Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (27 page)

Jesus bleeding Christ.

Her body trembles beneath mine and my gut clenches. Pushing away from the door, I keep my arm around her waist until I’m sure she can stand, and then I pull out of her, gritting my teeth at the sensation that is me and her with nothing between us. For a second, I wish my life weren’t a royal mess, and that what just happened could keep happening. That whatever happened after this moment would be okay, because we’d be together to deal with it. She’d know I love her more than anything in the world; whatever happened after our reckless night together, I’d take care of her.

Images of Ashton lying in the hospital after they resuscitated her pierce my brain and have me stumbling away. I can’t take care of anyone, and Jordan deserves a man who can stand beside her all of the time.

“Are you all right?”

My voice is harsh. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jordan turn, face pale, eyes wide, body carrying marks from my hands. I make fists at my side. She searches the ground for her shirt, the same one I ripped off her not even fifteen minutes ago.

Unable to stand seeing her near-naked form a minute longer, I yank my own over my head and hold it out. She takes it after a second, slipping into it and letting it fall to her knees before brushing her hair away from her face.

She crosses her arms over her chest protectively, staring at me. I turn away, scraping my hands through my hair. Looking at her hurts, way down deep, where the scars are already real and open.

“Brooks.”

Her voice is quiet when she says my name. I shake my head. Facing her wall, I stare at the few photos hanging on a thin string attached in an arc to the wall. There is one of her when she was a few years younger, a backpack on, a large mountain behind her. South America, I’d guess. She looks happy.

I scan the other two, stopping when I get to one from when she was a little girl, all teeth and arms and legs, her sunset hair in a complicated braid down her back, her smile wide and imperfect.

Next to her is her brother, already pretty-boy smooth though he can’t be more than eleven, his burnt blonde hair brushed off a face hinting at angelic.

“Your brother brought her into the emergency room.”

She’s silent. I don’t turn to her because I already know what she’ll look like—arms still crossed, face stoic, eyes shattered.

“What happened?”

I look at that picture, hating that boy who became this kind of man, hurting both women in my life. “They were at a party when she complained of chest pains. They were both drinking and then she doubled over. He drove her to the hospital.”

“Why didn’t he call an ambulance?”

I turn now. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her middle—her eyes dark. She knows the answer—an ambulance brings questions, statements, interviews with people who were drunk, high, and underage.

“When the Emergency nurse asked him the same thing, he said it was because they were close by, and he thought driving her would be faster than waiting for an ambulance.”

“But you don’t think so.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Ashton suffered cardiac arrest. There were toxins in her system, unidentified. Your brother had her purse; inside was Fenphedra. A diet pill,” I clarify. “She’s used it before. No one knows how many she took or how long she’s had them. There was cold medicine, too. Mason also admitted to doing a few lines with her earlier in the afternoon.”

Jordan’s face pales until her eyes are dark pools.

“I don’t know if it was the coke mixed with the pills, or just the steady deprivation and abuse she’s put her body through for the past decade—but it all culminated today, and her heart stopped. The doctors worked on her, got her heart going again, but she’s in critical condition. They don’t think she’ll make it through the night.”

She reaches out, but stops when I jerk away, her entire body stilling. Her face is terrified; I want to comfort her, but my hands stay at my sides. Jordan is not to blame—but her brother… goddammit, everything I feel is complicated and too much. I want to reach out, but I can’t, because Ashton’s dead and somehow that’s connected to the girl standing in front of me.

“Brooklyn—”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t defend him. Don’t tell me you’re sorry, or that everything will work out. Just don’t.”

The first tear slips down her cheek, and she swipes at it. My gut clenches, but I don’t move toward her. I have nothing for her. Not now—maybe I never did.

“I have to go. I shouldn’t have come here.”

She doesn’t move or say anything. I can’t stop myself from sweeping my eyes over her, committing to memory the sight of this beautiful girl in my shirt—the girl who made me see the world differently, just for a second.

I don’t say goodbye—neither does she. I walk past her and slip out of the door, wondering why I should feel more hollow now than I did even moments ago.

+      +      +

Ashton Lynae Novak is pronounced dead at five a.m. the next morning. I was holding her hand when her monitors went off. The doctors came in, performed CPR and tried to jump-start her heart again, but there was no response.

A girl who just saw her twentieth birthday slipped from her comatose state into death.

Painlessly.

Quietly.

Permanently.

Gone.

My baby sister is dead. I leave my mother weeping into her hands, her husband helpless beside her. Walking out of the hospital and into the open air, I turn aimlessly, and I keep going. Away. That’s what I need. Away from here, away from this. Away. But while I walk, the pain stays with me, and I know—
I know
I’ll never truly leave Ashton, not the way she just left me.

Chapter 43

Jordan

It’s been two days since Ashton died. Two and a half days since Brooks came into my room and used me—though that’s not how it felt at the time. It felt like, for the first time, he was trusting me, leaning on me, taking something that I wanted to give. But then he walked away. I haven’t heard from him since, and his silence tells me that what I thought was trust, was something else entirely.

I went to the health center yesterday. Like one of the many reckless girls who face the morning-after consequences, I waited my turn to see the doctor and explain why I needed a morning-after contraceptive.

No, I’m not on the pill.

No, I’ve never had any sexually transmitted diseases or infections.

Yes, I am sexually active.

Yes, I’m being honest when I list only one sexual partner.

I was screened, lectured, given condoms and pamphlets, and sent on my way all in just over an hour. I took one pill before leaving the doctor’s office, and another before bed, and as promised, it’s like it never happened. Whatever physical repercussions there may have been for my passionate and impulsive night with Brooklyn, they are no longer there. The emotional ones… I don’t see them disappearing anytime soon.

Nala is on her bed pretending to study. She came home yesterday afternoon, wrapped her arms around me and just held. She didn’t cry—there were no wracking sobs or trembling shoulders, but the way she held me—so tight—I knew she was suffering. I held her back just as tightly, and hoped it was the right thing.

Because I wanted to be the strong one this time, I didn’t shed the tears that sprang to my eyes until later when I went to take a shower. She hasn’t said much since she came home, but I know the memorial service is tomorrow at dusk on PB. I’m going with her, though I wavered whether I should since Brooklyn hasn’t called and I don’t want to be in the way. And then I remembered that being supportive and saying goodbye to a girl I met a few times is acceptable, regardless of how he feels about it or me.

I’m going for Ashton and for Nala. For myself. And I’m going for Brooklyn, but I’ll stay away from him if that’s what he needs.

I can’t really concentrate, and since the homework I’m doing is for Calc, that’s not a good thing. Equations like the ones in front of me require attention. I’ve been staring at the same set for the last thirty minutes, and I’ve still yet to write anything down. All I can think about is Brooklyn, and how stricken he looked before he walked away from me the other night.

I was so desperate after he walked out; I called Mason. I don’t know what I expected when I dialed him, but it wasn’t the sounds of a party, or a very drunk, very high, Mason.

“Where are you?”

“The fuck do you care?” Someone screamed in the background, and Mason yelled back unintelligibly. “Gonna go tell your boyfriend so he can kick my ass and accuse me of killing his sister again?”

I wanted to rage at him, to scream, but it would have been pointless. Mason was doing what Mason did best—ignoring what had happened.

“I thought you loved her.” He didn’t respond; he may have passed out, but I said it anyway. “When I saw you with her, I was horrified. And then I saw the look you gave her. It was brief, but it was so much, and I thought,
he loves her
. But now she’s in the hospital and you’re drunk, so I guess I was wrong.”

I hung up, threw my phone against the bed where it landed, face up, perfect. No satisfactory crack, no break, nothing.

When a knock sounds on the door and pulls me back, I jump, already halfway off the bed before I mumble “I’ll get it.”

Hands trembling, I turn the knob, a slice of disappointment hitting me when I see Malcolm on the other side. My heart breaks again when his eyes meet mine briefly before flitting over my head.

“Nala.” His voice is scratchy, like metal grinding against metal as it scrapes out of his throat. I step back and motion him in, leaving the door open while I gather my books.

“Mal, what are you doing here?” For the first time since she heard about Ashton, Nala’s voice breaks. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says, panic lacing her words. “You should be with Brooks.” Malcolm shakes his head as he steps toward her, ignoring the sharp tone brought on by panic.

“I saw Brooks a minute ago. Hunter’s with him.” He reaches out and brings her to her feet. “I needed to see you with my own eyes.” And then, “Jesus, Nala, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t,” she says, her strength leaking out of her the longer he holds onto her. She holds herself ramrod straight, rejecting him, but he holds on. Tears sting my eyes, and I blindly throw books into my bag, searching for my purse and keys.

“I’m here, baby, I’m right here.” He puts his arms around her despite her struggles, bringing her closer.

“Don’t,” she says again, but her voice breaks. She stands rigid, her fists clenched against his chest, her breath heaving. “Don’t coddle me. I’m fine. I’m fine. Ashton… oh, no,
Ashton
.” And then she’s crumpling, her body shattering under the weight of it all—face into Malcolm’s chest, shoulders trembling as he sweeps her up and cradles her, murmuring soft words when she only sobs harder.

I walk out and turn to close the door behind me, my tears falling when I see Malcolm lay down on Nala’s bed still cradling her. Supporting her. Loving her.

Without another thought, I walk to my car and throw my things inside. Pressing the
START
button, I head to Brooklyn’s.

+      +      +

When the door pulls open, it’s Hunter’s face I see instead of Brooklyn’s. His eyes search, green and shadowed like the forest at dusk—unwelcoming, but not unfriendly. As if he’s just recognized it’s me, those eyes crinkle at the side and the armor fades away until fatigue shows.

“Hey, Red, come on in.”

He steps back, I step forward into the small entryway. The open space beyond is empty.

“Where is he?”
How is he?
I want to ask, but don’t. Hunter is loyal, like Nala and Malcolm and Brooklyn. Asking him a question I’m afraid to ask Brooks isn’t fair.

“Out back. He’s been there since he finished that.” Hunter motions to the easel that’s facing the wall, the back of a canvas visible. I stare at it, wondering, not sure if I should look at it without Brooks here. Not sure if I want to see it.

Whether he senses my discomfort, or he just needs a break, Hunter reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his keys. “Now that you’re here, I’m going to go home and shower—check in with some of my guys about the projects we’re doing. Can you stay with him for a bit?”

I nod, Hunter already halfway to the door. He stops before closing it behind him. “He won’t talk about it—I don’t know if he really can. But don’t take that personally. He needs you, Jordan. For himself… he needs you.”

The door closes and I’m left standing in the space that has become so familiar to me in the past month, wondering if I ever really knew the man who created it.

I set my keys on the small table where I usually place them, wiping my palms on the side of my pants before I step over to the easel.

Life
.

Ashton stares back at me, seeing me, laughing with me, at me, welcoming me. Her hair—long and thick and full like I imagine it once was—is blowing around her, arms spread wide as she lifts her face just enough to feel the sun.

There’s texture to the canvas. No photograph; everything was drawn by Brooklyn’s hand, by his heart. Thick paint covers things like her hair, the ocean behind her, the sun. Thin white paint scrapes over the world around her, Ashton herself created in a blend of colors and lines, shapes, and textures until she’s alive on that canvas. And she’s a little girl.

Looking at her, seeing her this way for this first time, I finally see Brooks. Art, this—it’s his voice, his words, his pain. It’s everything he’s lived and seen, everything he’s felt that he can’t talk about. His life is on the canvas in front of me, and so is his heart.

She’s forever immortalized the way he wishes she could be—alive, happy, healthy. In love.
Ashton when she was Ashton
, I think. The girl he knew before her disease took her away.

Unable to stare at the painting any longer, I turn away and walk out the sliding doors. When I step onto the patio, my eyes adjust to the sunlight and I make out Brooks’s form on the beach, arms around his knees, back rounded and shoulders heavy.

Looking at him hurts almost as much as looking at Ashton the way he remembers her. He’s so broken right now, blaming himself for something he couldn’t change. I don’t know how to help, or if I can, but I can’t walk away.