Page 44 of Every Heartbeat After

He’s right. I did say that. And I meant it. But this feels important in a way that I can’t explain. All I can do is trust my instincts. “I’m going. No debate. No complaining. From me, that is.”

I expect him to argue some more. To put up a fight. But the moment the words leave my mouth, his entire body sags with relief. He ages in reverse right in front of me, going from a self-assured grown man to a young boy who’s just grateful to shuck off some of the weight on his shoulders. He seems fragile now in a way I’ve never noticed before. Breakable.

I watch as if it’s someone else’s hand that reaches out to cup his jaw, someone else’s thumb that smooths the edge of a sleepless bruise beneath his eye. But I feel him melting into that hand as if it were mine. The warmth of him, the strange familiarity leaves my palm stinging like it’s a once-sleeping limb now finally waking up.

The buzzing doesn’t stop even after I’ve dropped my hand. I gather the hem of my cotton shorts and hold on for dear life. My mind is struggling to catch up with my words and actions, and as I begin to grasp what I’ve gotten myself into, I feel the urge to spiral.

“So, now that it’s settled,” I say, swallowing back the nerves constricting my throat, “how about we check out that restaurant you mentioned?”

Uncertainty dances in his gaze as he studies me—checking for any sign of doubt, I imagine. Even if he sees one, he doesn’t let on. Eventually he sighs, straightens his spine, and gazes down at me with his best impression of a relaxed smile. “Sure. Dinner sounds nice.”

* * *

If I thought Kit was tense yesterday, this morning he is downright stressed-out. It’s palpable, leaving a bitter taste in the air of his rental car. I do my best to combat it with upbeat music and a hodgepodge of snacks I snagged from the pantry at the Carmen, but he doesn’t eat a single Teddy Graham. His back remains ramrod straight, his jaw set, for the entire drive. In fact, the only reason I know he’s alive in there is because I can see his chest rise and fall with every breath.

His foot finally eases down onto the brake pedal as we take an exit somewhere just over the border of Mississippi. A stilted drumbeat rattles from his fingertips onto the steering wheel. We roll to a stop at a blinking red light, and he glances left, then right, repeating the motion three more times despite no oncoming cars in either direction.

“Do you remember how to get there?” I ask, trying not to sound judgmental. I know it’s been a few years, but this town appears to be only slightly bigger than Fly Hollow. I could probably navigate to half the homes of my high school classmates, though I’d never have a reason to. Kit seems even more capable than me. So what gives?

His fingers still, and he crumples forward, head landing on his knuckles. “We have to go somewhere first. And I just— I need?—”

Some of the crackling energy dissipates when I settle my hand on his curved spine and begin long, steady strokes along its length. “Whatever you need, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” I say it with less confidence than I feel. Something big is upsetting him, bigger than just seeing his parents. I want to yank the burden off his shoulders, but I know firsthand how things like that cannot be taken. It’s something he has to give away. Piece by piece. Maddeningly slowly. Until at last, he can breathe again.

He draws a deep breath, and when he speaks, his voice is an octave lower. “Just promise you won’t ask any questions, okay?”

My mouth pops open, but I snap it shut, my teeth clacking together. I run my tongue over them. Swallow thickly. When the silence stretches too long to be comfortable, Kit glances sidelong at me, and I nod hesitantly.

“Promise,” I breathe. “No questions from the peanut gallery.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even exhale. He turns back to face the road, cranking the steering wheel to the left as we pull forward at last. We pass through a town not unlike my own, with old red brick and shotgun houses and railroad tracks that vibrate our bones as we cross them. After about ten minutes, the buildings give way to a tall chain-link fence topped with coiled barbed wire. He pulls up to a security booth, where a portly man with no hair on his head and too much hair on his upper lip leans out the open window and grunts a greeting when Kit rolls his down in turn.

I try not to listen, but I’m right next to him. When he tells the guard that he’s here to bail out an inmate, I grit my teeth against every question that bubbles to the surface.

We park in a cloud of dust kicked up by our tires in the gravel lot. Before he gets out of the car, Kit meets my gaze only briefly. When he squeezes my hand, I’m not sure if he’s giving strength or taking it.

He’s gone for about thirty minutes. Long enough for my bladder to be near bursting and my curiosity piqued. When the main door to the jail opens again, and Kit spills out of it, I forget to breathe. A man trails behind him, equal to him in height but far thinner. His black hair is shaggy, and his clothes—a T-shirt for a band I don’t recognize and dark-wash jeans—are equally so. He avoids Kit’s gaze, studying the ground like there’ll be a test later. Kit’s arms are crossed over his chest. Every muscle in his body is locked tight. This is Deputy Llewellyn. Kit as a cop for the Air Force. All the versions of him that existed long before our brief time together.

My window is cracked. Dust and Kit’s voice are carried on the breeze, both spilling into the car. Words like “disappointed” and “rehab” find my ears. Then, as Kit breaks stance to throw his arms around the other man, “baby brother” drifts in, tinged with heartbreak.

They part, and this anti-Kit slinks over to a beaten-up taxi I hadn’t noticed waiting. Kit watches it leave, then stands there for so long I’m convinced I’ll have to retrieve him. Just as I reach for the handle, he moves. His steps, which are normally so sure, carry him back to me like it’ll be their last act. He collapses into the car, slams the door shut behind him, and folds his arms over the steering wheel to catch his forehead.

I watch. And I wait. I don’t ask a single question. Not even,How are you?because I hated being asked that in the weeks that followed my parents’ deaths. Still did when each of my grandparents passed. I wanted to scream,How the fuck do you think I am?Broken. That’s how I was. And that’s exactly how Kit is now.

After what feels like a small eternity, his shoulders begin to shake. In the quiet of the car, parked in the lot of the Jackson County Jail, Kit Llewellyn lets out the most heart-wrenching sob I’ve ever heard. And I let him cry, the way I always wished someone would’ve let me.

ChapterSeventeen

Kit

Tess doesn’t aska single question. Not for the extent of my pity party. Not when I finally shift the car into reverse and back out of the parking spot over crackling gravel. I stop at the only fast-food restaurant in town, a burger joint that was once a McDonald’s that went out of business my senior year of high school. When it reopened a few years later, the new owners named it McNamara’s so the golden arches didn’t have to be swapped, only painted. Their last name was actually Sorensen. In fact, I have no clue where McNamara came from, but points for resourcefulness I guess.

Tess and I get out of the car in silence, order our food without looking at each other, and then she disappears into the bathroom with a muttered, “I’ll be right back.”

I shouldn’t have allowed her to come. What on earth was I thinking?

The truth is, I wasn’t thinking. It was pure instinct, primal and urgent, that held my tongue when she insisted on joining me. Because even if I knew this was going to be bad, I also wanted her by my side more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. The idea that I could walk away from my brother into the safety of Tess’s presence was too enticing to ignore. If I were a better man, I’d have told her to stay. But I’m not. Never will be when it comes to her, I’m afraid.

I collect our order, one greasy paper bag and two Cokes, from the acne-prone cashier. Tess waits for me by the door, right hand nervously working the hem of her cotton button-down. I hold out her drink, and she takes it without a word.

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