Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (31 page)

I drop Nala’s hand and wrap my arm around her shoulders instead, closing my eyes when she turns her face into my chest and sobs. “Goddammit, Brooks, why did I leave her? Why didn’t I stay and help?”

I shake my head, pulling her closer. “You had to take care of yourself, Nala. And it wouldn’t have mattered. We both know that. Ashton didn’t want to be here.” The words hurt, but I know how true they are. Whatever happened, however much I miss my sister, I know way down deep that she never got better because she wasn’t able to. “Being here… it was too hard for her. We both know that.”

“I hate it,” she says, her voice small. “I hate that she left before I had a chance to tell her I’m sorry. And that I love her.”

I look out to the water, a small peak of orange starting to rise in the horizon, and my heart aches when I think about my sister in another place and time, her body rising from this Earth like the sun. “Me, too.”

We watch the sunrise together, never moving when surfers come to claim their waves. When one of them eats it after showing off for the last ten minutes, I feel Nala gurgle out a small laugh, and I know we’re going to be okay.

Not right now, maybe not for a long time, but eventually, we’re both going to be okay.

“I love you, Nala. I need you to know that. I promise I’m not cutting you out.”

She nods, giving me one last squeeze before she pulls away. “I know. You deserve to go, Brooks. Don’t feel like you’re letting anyone down—even Jordan. She would understand, you know.” I look away from her, back to the water.

“I know—I just don’t know if I can be for her what she deserves. I can’t fail someone again, Nala.”

She doesn’t chime in and tell me I didn’t fail Ashton; it’s not because she doesn’t love me, it’s because she understands. And she feels the same way.

We stand and she walks to my truck with me. Reaching inside, I grab the picture and hold it out to her. “Will you give this to her for me?”

I wrapped it in brown paper when I was rewrapping all of my canvases for Hunter. Nala stares at it a second before grabbing it and nodding.

She doesn’t ask, and I’m grateful. “Be safe, Brooklyn.”

I nod, reaching out to hug her one more time. “You too. Call me—for anything. I’m always here for you, Nala. I swear it.”

She grips me tight and then steps back, wiping at her eyes again until they are clear. “I’ll keep an eye on everyone for now, Brooks. Go ahead and take time for yourself. We’ll all be okay.”

I pull away from the water and watch Nala in my rearview. My sister at heart, she stands with the portrait against her chest, the rising sun at her back, and her eyes clear and bold as she waves goodbye to me.

Turning my truck east, I head toward the freeway and away from the only place I’ve ever known.

Chapter 49

Jordan

Brooks left me a photo. It’s of me on our day at the beach together after his first confrontation with Mason. I’m smiling—because however confused we both were, however angry at the twist of fate that would put my brother in love with his sister, we were happy.

At least, I was happy.

The picture shouldn’t be anything special. I’m reaching to cover his lens again, but I don’t make it. Even with my hand up, he managed to get my face, my smile, the laughter on my lips and in my eyes. We had just walked up from the water after he’d jumped in holding me.

I was wet, a little cold, and a lot happy.

It makes my heart hurt to see, but I can’t put it away. It sits on my desk, and every now and then I pick it up and turn it over, reading the words he scrawled on the back in his half-cursive, half-print.

You don’t need a list.

I have read those words a hundred times in the past few weeks. Somehow, I know without asking what he meant. The picture, the reminder—I’m happy. Though I want to say he is a big reason for that, he’s not the only one. I’m happy because I have found the place, and the people, who make me believe in myself.

I’ve even found a balance with my own family, though it will never be the relationship which includes days at the beach, or short notes of support.

A week after I dropped him off at home, Mason showed up at my dorm room. His face was clear, his eyes dark, but not bloodshot. He was still thin, less confident than normal. Losing someone the way he lost Ashton, whatever his role, is bound to make the day-to-day act of eating impossible.

“Want to take a walk?” I asked after an awkward moment of silence.

He nodded, grateful for the lifeline I’d thrown him. We walked through campus, stopping at one of the benches on the edge, overlooking the beach.

“I loved her. Maybe what I did was wrong—maybe I’m the reason she’s dead, but I need someone to know I loved her. More than anything.”

My heart ached a little, because however naïve Mason had been during his relationship with Ashton, he didn’t deserve to carry around that burden. “You didn’t help her,” I said. “But you weren’t the reason she died, Mase. And I don’t think you would have been able to save her, no matter what you did.”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

I didn’t answer, because it was the truth. Ashton was gone, and there were always going to be questions as to how we could have done things differently, saved her, made her life last longer if not for as long as we wanted.

“Can I ask you something?” He nodded. “Did you know? How sick she was. Did you know?”

He hesitated just long enough for me to clench my hands together. “Not really.” The heartache was apparent then, the helplessness. The betrayal. “I knew there were things wrong, but she’d always been thin. I met her last year—she was happy, ready to party, ready to have a good time. The more time I spent with her, the more I wanted her. At first, I couldn’t see anything but her—it was almost instantaneous. It seemed the same for her. But the more we were together, the more I could see something wasn’t right.”

He shook his head, looked down at his feet. “When she mentioned her family, I figured it was the same thing that was wrong with me: not being enough. After the night we saw you, I realized it was more. I tried asking, but she withdrew. The day at the beach, when her brother punched me, she wasn’t with me because I’d woken her up and asked her. She didn’t talk to me for three days. I nearly went out of my mind.” Mason shook his head.

“It might be wrong, but I apologized and promised her I would take care of her, never ask again. I just wanted to love her,” he says. It didn’t sound trite or pathetic the way he said it. It sounded real—more real than anything I had heard him say in a long time.

“You did.” Mason looked over at me, his beautiful eyes dark and heavier than I’d ever seen. “Whatever you did wrong, you did one thing right: you showed her you loved her. I saw it,” I told him. “That first night at the party, even when you were both drunk—I saw how much you loved her, how badly you wanted to take care of her. I bet she saw that too.”

The quiet consumed him for a while. When he finally stood, I stood with him. It wasn’t until we were almost back at my dorm that he spoke again.

“I’m leaving. Today. I’ve already packed, already withdrawn myself from classes and such. Mom talked to the Dean. I’m getting time off for bereavement.” He gave a small smile—however difficult it is to live under the powerful force of Regan Henderson Richards, there were also perks. Leaving school in the middle of the semester without failing grades is one of them.

“You always were her favorite.”

I said it as a joke—something to lighten the mood. He didn’t laugh. Instead, those eyes latched onto mine for the first time in forever. “I wasn’t her favorite, Jordan. I was just the one she knew needed the most help.”

His words shouldn’t have hurt, because they were true—I never needed help. But I did need support. I wonder if Mason felt the same way I do in some twisted way—if he wished he could have my role in the family and slide to the background only to be taken out and shown off occasionally.

“I hope this helps—leaving, starting over.”

I meant it. Mason has a long way to go, for himself. He’s not an addict—he’s someone who partied because he could. He created an image and he lived inside of it for longer than was wise. Now, parties and being a playboy aren’t who he wants to be—if only because our father won’t tolerate it and the days of floating on Mom’s generosity have come to an end. Discovering who he is, what he wants, could be just as tedious as giving up who he has been.

“Me too. Mom said to tell you we’d be in Malibu for Thanksgiving. She expects you to be there.”

“Of course she does.” I wanted to say
no
, to ignore the demand and take the childish route—but that’s exactly what it would have been, childish. My father’s words from the night of Ashton’s funeral made me realize two things: we were never going to be an emotional family, which meant I had to stop thinking emotionally when I was faced with them. And standing up for myself meant not ignoring and avoiding my mother.

“I’ll be on time. Punctuality is the one trait she gave me instead of you.” Another joke that was met with silence.

“See you then.”

He left, no hugs and no sentimental statements. I wouldn’t have known what to do had he made any. Now, it’s a few days until Thanksgiving, and though Nala invited me to spend the holiday with her and her mom, I’m committed to seeing my family in Malibu.

The door to our room slams open, and I glance away from the words on the back of the photo to Nala, who stomps in and dumps her things on her desk chair, her phone at her ear.

“I already told you I’ll be with my mom. Just like I already told you to go back to your life on tour. I’m fine, Malcolm. Stop fucking babysitting me.”

Whatever he says on the other end has her rolling her eyes. “
Stop it
. Right now. We both know you should have left already—like weeks ago. Hunter is here if I need anything, which I won’t. Don’t forget I’ve been fine without you for the last five years.”

I wince, but I don’t let her see it. However much Nala hates that Malcolm is here, I think it has less to do with annoyance and more to do with the fact that he isn’t who she has allowed herself to think he is. At seventeen, Mal walked away from her because he was scared; she was young, he was young, neither of them were ready. Nala wrote him off as heartless.

Every day since he returned for Ashton’s funeral he’s been there for Nala. Bringing her lunch, getting her surfboard fixed, putting gas in her Jeep. He’s ignored every scathing remark she’s made, every snide comment, and he’s stuck by her.

Now, though, she’s being purposefully cruel, because the longer he’s here, the harder it is to think of him as anything but the boy she loved.

I know just how she feels. Just like I know how Malcolm feels.

When she half groans, half screams and throws her phone onto the bed, I wait.

“Why can’t he just leave like he always does? Why does he keep pestering me?”

My smile is sympathetic. “Because he’s worried about you.”

“You’re worried about Brooks—you aren’t stalking him.” The minute the words are out, she winces. “Sorry. I’m feeling bitchy. I didn’t mean that.”

“Well,
I’m not
stalking him. But Brooks and I are different. We don’t necessarily have the connection you and Mal do. Or the history.”

She waves her hand at me and flops onto my bed. “Please, history or not, your connection with Brooks is strong. Don’t ever think it’s not. He needs this,” she says, the tone of her voice changing.

I nod, because I understand. However much it hurts not to talk to him or see him, to be able to just be there for him, I
understand.
Brooks needed to run, and I had to let him.

“Just like Mal needs to stay and take care of you for a while.”

Her face doesn’t darken like I fear it will. Instead, her eyes water, and suddenly, Nala is no longer angry, no longer annoyed. She is devastated.

“Oh, friend, what’s going on?”

“He needs to leave. I can’t take it anymore. Being near him… having his attention. It’s too much.” She wipes furiously at the tears sliding down her cheeks. “I lost Ashton a long time ago—but it hurts that she’s gone. When Brooks left, I stayed strong because he deserves this. I left him once, too, I got away and figured my shit out. It’s his turn. But Mal…” she trails off.

“But Mal
what
?” I encourage.

She sits up and sniffles, wiping her cheeks with the wrist of her hoodie. “I was devastated the first time he left—and every time after for years. Whenever he would come home, it was like I could breathe again. Then he would leave and I would be suffocating. When I discovered my feelings were unreturned, it was worse. Now… I’ve learned to live without him. I know he’s going to leave again, and I need him to do it before I start to depend on seeing him every day, and hearing his voice.” She stands and shakes her hands out, physically pushing away the emotions. “I need him to go live, so I can get back to life without him.”

I watch her while she grabs shower stuff and leaves. I stare at the door, barely seeing anything I’m so lost in my head. Nala is suffocating, drowning under the realization that what she feels will always be a part of her. I think of Brooklyn and all he made me feel, and I wonder if he’s ever coming back, or if I’m going to feel this aching emptiness forever, like my friend.

Chapter 50

Brooks

FIVE MONTHS LATER

The springtime wind is picking up. The hill where USD resides is barely protected, and my hair is doing its best to whip free from the rubber band I tied it back with. I ignore that and the few people milling around. Behind my sunglasses, my eyes are searching.

The spot I’ve chosen is on the perimeter near the courtyard and fountain. I’m under a tree blooming with purple buds. The branches are moving with the wind, and though the courtyard is not empty, no one stops and lingers to sit in the sunshine or eat, which makes me grateful for the wind.

A sudden deluge of people from the surrounding buildings tells me class just got out. Nala, though surprised to get my call this morning, was also helpful. I expected her to be angry about the nearly six months of silence, but when I called, she answered and allayed all of my fears with one statement.