Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Read online

  She’s silent for a second. Then, “You and Boone have very little chance, I’ll be the second to admit that after you. But it’s not impossible, Melody. He needs to tell you the truth, and yes, he probably should’ve done so by now, but you need to know, at least, that he didn’t kill his son.”

  Shock is me. I am shock.

  My mouth hangs agape, unable to form coherent words. I can’t believe my PO is telling me this about one of her cases. “I didn’t think he did…” I exhale, my chest too heavy. “Even if he had, that’s not the why, Jacquie. Look, he had a child. A baby. A little being. And he died. That’s the worst kind of torture to bear. That grief…it has to be hell for him.”

  “It is,” she cuts in.

  “Right. I can’t fix it for him. I can’t ever make it right. Hell, I have so much messed up going on in my own life, I’m the very worst thing that could happen to him. He’s a great guy, really. And he’ll find the girl who will be what he needs in this life. She’s just not me.” I shrug my shoulders to myself, my body wholly taxed.

  “It’s solely your choice, Melody. That’s your right.”

  I feel like I’m being played somehow, but I don’t see Jacquie as the sneaky type. My own emotions are befuddling me. “Thanks. Listen, I’m not leaving Florida,” I lie, but as far as she’ll know, it’s the truth. “I just can’t hang around here anymore. I’ll be back in time for our regular meeting.”

  She sighs. “Be careful. I’ll see you next week. And, Melody, do try to do something different, like we talked about. At least let him know the reason. Don’t just disappear.”

  The line clicks dead before I can work up a response. I stare down at the phone in my hand like it’s a grenade. Waiting to explode and decimate me with the next call. It could be from Boone, and I still don’t have the courage to hear his voice. To tell him anything.

  “She’s all yours.”

  Jesse’s voice pulls me out of the lost moment and I look up. He’s smiling that devilish, panty-dropping smile of his. It pangs me the deepest that, everything we were and had, is over.

  And as difficult as that is to admit, there’s also some level of freedom in that knowledge. I have the right to choose my future.

  “Jess, how much do I owe.” I reach into my tote, but he holds up his hand.

  “I covered the remainder. Just hang on to the rest.”

  My chest tightens. I don’t want to owe him anything. “I should really pay—”

  “Mel, I’m not letting you. I know I screwed up…so much. Shit, I can’t ever make it right. None of it.” I hear my own thoughts about my situation with Boone in Jesse’s words. Do all addicts think we have control over people or events? That we’re all powerful?

  It’s just not true.

  But it’s even harder to make yourself believe the truth.

  Jesse rests his hands on the handlebars, leaning over them, closer to me. “I fucked up that night.”

  I shake my head, but he presses on. “Yes, I did. I fucked up big time. I wanted to make you mine so badly…I just couldn’t hear no, Mel. I was and am a desperate man for you.” He swallows, the hard knot of his throat moving up as if it’s going to choke him. “It’s just a pathetic excuse, really. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’ll damn sure work my ass off to earn it if you just give me that chance.”

  Holding his gaze, in this moment, I can look into our future. For a split second, the world stops on its axis, and the fates open a portal just for me. I see us on the road, some days happy, some days miserable. I see myself holding Jesse’s hand in the ER, each time worrying that this time he won’t pull through.

  I glimpse further still, to us arguing over ridiculous issues, me accusing him of spending the baby formula money on a bag of blow. The MC always there to remind me to be there for my man, he needs my support. And me, the junkie mom, barely making it to teacher/parent meetings, my kid giving me the same looks I gave my mom…

  And I’m tunneling.

  Back to the here and now, with Jesse offering me something that, had it not been for the past couple months, I might have accepted. But things did happen. Dar did die. Jesse did violate me, someone who I thought I trusted more than almost anyone else in this world.

  Nothing in my life is sure anymore.

  What control I thought I had, to stop people from leaving me, abandoning me, by me quitting them first—it’s pure deception.

  The only control I have is over myself. My choices.

  With a rock in my stomach, I place my hand over one of Jesse’s. Stare at our connected fingers. “I forgive you, Jess, and I love you, but it can’t ever be that way between us. It will break us.”

  Finally, I look up, and I see the resolve in his eyes. He understands. “I’ll still see you on the road.”

  It’s a question. A biker’s way of stating that we’ll remain friends. And I can’t picture my existence completely void of him. “Of course. I have some things I have to do first, but I’ll be around. We still have to celebrate you getting your full patch.”

  A bright smile lights his face. He turns to show me, for the millionth time, the MC patch that sports the Lone Breed’s rocker. And now, the prospect is gone. In so many ways.

  The message to Tank worked. My vote of confidence in Jesse’s innocence, my backing him, absolving him of any responsibility, is what the MC wanted more than Jesse and me to become an item. That was Tank’s wishful thinking.

  And in return for my testimony, Tank swore that no retaliation would be carried out on Boone for the attack on Jesse.

  It wasn’t an easy deal. But in the end, Tank wanted his prospect fully initiated more than he wanted revenge.

  For me, I got to right two wrongs. My conscience not completely clear, but less troubled.

  “All right, Mel. I’ll hold you to that.” He tosses me the bike keys with a tight smile. “I’m heading to Hazard for my official welcoming ceremony. Then…I don’t know. Just shout when you want to get up.”

  I nod. “I’ll be back there again soon. I still have some unfinished business to take care of.”

  I allow him to embrace me, maybe for the last time. His arms circle my waist, and I wrap mine around his shoulders. It’s not goodbye—but a chapter out.

  I watch him walk toward Tank as I squeeze the clutch and slam down the kick starter, cranking the engine of my new Breakout. Tank stares at me long and hard before a small smile hikes his face. I salute him as I drive away, one path already mapped out, destination known.

  Boone

  No sacrifice too deep

  DAY THREE.

  Starting over with sobriety…you’d think each time would get easier. Having done the dance before, it should be memorized. But it’s just the opposite.

  You have the tools, you know how to use them to make them work, to rebuild. But they feel a bit less effective each time you have to start the construction process all over. Like you’re dragging ass on the job. You plow through the motions, waiting for the moment everything springs into place.

  Guilt, it’s there. Blame, self-loathing, isolation—all accounted for. But those aren’t the foundation. They're the walls you use to barricade yourself inside, away from the world.

  My house has been doing a fine job of that since the day Hunter died. I got sober, I did the steps, I built the house, but I forgot about the doors and windows. And the foundation.

  Forgiveness.

  You have to be willing to forgive yourself in order to truly open yourself up to recovery.

  I know this by heart, have heard it repeated time and again at meetings. It just never felt relevant to me. As if by some magical element I’d be able to get there without having to enforce this one fundamental step within myself.

  It works for a reason—because it simply works.

  Whatever I would’ve found with Melody, had she stuck around, wouldn’t have lasted in the long run. I was trying to skip the biggest step to get there.

  With enough punishment, maybe I can find
redemption. Then maybe I’ll be willing to forgive myself. Until then, it’s best to let her go and move on. At least I know what I want now, and that’s something. It’s more than I had before.

  These thoughts swirl my head as I dive just a second too late, and the fist nails me in the temple. My world spins.

  Black covers my vision.

  Maybe tomorrow I’ll work on that foundation part. Or cutting some windows into the drywall. Or opening a door. And then maybe I’ll beg Jacquie mercilessly until she reveals Mel’s location. I’ll find her; but first I have to find myself.

  The foot to my forehead finishes me off.

  I’m thankful for the sleep.

  Melody

  Only when selfish hearts break

  NEW YORK CITY IS not my first choice of destination on a soul-searching quest—but for this particular journey, there’s one person who may help.

  Last I read in one of her emails, Sam moved into a brownstone in East Village near NYU. She made her wish of going to the college of her dreams come true. And I’m truly happy for her, but glad I took a minute out to skim through her letters before I tromped through the low country of South Carolina looking for her.

  I about shit when I saw her words in bold: New York City! Holy hell, that’s a long bike ride.

  Truth is, this visit is long overdue, so I summoned up the strength to make the ride. I left her hanging for too long, no word from me, no explanation for my sudden MIA, and that was a shitty thing to do.

  Regardless if I had a reason or not.

  I just wish I hadn’t taken off on a full-blown hangover.

  But Sam deserves to hear about Dar in person, not over the phone. Or in email, or a text. And I need someone who I can count on to give it to me straight. She’s the only other woman in my life I deem worthy of advice besides Dar—and I can’t lose Sam, also.

  Giving it some more gas, I push the engine of my new bike harder as I climb the bridge. The New York City skyline opens up around me, buildings piercing the fluffy white and blue, soaring higher and higher as I coast over the bridge. I didn’t think I’d even make it to the halfway point of this trip.

  I’ve always prided myself on the fact that I was a loner. A one-percenter. The road my companion, and all that jazz. That’s because Dar was always more a part of me than a separate person altogether. This is the first time since I escaped my hometown that I’ve traveled any real distance on my own.

  Even if I had to stop a couple of times—get a room, shake off the panic. Sleep, talk myself into continuing on—I’ve gone this whole trip solo.

  When it became too much—the cravings for a line, the need to lose all consciousness in a bottle—I about put down roots right in some little out of the way town in Virginia, just took up with this pintsized old lady who ran a bed and breakfast. Her husband had recently departed, and she asked if I wanted a job.

  I stayed a whole day there, helped her out, made some quick cash, and truly struggled with whether I wanted to leave. It’s the first time I didn’t know what I wanted. Would I stay out of fear or because it would be a smart, fresh start?

  Was I afraid that I couldn’t hack it out there on my own?

  Would I regret violating parole, being on the run forever? Avoiding Florida like the plague?

  It’s as if some alien set up shop inside me, turning and cranking levers in my brain, confusing the hell out of me. My own feelings and thoughts so foreign; I decided, finally, that if I didn’t yet know myself, then I couldn’t stop there.

  I had to keep going.

  And that’s a fucking scary thought; not knowing your own damn self. Your true wants, needs, fears. Out of every messed up thing in my life, I thought I had that one covered. But I’m discovering it’s the illusion, the idea of who I thought I was that I projected to the world.

  Not the truth of me—I wasn’t ready to look that deep. Not yet.

  Besides, the thought of never seeing Boone again frightened me—possibly more than the discovery of Hunter. Whether he can forgive me for bailing on him, though, I don’t know. I don’t deserve any forgiveness, or his empathy for my pathetic freak-out, but I still have to see him, to know he’s all right. Eventually.

  I just don’t know how to process all of it—that he’s mourning a dead child. How can two recovering addicts really help each other through that kind of pain?

  I need to get my head straight before I can move forward. But I want the option to do just that. For that maybe future for the both of us.

  After exiting the bridge, I swing a right down the first road I come to and make a pit stop at a gas station. I want to splash myself with water, wake myself up, get myself together somehow before I just show up at Sam’s front door.

  Dar and I checked out Manhattan once, to say we did. The memory is bittersweet. We stayed a couple of days in the worst hotel, this totally shoddy, dirty, little room. But we made it work. We always made it work.

  Nodding to the checkout clerk, I head to the back of the gas station. I barricade myself in the tiny bathroom, my heart palpitating out of control. Throwing the lock, I press my back against the door. Breathe in, breathe out.

  I can’t go a minute without thinking of her. And it’s becoming paralyzing. I don’t understand why I’m falling apart now—why not when she first died? Fuck it; I was in shock. It’s taken this long to finally hit, and hit like a mallet.

  Somehow, maybe, I have to stop seeking that elusive inner strength from her. Maybe I have to find it within myself. That’s what this solo mission is about. As long as I had her to follow my lead, I was strong, in control, brave. I feared nothing and no one.

  But in reality, she was my crutch. I’ve discovered I have a few of them. I depended on Dar to need me. As long as she did, I had a plan. Never more than our next stop, or the next score. I never planned anything long-term, but I could be strong enough for the both of us when it came down to it.

  Staring in the grimy mirror, I want to punch the girl looking back at me. Just reach right through the glass and strangle her. How could I fail the one person who counted on me the most?

  How could I not change the chain reaction before Darla’s domino toppled over?

  Simple.

  Because really, truly, honestly…when it’s all said and done, I don’t have the discipline that Boone does to find a new way of life. I only know one way; mine. Only it’s no longer working.

  With that gloomy thought, I leave the bathroom, buy a pack of cigarettes, and take off toward the one safe haven where I can crash and burn.

  Someone’s checking me out through the peephole. Then the door swings wide open.

  “Holy shit!” Sam’s arms surround me, pulling me to her petite body (she’s smaller than me, if possible) in a tight embrace that nearly crushes the breath from my lungs.

  I return the hug, inhaling her lavender scented shampoo mixed with the smell of paint thinner and some other acrylic paint smell. When she pulls away, she blinks to clear the fresh tears in her eyes, and I roll mine. Really, to prevent myself from tearing up also. But she doesn’t need to know that.

  “Surprise,” I say, fanning my hands around like I just poofed into existence.

  “No shit, surprise. What are you doing here?”

  I give a partial shrug. “Um, visiting you.”

  She laughs and shakes her head, her dark hair with strategically streaked blue bangs falls across her forehead. Then she smacks her hand right over it. “Oh, right, come in! Oh, my God, I can’t believe you’re here, Mel.” She waves me into her apartment, and before I’m even fully through the doorway, she turns and says, “Where’s Darla?”

  The question hits me like a direct punch to the gut. The little air left in my lungs after her hug completely depletes. I suck in a much needed full breath and don’t hold back. “Sam, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you before…but Darla—she died.”

  Sam goes sheet white. The blood drains from her flushed cheeks. Her thin mouth opens, closes, and opens agai
n, seeking words I know she can’t find. Somehow, she manages. “Sorry? Mel, what…why?” She shakes her head again. “Jesus. What happened? Are you okay?”

  I shrug off my pack and let it land on the hardwood floor. I haven’t even gotten the chance to look around, but as I seek the best way to spill everything to her, I take a quick glance. Paintings everywhere. Of her and Holden, of their trip—the one where they worked things out and somehow found each other again. It’s all documented in colorful paint along the brick walls, telling their story.

  And featured on one canvas, a painting of me and Dar. I can’t fucking believe it. I smile and head straight toward the canvas. “Is this the Bitchfits show?” I ask, reaching out to touch it, but then think better. Not knowing if her paints are sensitive to skin oils or some shit. I heard that somewhere.

  “Yeah,” she says, her voice too soft, fragile. “We had such an awesome time, I couldn’t not paint it.”

  “You captured her perfectly.” Darla’s standing beside me on the railing, all three of us with our hands raised in the air, our fingers formed in devil horns. Her frosty blue eyes blaze through the darkness of the painting, clear and capturing the scene, aware. Alive.

  I wrap my arms around my tightening chest and face Sam. “It’s beautiful. You have some mad talent, girl.”

  Sam doesn’t respond. She marches over to me and links her arms around me once more, and before I can even process it, I’m breaking down into sobs. No words. No explanations. Just acceptance.

  I cry until the pain consumes, becoming a living, separate entity that devours me, until it’s all there’s left to feel.

  Sam sets a cup of coffee in front of me on the small, rickety table. Her place is great; college kid chic. Cheap furniture and some just scooped right off the street corner. Holden’s engine parts—headers, gaskets, carburetors—turned into art along the walls. A mixed array of artsy and modernism turned Rom Com.

  This place is so them.