer, sadder questions and concerns from my then friends penetrate my resolve, my infallible faith in my brother and his innocence. In a single month, from the night Jason was arrested through his first court appearance and later his arraignment, I stood tall, daring anyone to imply let alone say a bad word about my brother. His arrest was a mistake; the evidence was flawed or flat-out wrong. My brother wasn’t a murderer. I’d gladly make an enemy of every friend I’d ever had rather than believe for one second that my brother was capable of taking someone’s life.
And I did.
When my boyfriend at the time tried to get me to “face the truth” by reading some article he’d found online that supposedly contained leaked info from the police report, I snapped and it was the closest I’d ever come to hitting someone. The story of that incident quickly spread through our circle of friends, lending credence to the theory that homicidal violence ran in my family.
When Jason pleaded guilty, the crushing reality hit me. I’d been immobile in the courtroom that day, watching Jason’s final look at our sobbing mother before he was hauled away by the upper arm through doors where I couldn’t follow. I’d turned then, not wanting my brother to see the tears I could no longer hold back. While almost everyone around us rejoiced at seeing a killer brought to justice, I watched someone I loved more than my own life taken away in handcuffs after admitting to a crime I couldn’t conceive of, even as I had to accept that he was guilty.
It didn’t matter that I had friends who might have tried to console me afterward if I’d let them. Ididn’tlet them. I let the wary glances and the sad eyes roll off me without distinction until I no longer noticed any difference.
But I recognize the sharp distinction between Heath and everyone else. I’m not a story to him; I’m a nightmare, a personal one that neither of us can escape by crossing to the other side of the road. He doesn’t feel sorry for me, and he’s not afraid. I have no defense against what I see in his expression. He batters through without even trying.
He raises a hand to his head and half turns before facing me again, his strong jaw locks. “What made you think I’d want anything from you? That I wouldn’t rather walk for the rest of my life than drive a truck that you paid to fix?”
Pain blossoms in my chest, but I blink away the sting in my eyes. I’m not about to cry in front of him again. That was before, when I hoped he was capable of doing what seemingly no one else in our town could: look at me and not see my brother. “I was only trying to help.”
“You,”he says, forcing the word through barely moving lips, “don’t get to feel bad for me. And you sure as hell don’t get to use me to make yourself feel better.” He flings the money at my feet and turns to leave.
I almost turn away myself, ready to flee to where Daphne is parked a few dozen yards away, but I make the mistake of glancing beyond Heath to his truck. And I think of his brother and the fraction of pain I must feel compared to his.
“You can’t make me feel better,” I call after him, and it comes out in a voice much stronger than I’m expecting. I sound confident and strong when I couldn’t feel more opposite.
Heath halts and turns but doesn’t take a single step toward me.
I don’t blame Heath or his family for anything. They have every reason to despise everything associated with my brother, including me. I have to visit my brother within the confines of a prison, where ever-present guards close in if I try to so much as hold his hand. But the only place Heath can visit his brother is at a cemetery, where the closest he can get to touching Calvin is a headstone.
There is no comparison.
“There is no ‘better,’” I say, careful not to draw in too deep a breath lest it come out shaky. “I would never use you like that even if there were.”
Heath’s expression goes flat, and he looks so much like his brother in that moment that I feel as if I’ve got a broken bird trapped in my chest, fluttering desperately to free itself. “You saw me laughing yesterday,” I say. “I’d just learned how to drive stick, and that was the first time I didn’t stall. You saw that one moment, and I didn’t want you to think I don’t care, that life is just fine now. It’s not.” The bird is frantic now. If I look down, I might see my ribs shaking from the impact of its little body. “I think about my brother and your brother, and I know it will never be better.”
He stands there, looking a little ghostly in the light from the parking lot while emotions I can’t begin to decipher flit across his face. I can’t move my feet while he’s staring at me. Instead, I bend down and start gathering the money scattered on the ground. I’m moving slowly, grabbing one bill at a time. “I shouldn’t have paid for your truck repairs,” I say. I don’t know why I ever thought he wouldn’t react this way, thinking I was trying to absolve some of my own guilt or even Jason’s.
He doesn’t hesitate at all when replying. “No, you shouldn’t have.” He pauses then says, “I didn’t notice you were laughing yesterday.”
My gaze lifts and my heart considers following suit. “You didn’t?”
He shakes his head and I frown.
“But you looked so angry.”
“The last time I saw you was in a courtroom.” He doesn’t have to say more than that. My reaction, though different, was just as automatic when I saw him.
