My Secret to Tell (7 page)

I inch closer to Deacon, barely suppressing a shudder. I don’t know this person. It’s like a stranger wearing Chelsea’s skin. Is this what grief does? Does it strip away every good and sweet thing until there’s nothing left but darkness?

I take a tremulous breath but lift my chin. I don’t know whose courage I borrow to meet Chelsea’s eyes, because mine’s used up.

“I can’t imagine how you’re feeling,” I say softly. “I know I can’t. But that was crap, and you know it.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and the words are strangled on the edge of a sob. It breaks things in me to see her like that, but I need time. I need to breathe.

I feel warm, rough fingers on my arm, and then Deacon’s looking at me. The apology is written all over his face. “I’ll take you home.”

The last thing I see is Chelsea’s tear-rimmed eyes. They wring me out and leave me hollow as I follow Deacon outside.

Outside, the humiliation hits me like a truck. My face is so hot I’m surprised I don’t smell smoke. He knows. I’ve hidden this secret for years, and
boom
, just like that, it’s out.

What should I say? What
can
I say? Deacon’s not talking, so maybe I should follow his lead.

He hands me my helmet and puts his own on too. I check that damn strap and climb on the bike. The pain quickly wins out over the humiliation, and I hold on tight without being asked. I’ll have to deal with the awkward fallout later if it comes, and after everything Chelsea said, it probably will. For now, being close to him helps.

Deacon stops at the Hess station, and I check my phone while he pumps the gas. Six o’clock. I have no idea where the day went. It’s a miracle my phone didn’t blow up with all the texts my mom sent. Will I be home for dinner? Where am I? Is everything all right? Will I please check in?

I fire back a quick response heavy with apologies.

I’m so sorry. Was with Chelsea at the hospital. With a friend now. Be home by ten.

Mom’s reply flashes back fast.

I’d like some details. Are you back in town? Who drove you?

Battery low. On way back to town.

I turn off my phone and put it away with a wince. I’ll pay for ignoring that later, but it’s going to be bad enough explaining this. Doing it over text is just too much.

Deacon puts the cap back on the gas tank and heads inside. A couple of girls in a convertible follow him with their eyes, but he doesn’t even notice. Now I
know
he’s upset.

When he returns, he slips me a pack of Big Red gum and a bottle of Dr. Pepper. My favorites. I can’t even thank him though, because he’s being just as weird as I am. I guess we’re both embarrassed.

I’m grateful when he climbs on the bike and those helmets are back in place, keeping us apart. But at the first light, he flips up his visor and turns so that I can see the scar on his chin in the waning sunlight.

“Are you in a hurry to get home?” he asks, voice rough.

“No.”

“Can we just ride a bit?”

I bury my head between his shoulder blades and tighten my grip. It’s all the answer he needs. He takes us west from the city, deep into the Croatan forest. Spindly pines line the road as far as I can see, and the sun dips fast below the trees, leaving the air cool. My arms prickle with goose bumps, and my lower back is aching, but I don’t let myself care. I press my palm against Deacon’s ribs and feel his heartbeat instead, strong and steady.

It’s almost dark when he takes us back into Beaufort. He doesn’t turn on my street, thank God. Just drives us down to the farthest edge of the waterfront, where there are new stretching boards for joggers and a freestanding climbing wall.

The engine stops, but my ears are still buzzy with the noise. When I lumber off the bike, my legs feel weak and spongey. I’m still shaking out my hair when Deacon crosses the grassy yard, headed straight for the climbing wall.

“You don’t have a harness,” I say, trudging more slowly behind him.

It’s obvious he’s not going to stop. He’s burning adrenaline. Burning all the darkness from that encounter in the hospital. He reaches the top in less than a minute, and I heave a breath, glad it’s halfway over. Now it’s just the descent.

Except it isn’t. Deacon tilts his head. I’ve seen that look before. It’s like the whole world is a dare and he’ll be damned if he’s backing down.

“Deke, don’t.” It’s barely a whisper, lost instantly on the soft breeze.

He pulls himself higher, until he’s clinging like a monkey to four pegs at the very top of the wall. I know what he’s planning before he starts to rise. My vision swims as he slowly straightens, one foot on one top-row peg, one foot on another.

He starts to stand up, and the wind gusts. My stomach churns so much it might as well be me on top of that wall. I stand at the bottom for what feels like hours. Days maybe. Finally, he starts clambering back down. He’s breathing hard when he hits the ground but looking more relaxed than he has since the hospital.

We fall into step without discussion, heading down the boardwalk toward the center of town.

“I’m sorry about Chelsea,” he says finally.

“Forget that for now. Tell me about your dad.”

“He’s weak. Confused. He hasn’t been able to talk because of the ventilator, and he doesn’t remember much.” He jerks his gaze away, takes a shuddery breath. “We tried to see what he knew. Tried to fill him in on bits and pieces. He just…asked me why I hit him and left. Over and over, he asked me.”

“Does he remember anyone else being there?”

“Nope. Just me hitting him.” He shakes his head. “Maybe it’ll come back, but Chels didn’t take well to the punching news.”

“Of course she didn’t,” I say. “Do you blame her?”

“No, I really don’t. I feel like shit about it. I never should have—” He stops himself, looking disgusted with himself. I sigh, because the feeling’s a bit mutual.

“Yeah, you
definitely
never should have,” I say. “You know how protective she is.”

“Daddy’s little girl,” Deacon says. “She always has been.”

He’s right. And it got twice as bad after their mom died. Knowing her own brother hurt their dad? I’m sure it made Chelsea crazy.

But that doesn’t change the bruised feeling in my chest when I think about the things she said to me. I didn’t hit
anyone
. And I sure as hell didn’t deserve that.

“Hell, I did hit him,” he says. “Maybe I earned this.”

“Earned the possibility of a few
years
in jail?” I shake my head. “I don’t know, Deke. It’s screwed up and wrong, but I can’t imagine your dad would really want you to go to jail over
one
punch. I don’t think Chelsea would want that either. You’re her brother.”

“I’m also the guy they found standing over Dad. The same guy who’s been fighting with him for days.” His expression goes hard. “Chelsea made sure to point that out.”

A sailboat slides by on smooth water. We’re near the dockside office for Westfield Charters now. Deacon unlocks the door and slips inside. He returns carrying a zip-up sweatshirt for me, something folded—a map maybe?—and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

I slip on the sweatshirt, smelling a mix of unpleasant things with a hint of Deacon.

“I don’t know what to say,” I admit.

“What, they don’t make a
Cosmo
quiz for this situation?” His humor is a thin cover for the sadness in his gaze. “You shouldn’t even be dealing with this mess. You should be home or out doing something that isn’t…this.”

“This isn’t some noble sacrifice for a stranger,” I say. “You’re my friend.”

He tilts his head. “Still.”

“Still nothing. Like you’d walk away if it was me.”

A couple strolls down one of the piers closer to town. The woman’s high heels are dangling from one hand.

Deacon locks up the office again and stuffs the folded paper into his back pocket. Something about that makes my shoulders heavy. Pieces fall together, snapping me out of my fog. The snacks. The backpack.

“Are you going somewhere, Deacon?”

He smirks at me. “Why? You worried I have a hot date waiting?”

Chelsea’s words come back to me, and I feel myself go red, my fists clenched. Deke scuffs the ground with his shoe.

“That was shitty. I shouldn’t have said that after—” He stops with a sigh. “Hell, I’m not good at this. I don’t know what to say. But you being here? It helps.”

I don’t say anything. I have no idea where to start. I feel like we’re cresting the hill of a roller coaster, but I’m not ready for the drop.

I turn away, pushing my hair behind my ears. “How long will your dad be in there?”

Deacon takes my hint at a subject change. “He’ll need to go to a care facility for a while.”

“Like a nursing home?”

His gaze seems to go hazy then, eyes drifting to the water. “Something like that.”

“Maybe he’ll start to put together the pieces and then this will all be a bad memory.”

Deacon doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

My insides shrivel. Go cold. I look over, wind whipping my hair into my eyes.

What if Deacon
did
snap? No matter what I feel, I have to acknowledge the possibility. He could have just closed his eyes and punched and punched and…

Deacon exhales, and I hold my breath.

“You’re starting to wonder if I did it too,” he says.

I don’t deny it. Maybe Joel is right. We’re all capable of darkness. Isn’t Landon proof of that?

He slumps onto a bench, and I take the other end. I hear him shift, and then his fingers graze mine. It’s too much, the rough feel of his fingers feathering over my palm, tracing the line of my thumb. Makes it hard to think.

“Emmie, I’m sorry you’re mixed up in this.” His arm curls around my back, tugging me against him. The sudden heat and closeness make me dizzy. “But I’m glad you’re on my side. You’re about all I’ve got right now.”

My throat tightens. I
am
all he’s got, and I’m smart enough to know that he could be using that. Using the way I feel about him.

Chelsea wouldn’t push her own brother away for no reason. Joel wouldn’t be worried for nothing. Am I so desperate to see good in Deacon that I can’t see what everyone else is seeing?

No, I
have
seen it. The anger. The fighting. The blood on his hands.

He really might have done this.

A chill runs up the back of my neck, and I push myself out of his embrace. It feels like peeling off bits of my own skin.

I try not to see the hurt in his eyes. Surprise too.

I’ve never denied Deacon a thing. If he asked me for the moon, I’d have figured out a way to rope the damn thing down. But there are too many questions and not enough answers. I have to trust my head, not my heart.

Deacon nods. Just once. His face shutters, and his mouth goes tight. “I get it. I do.”

“Deke, please. Talk to someone. Go to the police. Or Joel.”

He smiles thinly. “You’ve been good to me, Emmie. You always are. I promise I’ll leave you out of it from here.”

I hear a smattering of laughter from somewhere down on the boardwalk. Tourists probably. I can’t answer him, so I stare at my feet and silently curse the tears blurring my vision.

“You should go home,” Deacon says. “Chelsea will come around. Dad should be out of the ICU in the morning, and she’ll probably apologize all over herself.”

He sounds far away. When I look up, I see him walking backward. He’s leaving, and I need to let him go. I close my eyes so I don’t have to watch him disappear.

“Emmie, is that you?”

I turn at the sound of my name. It’s Seth, I think, standing just past the Dockhouse on the far side of the street. Yup, Seth. The yellow zip-up hoodie is a dead giveaway. He’s with a couple of other guys I can’t make out—Caleb and Liam if I had to guess—and they’re probably heading home from the Cru. In a town this small, we run the same circuit over and over.

We exchange a wave, and he says something to the guys with him. Great. He’s coming over. Probably to see if he can walk with me. I swipe my damp cheeks and slap on a wide grin as he crosses the street.

Down the boardwalk, I hear a familiar motorcycle start.
Deacon.
The engine roars, and I can almost feel the bike moving underneath me. But I’m still right here, exactly where I’m supposed to be. Far away from him.

• • •

When Seth offers to walk me home, I have no choice but to accept. Mom would throw a fit if I turned down a perfectly polite offer like that. It’d be bad manners.

I’m pretty sure my mom has a crush on Seth
for
me. He mowed our lawn all last summer and even carried in her groceries if he was around after a shopping trip.

He’s a good Southern boy
, she always says. Being Georgia born, she has a slower drawl, thicker than mine. She’s from a long line of debutantes, so it makes sense that she’d pick a boy like Seth for me. Her family rode horses and held tea parties and married long lines of Southern doctors and lawyers. Old money. That was Mom’s legacy—until she got pregnant.

Grandma snipped her neatly out of the family line then. My brother was supposed to change all of that, live the kind of life Mom was meant for. Now I’m up to bat. Every single time Mom looks at me, I know some part of her sees me as the last shot. Her final chance to get things right.

“Sure is a nice night,” Seth says, reminding me that I’m not alone and should probably be saying something.

“I’m so sorry. I’m beat.”

“It’s all right. Quiet is fine.”

We turn away from the shops and restaurants along Front Street, and quiet is exactly what we get. We’re in the world of front porches and tidy flower boxes. Postcard perfect, even under moonlight.

Seth bumps into my shoulder. “Hey, Caleb’s trying to arrange a shack party after the Pirate Invasion. Pretty sure he just wants a shot with Twyla, but it could be fun.”

“Could be,” I echo. “You guys are going to make sure no one brings those big lanterns though, right? It’s turtle nesting season.”

“You and those turtles. They’ve got plenty of beach, you know.”

I tilt my head and frown. “But they’re drawn to light. Those lanterns might look like the moon, and then they won’t make it to the water.”

He laughs. “Wow, I feel like some sort of turtle terrorist now.”

I shake myself, force a chuckle. “Sorry, I’m off my soapbox. I promise I won’t try to get you to join PETA on Sunday.”

He bounces a little with each step. “You’ll be too busy swooning to try.”

My argument with Deacon comes back to me. I stop midstride and turn to Seth. “I really like you, but it’s not like that. You know that, right?”

“I really do. It’s not like that for me either anymore.” He suddenly puts a hand on the back of his neck like he’s blushing. “Thing is, I was wondering if you might give me some advice on…Chelsea.”

My laugh is automatic, almost enough to make me forget about the incident at the hospital. But soon enough, her cruel words are echoing in my ears, and my smile falls flat.