Page 72 of Threaded Lies

“Go for a drive?” I ask her, not ready to leave her behind, despite desperately needing to be alone in this moment.

TWENTY-THREE

Rowan

We drive.

Much like we did that first night we slept together, when confusion reigned as prevalent as our desire did. But this time we drive to abate tempers and digest the crap that Rhett just said.

Or at least that’s why I needed to escape.

How could my brother think such total bullshit? Revitalization is not razing a whole city. It’s not disregarding a whole subset of citizens because they are less fortunate than we are. Where were the plans for them after their displacement? For creating more jobs for them? For bettering their lives?

There weren’t any.

I glance over to Holden. His face is a mask of indifference but that muscle pulsing in his jaw and the grip of his hands on the steering wheel say all that needs to be said. He’s just as pissed—even more so—and I hope to learn why.

We’ve slept together. We’ve worked side by side together. I even would like to think we’re in a relationship together, but there is so very little that I truly know about who he really is and what makes him tick.

My thoughts from the diner parking lot the other day come back. Holden is the master of keeping secrets.

And something about what my brother just said clearly made him, and those secrets he holds close, tick.

I struggle with what to say, which I never do when it comes to Holden. And for some reason I ask the one question I told myself I wasn’t going to.

We drive in silence over the bridge toward the town my brother just disparaged. A look across the river highlights the silhouettes of Westmore and the buildings I’ve walked in the shadows of numerous times. The same silhouettes I can imagine the kids in this neighborhood look over at and aspire to live by.

The thought makes Rhett’s campaign promises even worse and the citizens of Westmore who were clapping even more disturbing.

My thoughts run rampant as Holden drives what seems to be aimlessly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask as he takes a left off the main drag.

“No.” One syllable. That’s all I get.

But he’s angry. I can sense it. Can feel it. And for the first time, I finally ask. “Did you grow up in a town like Fairmont, Holden?”

He tenses momentarily. It’s slight but there, and he doesn’t answer. I nod softly and give him the grace not to have to answer me.

I know in the past he mentioned he had family who lived in Fairmont, but I never stopped to wonder where he grew up. And now, by his response to Rhett’s bullshit and my question, I can assume he did grow up in a similar fashion.

I stare at the surrounding area he drives us through. We’re in the town neighboring Fairmont, but it’s much the same. Run-down buildings with laundry hanging on lines and construction-paper art taped to windows. Kids sitting on stoops, fanning themselves from the heat, and people working on cars in the parking lots. Graffiti on walls and hopscotches drawn on sidewalks in chalk. Signs of life lived to the best of its ability when life deals you a shitty situation.

Nothing less.

Nothing more.

I grow angrier at my brother and his callous, unfounded comments.

“Yes,” Holden says softly, causing me to shift my focus back onto him. “I grew up in a place similar to this.”

I know better than to say I’m sorry, than to ask more. “Clearly it’s not a toilet bowl or whatever bullshit he said, huh?” I murmur as I look out the windshield as he veers around a sizable pothole.

He grunts in response.

“I don’t think like him. Just in case you’re wondering.”

Holden glances over at me, his foot easing up on the gas in the middle of this residential street. Our eyes lock and I know there is more there. More behind that mask he wears like a second skin. In this moment, I know whatever my brother said hurt him ten times more than it hurt me.