Page 100 of Heartbeat

“Because he was a fucking moron.”

My phone lit up again, and this time, we both ignored it.

“He had to show off. He just had to,” she continued. “And it got him fucking killed.”

“Marce.”

“I do not understand how you can just sit here and pretend like what he did was all right.”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“And what he did to you?” she said, raising her voice.

Another thing about Marcy Stevens. She cared very little about other people listening in or being bothered by how loudly she might be having a conversation.

“I get it, I do,” she said. “He was the one people were hopeless against, the one who commanded attention and had this…presence.” She raised both hands and closed her fingers as though holding a tennis ball in each of them, pressing as hard as she could. “But you, Tommy?” She shook her head.

I mimicked her, without realizing it.

“You’ve always been the single bravest person I’ve ever known,” she said, and it was the first time in my life I’d seen her tear up. “And he broke you; I can’t forgive that. I don’t know how you can.”

“I—”

“How can you not hate him?” she said loudly, quickly wiping her face as she leaned forward.

“I do,” I admitted. “Sometimes, I do.”

“But not all the time.” She said it as if it was some fault of mine.

I shook my head.

“Why?” She had a vulnerability in her voice I’d never witnessed.

“I just…I miss him more.”

She immediately broke eye contact and leaned back in her love seat, turning her head to the side and searching the shelves as though looking for a specific book.

I didn’t know how long we were silent for.

“I never blamed you, Tommy,” she whispered, still looking at the bindings on the wall. “It’s just so hard looking at you, sometimes. It’s your eyes…” She confessed it quietly, as though admitting some awful secret.

Liam’s eyes, was what she meant.

“I know.” I nodded. “I know, Marce.”

“I’m so sorry for what we did to you.” She looked at me with such rage, but I couldn’t tell who it was directed at.

I frowned. “You didn’t do anything to me.”

“Exactly. That’s what you get for being the brave one. People just assume you don’t need help.”

“I’m not brave, Marcy.”

There was nothing worse than feeling as though held together by duct tape while no one seemed to see it; or when they did see it but mistook it for cement.

But she smiled. For the first time, she smiled at me. “I hate what you did though.”

“I know you do.”

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