My Secret to Tell Read online

  “Doubtful. Mom was less crazy before my brother left, and I still had this…problem. Maybe I was dropped on my head as a small child.”

  She grins. “That would explain some things.”

  I laugh, but I’m thinking about Deacon being in the office. I can still see his fingers sliding forward on my desk. My whole body coiled up tight. Was it obvious? Did he notice?

  “Hey, you haven’t said anything to him, have you?” I ask. “Anything about me, I mean.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “No chance. I love my brother, but he doesn’t deserve you. Aside from impromptu hookups with complete strangers—”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “All I’m saying is Deke doesn’t do relationships. Not really. Anything emotional and he just can’t. Not since Mom.”

  “I know.”

  He can’t do them, and Chelsea always wants one. Funny what the same grief can do to two different people.

  She smacks my arm lightly. “Omigod, did I tell you? He wrecked my freaking car! I mean, it’s not that bad, and I know it’s a piece of crap, but it hasn’t even been a week since his last ticket.”

  “I saw the bruise. He got a ticket at the wreck?”

  “No, for speeding. Eighty-seven in a sixty-five. They might take his license.”

  We turn onto Queen Street, finally catching some shade. I bump her shoulder lightly. “A brother with no license is better than a brother wrapping your car around a tree.”

  “Or one who hits the highway one night because he can’t take it anymore.” Chelsea catches herself fast, grabbing my shoulder. “Oh God, I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking about—”

  She wasn’t thinking about Landon. My brother. The former prince of Beaufort who left for Duke with a golden cardiologist future only to crash and burn nine months into his freshman year. Good-bye, college. Hello, shattered parents.

  “It’s okay,” I finally say, though it’s not. Talk to my parents for two seconds if you want to see how not-okay Landon’s “I need time to find myself” disappearing act is. They need to get over it, but it’s not like they have much chance with him never being here.

  “I can’t believe I said that,” Chelsea says, misreading my quiet for anger. “I’m so worried about Deke, I’m being stupid. I’m sorry.”

  I shrug. “You’re just scared for your brother.”

  “Yeah,” Chelsea says, slowing by the shelter. “I’m scared I’m going to lose him too.”

  Before her mom died, before Landon, maybe I would have told her that would never happen, but I know better now. Sometimes we do lose people. As bad as I want to reassure her, I know enough to keep my mouth shut and let her be afraid.

  “You gotta get in there,” she says. “Give my brother hell for that ticket.”

  “Call me tonight when you’re done?”

  Her slim brows pull together. “Done with what?”

  “Oil change? Joel’s picking you up at the repair shop at seven thirty.”

  “Oh crap, that’s right.”

  “Chelsea, you have got to get more organized.”

  “What for? I have you for that.” She sticks out her tongue and waves.

  Deacon wasn’t scheduled for this afternoon, but Chelsea was right about him being here. I spot his motorcycle in the back lot. Figures. He’s always good for an extra shift when he’s fighting with his dad. Or when a dit-dotter from the Midwest gets too clingy.

  I step inside and straighten the volunteer time sheets before I write myself in. Deacon’s the only volunteer I know who kept working after graduation, but it’s no shock. He and I have always been animal people. When we were in preschool, we constantly set up a veterinarian station on the picnic table in my backyard. We never had Band-Aids at my house, because they were all on Chelsea’s stuffed animals, especially the turtles. They’ve always been my favorite.

  I pass through a tiled hallway with rows of cat cages and the smell of fresh litter heavy in the air. There’s an “Adopted” sticker on Chester’s empty cage. I smile and take his old heart-shaped name tag before I head into the prep room. Deke’s not here either, which means he’s in the dog zone.

  I find him with Rocky, a ninety-pound Rottie mix missing half an ear. He’s a special-needs adoption, a deaf senior with that scary-dog look that keeps families walking. We keep him in the back on busy days, because too many squealing four-year-olds wear him out. Deacon’s sitting on the floor, rubbing Rocky’s shoulders—they get a little stiff sometimes and the massage seems to help. Rocky noses at the pockets of his faded jeans.

  “Nothing left in my pockets, Rock,” he says, switching to scratch his ears.

  Nothing left, but I’m sure that dog’s had a few smuggled shrimp from the boat today. Deacon always brings him something. And I always go soft at the edges when I see it.

  “Twice in one day. Lucky me,” Deacon says. He’s got an uncanny knack for sensing people behind him. Made water balloon fights a real pain over the years.

  “Did you hear the bad news?” he asks. “Dr. Atwood had to rescue a stray today.”

  “How is that bad?”

  “Well, you didn’t get to do it yourself.” He turns to smirk at me, and my insides do annoying fluttery things. “You’re one rescue away from a spandex outfit and a catchy name.”

  “Yeah, well, Chelsea thinks we’re both going to get bitten and catch rabies.”

  “Her paranoia is dependable. Remember when you went up that tree for the cat?”

  My breath stutters at the memory. “How could I forget?”

  Deacon chuckles. “Chels was screeching like a banshee. She kept punching my arm, telling me to call the fire department.”

  He didn’t though. He scolded her instead, telling her I was perfectly capable of climbing that tree. And then—the part I remember best—his hands touched my waist when I hopped down and stumbled. It was the briefest touch, just a graze to steady me on my feet, but I was a fourteen-year-old with a crush, and that half second is burned into my memory like a tattoo.

  “You still going to climb trees and save mongrels when you’re a fat cat lawyer like Joel?”

  I sigh. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

  “I just never thought the law thing would stick. You’ve always been an animal lover. You were going to save sea turtles, remember? You’d walk around with that damn lunchbox full of gauze and tape, looking for injured crabs. What did you call that thing again?”

  “The coastal critter kit.” I grit my teeth, trying to bite back my irritation. “There are practically zero jobs in marine biology. It’s not sensible.”

  “You could be a vet. There’s money in that.”

  “There are already plenty of vets in Beaufort,” I say. It’s true, but it’s not the real reason. But how do I explain that it’s not about money? My mom’s family is a sea of medical practices and law firms. It’s a legacy thing, and since the disappointing child slot in my family is full, it’s my job to fill the role.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to rile you up.” Deacon’s voice is low and tender.

  He doesn’t mean to do a lot of things to me, but he does them all the same. I reach for paper towels and a subject change.

  “I’m surprised you’re here,” I say. “Don’t you have an issue on one of the boats?”

  “I have an issue with my Dad riding the guys’ asses like a jockey.” Venom is injected in every word. “Figured I’d rather check on my favorite boy than deal with him anymore today.” He leads Rocky back to his cage and latches the door with a reluctant sigh.

  “He needs you, you know,” I say. “You’re talented with the mechanical stuff.”

  “According to Dad, my talent is looking pretty for girls who might buy tickets.”

  True, but he’s being a mule. I should say something about the ticket and the constant fighting. A
bout the way he’s trashing his future a little harder every year. I chicken out and wipe down an empty cage that I already disinfected two days ago.

  “You’ve got that look, Emmie.” Out of nowhere, he’s right behind my shoulder. His arm brushes mine. “You’re biting your tongue, aren’t you?”

  I laugh softly. “So hard that blood’s about to shoot out of my ears.”

  I turn to look at him. The air hums like power lines between us.

  “Go on and say it,” he says.

  “Say what? What can I say?”

  “Something,” he says, voice softer, eyes cast down. “Hell, anything. You’ve known me forever, haven’t you?”

  Our sleeves are touching. People don’t stand this close…I don’t think. I don’t know what this is. I’ve got a handful of cards, but I’m not sure what game we’re playing.

  I swallow hard. “I’ve known you long enough to remember when you weren’t so angry. When Chelsea and I didn’t sit around worried sick about what crazy thing you’ll do next.”

  He arches a brow. “Maybe you two need to get lives.”

  “Maybe you need to be a little more careful with your life.”

  His face twists into a scowl. “Like you, right, Emmie? Crossing every T and dotting every I.”

  My cheeks go hot. I don’t know how this became a fight, but his face is red and my jaw is so tight, my teeth hurt.

  He runs a hand over his hair and steps forward. Like he’s going to reach for me. Touch me maybe. “Emmie, I’m sor—”

  The door bangs open, sending all of the dogs into a barking frenzy. Deacon springs back in time for me to see cargo shorts, battered sneakers, and a stack of dog food bags coming through the door.

  Seth French. Incoming senior like me. Half-assed sprinter on the track team and my not-quite-but-almost boyfriend last winter.

  He drops the bags, and Deacon slinks away, palming his keys off a storage cabinet. The unspoken things hanging in this room make it hard to breathe, but Seth doesn’t notice. He just adjusts his baseball hat over his dirty-blond hair and winks at me.

  “Well, if I’d known you were going to be here, I’d have come earlier.” His gaze shifts to Deacon. “Hey, man.”

  Deacon barely glances at him. “Hey.”

  Ah, our little awkward triangle of doom. I’m crazy about Deacon, Seth’s crazy about me, and Deacon’s just crazy.

  Fantastic.

  “So, Sunday night,” Seth starts, flashing me his smile. It’s not a bad smile. Charmed me once upon a time, as Mom constantly reminds me. “Let’s go get burgers.”

  “Burgers?”

  “Yeah, burgers. Maybe some fries. If we’re feeling really wild, we could even commit to coffee at the Cru afterward. We used to do that. It wasn’t so bad.”

  I grin. Seth brings that out in people. He’s easy. Goofy. The kind of guy any girl should fall for. My mother fell for an easy, goofy guy. I flinch.

  And that worked out oh so well in the end, didn’t it?

  “Have I convinced you?” Seth asks.

  I like Seth. I don’t want to not be friends because I don’t see happily ever after every time he looks at me. Maybe dinner would be a good way to clear the air. Set things straight.

  “Help me clean out the darn cages and we’ll talk about it,” I say. I’m about to clarify that this is not a date, but then I see Deacon waiting at the door.

  He’s checking his phone, but I know him. He doesn’t care about his phone. He’s watching this, and I don’t like it. Maybe he thinks he has the right to know my business too, but he doesn’t. I don’t butt into his exploits on the boats, and he doesn’t have an all-access pass to my universe either.

  I shoot him a glare, and he heads out, the door clanging shut behind him.

  “So I’ll take it this Sunday won’t be a date,” Seth says with a meaningful look at the door Deacon just exited.

  I’ve got to give him credit. He’s not as oblivious as I figured.

  I snatch another paper towel from a roll and fold it in half. Scrub at a perfectly clean spot on the counter. “I’m not dating Deacon, Seth.”

  “No, but you’ve got that weird something vibe going on. It’s fine. I got the message when you cooled off last winter.”

  I quirk a brow at him. “Then why do you keep asking me out all the time?”

  “I don’t know. I like seeing you flustered? It’s a small town?” I make a sound somewhere between bewildered and outraged, and Seth laughs. “I do like you, Emmie. Friends is fine. Really.”

  I soften. “Are you sure? If we go Sunday, it won’t give you the wrong idea?”

  “It’s all good, I promise.”

  “Then Sunday it is.”

  Even after all day playing with dogs and mindlessly scrubbing cages, I’m still mad at Deacon on the walk home. The heat isn’t helping. The sun is low in the sky, but the wind feels too heavy and moist. It’s like walking through soup. I’m ready for air-conditioning. And a gallon of iced tea. My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out, grateful to see Chelsea’s name.

  Maybe she can explain why her brother is being a complete tool.

  I bring the phone to my ear and say hello. I can tell by the way she takes a breath—ragged and shaky—that something isn’t right.

  Chapter Two

  Present

  I pocket my phone and crouch on my bathroom floor, careful because he’s shaking. Shaking so bad. He’s been crying too. Tear tracks on his cheeks make my fingers itch. Our earlier fight is gone. There’s no irritation. Nothing but Deacon covered in blood and terrified into silence.

  “Okay.” I’m quiet and still. “I’m here.”

  I don’t ask what happened. It’s obvious he tried to help his dad—God, I can’t even imagine what that did to him. How he even got here. Chelsea will know the details, and she’ll fill me in later. For now, I have to get him back together. No one else really knows how bad he gets. Joel and his dad have noticed, but Chels and I are the ones who track him down. We clean up his scraped elbows and busted lips, and we have for years.

  I feather a finger over the side of his hand, and he flinches.

  “Hey,” I say. “This isn’t our first rodeo, right?”

  He doesn’t meet my eyes or respond. Just sits there, trembling on my once-white tile.

  I spot a bobby pin on the floor, pick it up, and drop it on the side of the tub. It tinks against the ceramic—the only sound between us.

  “I’m going to clean you up,” I say. “Then we’ll talk.”

  He looks at me with those eyes that steal my breath, even now, but he doesn’t speak. I don’t know what Deacon saw when he found his mom in the bathroom all those years ago, but this blood thing is one of the scars it left.

  I grab the first aid kit and some makeup wipes. There’s nothing but the drip of the bathtub and the sound of me breathing—fast, because Deacon’s staring now. I’m always nervous when he’s watching me.

  I clean his hands first. Most of the blood is on his palms. Did he have to put pressure on a wound? It’s…a lot. I clean from wrists to fingertips, using a makeup wipe to get the worst off. Everything’s pink-brown-red, but it doesn’t matter. It needs to be done.

  Next, I move on to the sterile wipes inside the kit. He’s mostly uninjured, but two of his knuckles are puffy and split, like he hit something. My stomach pulls tight looking at those knuckles. Did he fight back?

  I’ll ask when I’m done. I clean up his legs, his shoes, the floor. I’m careful not to miss a speck. His knuckles are the only injury I find, not counting the old bruise on his face.

  I pull out the antibacterial cream and squirt some on a cotton swab before I take his hand. He looks away, and it’s just like every other time I’ve done this.

  It happened first six years ago. I was ten. He was eleven. Scraped his elbow in a bik
e wreck. It was six months after his mom died. Lots of kids freak over blood, but this was crazy. Back then, I didn’t know how it all tied together with his mom. I just knew he needed help and he was scared.

  He was really embarrassed, so Chels and I promised to keep his secret. It was just a quirk in our eyes. Chelsea’s allergic to eggs. The color yellow gives me a headache. Deacon goes catatonic at the sight of blood.

  Two Band-Aids later and the knuckles are good. I place all the trash in the can and cover it with toilet paper folded into a neat square. Then I spot brown-red splotches on his shirt.

  I go to my room to find something else for him to wear. My hands are shaking as I flip through the T-shirts, finally settling on a Pirate Invasion freebie from two years ago. Back in the bathroom, he’s still in the same position, but his eyes and fists are clenched tight. Neither of us has said a word since I started cleaning him up. That had to have been half an hour ago. The clock reads eight forty-five, and my stomach drops away.

  Mom.

  She’ll be leaving work soon. I look around, a little frantic, grabbing wet wipes from my end table to clean the windowsill, the smear beneath the doorknob. Have I been careful enough? Because if Mom finds him here, if she sees this blood, she’s going to assume Deacon did something awful.

  I pause, taking a breath. Am I sure he didn’t? Banged-up knuckles and bloody clothes don’t look too goo—Stop. You need to stop. This is Deacon. He’s a lot of things, but violent isn’t on the list.

  “Deke, we need to get rid of that,” I say, pointing at his shirt.

  I offer my replacement, and he just blinks. I’m not sure he heard me—I never know when he’s like this—but then he tugs his shirt off in this easy, over-the-back-of-the-head motion.

  I’ve seen him shirtless countless times but never in my bathroom. Deacon’s worked on a boat after school and on weekends since he was a kid. Every inch of him is ultra-cut and ultra-tan, and screwed-up timing or not, I notice. I’d have to be blind to not notice. Still, I avert my eyes and fold his T-shirt neatly until it’s the size of a napkin. I drop it in the trash on top of everything else and tie the bag. Trash day tomorrow, so there will be nothing for Mom to see.