Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (28 page)

I settle down on the sand next him, noting that his eyes are closed behind his sunglasses. My arms wrap around my legs, and I gaze out at the bay, the boats that are sitting, those casting out to sea with people on board. For a time, I’m content to watch the boats and the people, to wonder about them and where they’re going, what they’re doing and who they’re with.

“I used to wonder about people when I was little.” Brooklyn doesn’t move, and I don’t look at him. “I used to sit in the airport, or in the back of the car while we waited on the freeway in traffic, or at a dinner where no one really spoke to me, and I wondered about all of the people around me. Who were they? What made them so happy or so sad? The night you took my picture, I wondered about you. And everything I saw made me bolder. You saved me.”

“Don’t.” He lifts his head slightly. “I’m not a savior. I don’t save people.”

I ignore his words and continue. “I was regretting what I’d done—throwing dinner in Mason’s lap. What was I thinking? There were going to be consequences, and I was already worrying over them. And then you were there, walking toward me. I was so scared,” I say, continuing even when he lets out a low stream of cuss words and stands. “You were so big, your eyes so dark, and I thought you were going to hurt me.”

“I thought about it.”

Now I stand, and I shake my head at him. “No, you didn’t. You were thinking about what you felt, what you saw, what you knew that I didn’t even know yet. And when you snapped my picture and walked off, unapologetic in your rudeness, you reminded me that it was okay to need something. To want something.” I wait until he’s looking at me again. “You were already thinking of me, just like you always thought of Ashton, of Nala, of Mal and Hunter. You save us all, Brooklyn.”

He steps forward so quickly, I jump, but he still grabs my arms, hauling me to my toes. “She’s dead. Ashton is dead. I didn’t save her. I could never save her.” He releases me just as quickly and I stumble back a step.

“You loved her. Even when she rejected you, when she hurt you, she knew you loved her.”

“Look where that got her. Burned to ash before she really ever lived.”

I reach up and frame his face. “You can’t blame yourself.”

“I could have forced her back into treatment,” he says. “She would still be alive.”

“Brooklyn, you don’t know that.”

“You’re right—I don’t know if it would have worked, because she died before I could try.” I say his name and rest my head against his chest, but he steps back. I stay where I am, breaking inside for him, for me, for us. “Don’t touch me. I don’t deserve… what I did to you the other night.” His face darkens and his voice goes quiet. “Don’t touch me.”

I’m crumbling inside, my heart heavy and breaking, my body aching all over. I want to tell him to knock it off—to find that brave girl who started her list and be her right now. She’d go up to Brooklyn and slap his face for breaking her heart. And then she’d throw her arms around him and hug him, proving that she was strong enough to hold him together.

But I’m not that girl. I’m the girl who fell in love with the boy—the boy whose sister just died, the boy who’s looking at me like it will cause him irreparable damage if I touch him now.

“I’m not sorry.” I say the words quietly, but I know he hears me. “You saved me Brooklyn—every time I needed you to be there for me, you were. I’ll never forget the other night—when you came to me because you knew I could be there for you. I’m still here,” I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t make him. Instead, I turn and walk up the beach, slipping inside the glass doors and past Ashton’s picture, through the beautiful space and out the front door again, waiting to cry until I’m inside of my car alone.

Chapter 44

Brooks

You have to register someone’s death. Like you register your car—paperwork, dates, signatures—all there in black and white to be presented to the crematorium.

It was easier than expected, because the attending doctor for Ashton filled out most of the information. All I had to do was fill in some blanks and present the form. Now, she’s reduced to that form and the urn I chose—reclaimed beach wood, no engravings, smoothed out and pure; a broken log someone saved from the sea or the beach and made beautiful again.

She deserves to be buried in something beautiful.

It is four days after she was pronounced dead in that hospital bed. I’m on the beach watching the sunset, celebrating the life of my sister that will never go beyond young adulthood.

Nala is on one side of me, stone silent and unmoving—Malcolm and Hunter filling the chairs next to her—my mother is on the other, with her husband next to her, though he has not touched her in support or comfort. A direct contrast to Nala’s silent, stoic demeanor, my mom is a mess with her sniffles, intermixed with a heaving sob or a fruitless cry. Every time someone stands to say goodbye to Ashton, her cries get louder.

I don’t cry. I don’t move or speak. I don’t really feel.

I knew this was coming.

At seven, Ashton already hated herself. At thirteen, she was hospitalized and needed respiratory help, because her body wasn’t strong enough to bring in air on its own. At fifteen, she was hospitalized for dehydration. At eighteen, she overdosed on a diet pill and had her stomach pumped. And now… at twenty years old, my sister went into a coma she never came out of.

Her heart stopped working, her brain was permanently damaged, her organs shut down. The body she hated for most of her life finally gave her the peace she always wanted. It’s those of us left without her that hurt now.

My mother sobs again and I put my arm around her, tucking her close like a child. I’m both drawn to protect her and inspired to yell at her to pull it together. It’s not fair, but a part of me blames her. Ashton’s entire life was spent watching my mother cower and be weak—watching her seek approval and safety in the eyes of society, of her husbands, of her friends. If she had just stood up once—just once given the world the finger and done things for herself, maybe Ashton could have learned to stand up, too.

Because life is a cruel bitch sometimes, Ashton is dead and my mother is sinking under the weight of it. One more person to leave her. One more heartache to bear. One more thing she won’t be able to handle.

The service is quick—it’s a memorial instead of a funeral, because we have no religious affiliations. Like most people who know the true heartache life can bring, I don’t believe in God or a higher power. I used to believe in people, in actions—in life and the power of nature. A few weeks ago, I even thought I was starting to believe in love.

Jordan is here. I knew the minute she walked in, though I was facing away from her. Like that night at Malcolm’s, everything in me buzzed and snapped with the feeling of her until I had to turn and make eye contact.

She’s wearing a watercolor-print dress in light pinks and greens, the exact colors that warm her skin and highlight her eyes; her sandals were in her hand, and though she looked at me, she didn’t make any move to come toward me. Probably for the best.

I haven’t sought her out since the night Ashton died when I slammed into her dorm room and used her in a way I had no right. Jesus, my stomach still gets tight when I think of the way I mauled her, touching her hard enough to bruise, pushing her against the door and never giving her a choice. When she came over and told me she’d never forget that night, I almost puked.

I had taken away her choice—made her nothing more than a solution, when what I should have done was told her that she’s my everything. My only. My heart.

Except, my heart is broken and I have nothing left. No sister, no belief, no reason to stay here in San Diego… nothing. I had Jordan, but I proved in one night I don’t deserve her. For the last time in my life, I’m going to do the hard thing and walk away. She deserves better than me—this washed-out angry man who used her body because he couldn’t speak his heart.

No. In my life, I’ve watched every woman I ever loved bend to the people around them. I could do that to Jordan. I could make her think I loved her, that using her the way I did was okay—that it was passion and need speaking. She would believe me, take me back, and let me take whatever I wanted. And I would. I’d take and take and take until one day she woke up and realized she had nothing left.

She freed herself from one tyrant; she doesn’t need another.

The people who speak are brief—friends of Ashton’s, some from her group counseling, some from her high school days. Few are from now, her illness taking not only her life, but her ability to create new and healthy relationships when she was living. If her boyfriend is here, he has stayed out of my way.

I haven’t said a word since the memorial started; I won’t. My grief is my own, a gaping black hole inside of me. I haven’t talked, haven’t wept, haven’t shown emotion beyond the night she died when I sought out Jordan and poured everything I am—everything I felt and was—into her. The same night I went home and started Ashton’s portrait.

The only thing inside of me now is the need to leave, to distance myself and break free of this place I’ve been chained to for so long. Ashton is gone—there is nothing keeping me here, no reason I shouldn’t go. Jordan floats through my mind, and since I can’t push her out, I let the pain slide through me.

Staying for her wouldn’t be
for her
, it would be for me. As much as I want her, I’m not ready for her. Leaving is my only option. After I say goodbye, after I collect my sister’s ashes, I’ll disappear and become a wanderer; a man whose soul has felt too much, but still can’t quite feel enough.

Nala steps forward, walking the few steps to the front where the service official stands. She ignores him, fingers reaching out and brushing over the urn before she turns to face the small crowd.

She didn’t wear black—I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her wear black. Instead, she’s in a sky-blue dress made of floaty material that reaches her feet. It ties around her neck and is belted at her waist with tan rope. Her hair is left down and wild, and she pushes it behind her before speaking.

“Ashton and I have been best friends since I can remember. We grew up together, went to school together, chased dreams together. But for as long as I have loved Ashton, she could never quite love herself.” Nala pauses to glance down. Her fingers are grasped tightly together in front of her. “So this isn’t just for Ashton. I said goodbye to my friend a long time ago—this is for Brooklyn, the brother who saved us both time and again.”

I don’t look around, I don’t blink. I keep my eyes on Nala’s and will her to stop. Abort. Go back and say something else. Ever stubborn, she shakes her head once before she goes on.

“She knew you loved her, Brooks.
She knew.
You’re why she stayed with us this long.”

Goddammit
.

I clench my fists, wondering if I can press hard enough to keep myself immune to the emotions she’s forcing on me.

“I don’t understand why Ashton felt the way she did, and I can’t pretend to, but I do understand this: Ashton isn’t suffering now. She tried, for you and for me, she tried to beat her disease and win. But now we have to let her go; we have to remember her for who she was, the real Ashton who played pranks and braided my hair, who stole your drawing charcoals to make hopscotch patterns on the sidewalk.” Her eyes glow, streaks of tears marring her cheeks, but she never blinks, never chokes on a sob. “That’s our Ashton, and we said goodbye to her a long time ago. Now let her say goodbye to us.”

My mother is sobbing next to me, her arms around me, holding tightly. I don’t move to comfort her. I stay staring at Nala, pain coursing through me while I accept she’s right. Ashton stayed for me; she tried for me. Now, it’s time to let her say goodbye, to let her know I want her to be happy, no matter what.

Grief slams into me—heavy and consuming, everything I’ve blocked until this moment pummeling me over and over. I battle to breathe, understanding Nala is right; there is no amount of anger, no amount of blame or regret or hindsight that will change who Ashton had become. She needed something I couldn’t give her, and now… now she’s free.

But I am not.

Shifting my mother to her husband, I turn and walk away, retreating to the parking lot. I hear my name, but I ignore it, blind with pain. Whoever’s chasing me is persistent. When I get to my truck, my hands are shaking; before I can grip the handle, a small hand wraps around my bicep.

“Brooklyn.”

Jordan steps in front of me when I stay facing the truck, emotion churning inside of me and making me weak. I want to rage—more, I want to wrap her up close and let her take the pain away. I want to lean on her and know that I’m not asking too much.

My hands twitch and then fist, muscles going rigid while I stay still and stare at her.

Her hands cup my face, and her eyes—those warm caramel eyes look at me and see more than I can take. “Don’t drive. Let me take you somewhere.”

“I’m fine.”

My voice is rough, unforgiving, but she doesn’t flinch. “Brooks, what you’re going through… I want to help. You shouldn’t be alone.”

Now I do move. Reaching up, I take her hands and move them away from my face. “You can’t help, just like I couldn’t. She’s dead, Jordan. Being with people isn’t going to make me forget that.”

Her face pales, a quick draining of color that has me feeling like an asshole, but she doesn’t back down. “That’s not what I meant. Let me help you, Brooklyn. Let me be here for you.”

Knives slash my battered body, ripping at my already-bruised soul. “I’m leaving. Tomorrow,” I say, watching her realize I’m talking about something bigger than driving home right now.

Words form without thought and I let them come, speaking before I even realize what I’m saying. Understanding after that, it’s the only thing that makes sense. “I stayed here for Ashton. But she isn’t here anymore, and I have no reason to stay.”

Jordan latches those eyes onto me, the color deep with sorrow and hurt. “Not even one?”

Here it is. The moment I tell her I love her. The moment I reach out and tell her I’d go anywhere—do anything—for her. But the words stick in my throat. Images of Ashton telling me I ask for too much flash through me, bringing a fresh wave of pain. Harsh and clean—it will be better for her in the long run.