Chapter 2
SEAMUS
The kitchen scraps—celery ends, carrot tops, and kale stems that had been festering in the bottom of my kitchen compost for the past few days—landed on the dirt in my backyard with an unappetizing splatter.
That’s what happens when you spend five hours of the past four days at home. Or something like that.
Still, the girls didn’t mind. They came running. Hips sashaying, bare feet darting through the loose dirt.
Feathers flew as Princess Clucketta wing-jabbed Muffin to beat her to the pile.
“Easy, there’s enough for all of you,” I laughed.
But the laugh soured fast on my tongue. It felt empty and unused, like an ugly shirt stuffed in the bottom of a drawer. Undeserved, somehow, like it belonged on someone else.
I checked the girls’ feed bucket and water, then went over toward the side of the coop to collect the girls’ eggs, wincing at my elbow knocking the bruise on my side.
I hadn’t really laughed in what felt like a year.
Definitely not since that night almost a week ago.
I tried, every waking moment of every day, not to think about that night.
And yet it was the only thing my mind gravitated toward.
How could it not be, when it was all my fault?
For the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours, I took out my phone, pulling up the text Cassandra sent me yesterday. I had to brace myself against the side of the coop to read it again.
CASS: Thank you for staying with her. Will let you know when/if she wants to see you.
Then the next one, the one I hated most of all:
CASS: It’s not your fault.
My stomach drew into a hard, angry knot.
I shoved my phone back in my pocket and unhooked the lid on the side of the coop.
Of course it was my fault! Chelsea Kelly was laid up in that hospital bed while I was walking around almost entirely unscathed, save a couple of nasty bruises. Like it was any other day.
It was what always happened. The other person was harmed. I got away free and clear. I was spared for no good reason at all.
I took the eggs from the coop, grasping all five of them with one hand.
Normally, this was easy. But right now, I couldn’t think fast enough as images flew at me.
My fingers opened, the eggs slipping from my shaking hand.
I watched them fall, all five splattering onto the ground at once like little oozing grenades.
Goddammit.
I slammed my hand against the rough-hewn wood of the coop, jostling the whole structure. The chickens were all out in the yard; still they squawked in protest.
But nothing could stop the onslaught I felt each time I thought about the crash. Not the splinters in my hand, not the ache in my side. The memory was so painful I crouched down, putting my palms to my forehead. The worst part wasn’t the crash.
It was Chelsea.
Chelsea in the passenger seat; her smile a little sloppy with drink. Her brown hair waving around her face, curling softly against her collarbone. She had a freckle on her neck, right where her pulse flashed.
“Fuck!” I shouted. More squawks from the birds.
At least there was no one else nearby to hear me losing my shit.
I lived at the end of a dirt road high up in the hills on the south side of the Quince Valley; my nearest neighbor was a full mile from here.
Did this feel worse than Kevin? Right now it felt just as bad. Kevin was years ago. This was days ago.
I scooped the mess of eggs into my palm and tossed them into the trees.
What I really needed to do was talk to Eli.
I’d tried to right away, in the ER, but he’d been beside himself, him and Cass and Jude crowding around Chelsea’s side.
Later, in her room, he’d been so withdrawn, I’d tried to talk to him and he’d reared back like an angry dog.
So I’d stayed until Cass insisted I go home to sleep.
Now, the further away it got, the harder it was for me to think of what to say to him.
I hurt your sister, Eli. Irrevocably. I didn’t mean to, but that’s just the way it is with me. People around me get hurt. They die. And I come out clean.
That wouldn’t make sense to him. An I’m sorry would be better. But those words were hollow as hell. I didn’t know what to say to Eli. Maybe I never would. Maybe I’d lose him too—the best friend I’d ever known, who’d been with me through everything.
I felt sick at the thought. I turned around, grasping my hair and gazing out in the direction of the Quince Valley.
The gazebo.
I’d bought this piece of property with money I’d saved from working all through my teens at Reilly, and with the money mom left me when she passed.
I’d wanted a place where I wouldn’t be disturbed.
Quiet. Alone. And I wanted to be able to see the Quince River.
It looked like the property ended where the trees thinned out with this view, but it didn’t.
Fifteen feet down a steep path there was another stretch of grass, about 250 square feet, shaped loosely like a wide-based triangle.
It ended in a sharp cliff at the apex of the ridge.
This was my favorite place. It was where I liked to go when I wanted to truly hide.
It was where I went when I needed to remind myself of why I existed the way I did.
Solitarily. Head down, focused on building up Reilly and Sons.
Avoiding anything resembling a real relationship—making sure no one got too close.
Doing penance for Kevin.
I both hated and loved it here.
I looked out over the ridge, considering, not for the first time, if things would be better if I just shrunk into this land. If I put up a giant fence with a lock on it. Became a recluse: that weird old man kids told scary stories about.
But I couldn’t do that to Pop. I had to keep going with growing the business.
I had to build something he could finally admit was good, even with only one son working with him.
I sighed, heading back across my property.
He couldn’t stop me from doing some paperwork here in my home office.
Fine-tuning my already fine-tuned proposal to Cass, even if it never saw the light of day.
Put this damn business shirt to good use.
A rumble sounded—an engine, coming up the dirt road.
My stomach lurched. As Eli’s truck with its distinctive red stripe down the side came into view, it hit me that I knew this was going to happen.
If I didn’t go to him, he’d come to me. A spasm of nerves danced through me as he cut the engine. This was good. This needed to happen.
I wasn’t sure what I expected to see on my best friend’s face as he jumped out of the truck, slamming the door behind him. Rage. Betrayal, maybe.
I saw neither of those. What I saw was Eli distraught, his features pulled into a grimace, his eyes red, his cheeks wet.
I was so shocked I stopped in the middle of the wide field.
I’d seen Eli cry before, but not like this.
The last time I saw Eli cry like this was at his Mom’s funeral, and once, when we were really and truly shit-faced, about his wife—and their messy divorce.
The times before that were when we lost the little league championships, and when the little sparrow with the broken wing we rescued when we were eight years old died. That was it.
But he was crying now.
And he was storming over here. “Seamus!” he yelled.
I didn’t move.
He came to a stop in front of me. His whole body was rigid. His chest heaved.
Mine tightened with pain. “Eli,” I began. “I’m… I’m so fucking sorry.” My voice cracked.
Then Eli pulled his arm back. I knew what was coming here, too. I could have dodged it. Eli was too hot with anger to be precise about anything.
But I didn’t. I needed it.
I leaned forward, angling my face sideways so he’d land his punch square.
He hesitated, his fist wavering.
“Do it!” I yelled. I surprised both of us, I know.
I could see that pissed him off more, me controlling this. But it worked. He hit me in the side of the mouth.
Eli wasn’t a small man. My jaw cracked painfully under his fist, my whole body swinging sideways. Blood spilled as my lip split.
But it felt good. The pain ripping through me was the first thing that felt good in a long, long time.
I faced him, pressing my hand against my jaw to crack it back into place. “Do it again,” I spat.
Eli shook his head, tears streaming. “Her face…” he said. “My baby sister’s face…”
He spread his fingers and re-closed his fist. Then he swung again.
This one hit my chin. Pain zinged across my skull. More.
“Again!” I shouted.
Eli raised his fist a final time… then lowered it. His shoulders sagged as he collapsed into a sob, holding his hand out in front of him. “No!” He shouted. “It’s not your fucking fault!”
“It is,” I shouted back.
But Eli wasn’t taking the bait again. He looked in my eyes, and fuck if they didn’t make my stomach clench with more guilt.
“No, man, it’s not.” Then he threw his arms around me and hit my back with his fist. One, two, three hard hits.
I held him there for a moment, my own throat thick with tears, my jaw throbbing. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I was trying to protect her…”
“I know, bro,” Eli said into my shoulder. Then he pushed off, shoving me aside. He leaned down with his hands on his knees. “I can’t believe you made me hit you.”
I cracked my jaw once more and sank down onto the grass, thumbing the blood off my lip.
Eli dropped down a few feet away from me and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, his elbows resting on his knees. “You need some ice,” he said, without looking up.
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t push it.
For a moment, we just sat there in silence.
Despite the adrenaline still shooting through me at the punch-up, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia.
We’d been in this position a lot as kids.
We’d tussle over something and then collapse into a mutually apologetic silence.
Sometimes we’d just be quiet together. Other times we’d talk about what was really going on with us.
Our parents—both of ours were around back then. School. Girls.
Eli had a lot to say about girls.
Whenever he asked me about them, I’d mumble something about how there was no one I was interested in.
He always knew when I was lying, though.
“I see the way you stare at her,” he’d say about whoever my current crush was. I’d deny it, but my cheeks would go hot every time. I had just as many crushes as Eli. I just didn’t go on and on about them.
Sometimes, Eli would ask me about my older brother.
I’d shrug and swallow down the burning in my throat.
“You never talk about him.”
“That’s because there’s nothing new to say,” I’d throw back. Because what was there to say? My brother Kevin’s picture hangs over our mantle, and every night I know if I go downstairs I’ll find Mom sitting in the living room, staring at it, her hands white-knuckled on her rocking chair.
At her funeral, everyone said the same thing: She died of a broken heart.
Eli picked at the grass under him, just like we used to do when we were kids and trying to work through something tough.
After a few minutes, I knew I needed to say something about Chelsea. But all I managed was, “How is she?”
He took a long time to answer, looking over to my cabin, with its painted wood siding and black trim, which he helped me fix up last year. The low wood porch and the hammock I strung up between the two posts. Then he looked back at the grass. “She was so beautiful.”
I know. I know better than he thinks I do. But I just nod, noncommittally.
“I worried about her; about guys taking advantage of her. About her getting into trouble because of her looks. Now—” Eli trailed off. Then his face crumpled into a grimace and he buried it in his hands.
He was crying. Shit.
Maybe I should have gone over there and clapped him on the back, told him something comforting.
But instead I sat there, stiff and, inexplicably, with a spike of anger running through me.
I wanted to tell him she was still beautiful.
I’d seen her in the hospital bed. In my mind, nothing had changed, except for what I’d done.
But did Eli know I’d kept vigil that night?
That after Cass took him home I’d stayed by her bedside, promising Cass I’d text if Chelsea so much as breathed differently?
I bit my cheek to keep from saying any of that. “She’s not ruined,” I said instead.
When he looked at me, I couldn’t read his expression.
Then he nodded. “I know. I know that. She just… she was so damn self-destructive. I’m not even sure this will scare her straight.
What if she gets worse? What if some asshole takes advantage of her now because she thinks she can’t do any better? ”
“Don’t you think she can take care of herself?”
“Not really. You saw what happened. Christ, thank God you were there. I should be thanking you. You were the one trying to get her home safe.”
My stomach plunged as I thought of the way I was thinking of her earlier.
Eli had been right to punch me. If he knew how I’d been thinking about his sister that night, and worse, now even after everything that had happened, he’d have every right to kick the shit out of me.
Maybe he was right. Maybe Chelsea did need to be protected—from me.
But I didn’t have a chance to say anything more because just then the rumble of another vehicle sounded, popping gravel out on the road. Confusion hit me as I tried to think who it might be now. We both looked up to see a red Jeep turning into the driveway.
That was Jude’s car.
Eli’s brother was the last person I’d expect to see here.
He hopped out, sprinting over to us. The guy was fast. I remembered, inanely, that the press used to call him Jumping Jude on the tennis court.
His signature move was where he’d sprint toward the ball, fast enough you almost couldn’t see him move, then he’d jump the last few feet, lobbing the ball so hard and fast his opponents barely had time to react.
“Eli!” Jude exclaimed, running in between us. “What the hell did you do?”
I guess it looked bad—we were both on the ground. I had blood on my face and Eli’s knuckles were raw.
“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s—” I was going to say it was over, but before I could think of the words, they dried up in my mouth.
Jude hadn’t come alone.
There, opening the door to the Jeep and gingerly slipping out, was Chelsea Kelly.