19. Day 365 – Theo
Day 365 – Theo
I ’ll be an hour.
Silencing Oscar’s call, I shove my hands into my pockets and keep walking. It’s been months since I visited the high street of Widow’s Peak at all.
Too many eyes. Too much gossip, and pity. Too many damned assumptions, when none of them know a single fucking thing about our situation.
Never seems to stop anyone talking, though.
Case in point—
“Theo, dear!” I half-turn at the shrill call, my jaw setting.
I’m not in the mood for a conversation. “Hi, Alice.”
She puffs, out of breath as she catches up to me. The jowls of her neck wobble in time with her movements like a turkey before Thanksgiving. “Those long legs of yours – goodness, you’ve grown since I saw you. It must have been a year at least—,”
“What can I do for you?” I interrupt without hesitation, my cool tone making her blink rapidly behind her thick, round owlish glasses.
A trembling hand splays across her chest. “Well, I just – I just wanted to say hello, really. And to ask after your father, since I haven’t seen him.”
Nosy bitch . I smile at her, and there’s not a stitch of humor in it. “Why don’t you ask my mother?”
Her mouth drops open. “Well, I—,”
“I’m in a bit of a rush, I’m afraid.” I turn around. “Good seeing you.”
I brush off the sound of her huff behind me as I keep walking. I pass the store, the bakery. The diner, and my feet slow slightly.
For a moment, I blink. I see a truck, the windows blown out. Hundreds of pieces of glittering glass shards spread across the floor. A group of people arguing. Yelling. An abandoned baseball bat.
A girl on her knees, her nose bleeding—
I blink again, and it’s gone.
But not forgotten. Not for a second.
Heads turn to me when I push the door of the diner open. Mick is behind the counter, still wearing the same damned grease-stained apron. The same music that we listened to a year ago echoes from the old jukebox. And the year before that.
There’s a strange sort of torture in that realization. That even when our world feels like it’s fucking burning , the rest of the world carries on.
Like they have no idea what they’ve lost.
I stride up to the counter, tapping my fingers on it. “That baseball bat.”
Mick blinks at me, his brain taking a few seconds to catch up. “Uh. Yeah?”
“If you still have it, I want to buy it.”
His eyes light up. “Hundred bucks.”
I almost hesitate. We don’t have that kind of money to waste—
This isn’t a waste. “Done.”
I have my card out, ready to pay when a high-pitched squeal comes from behind me. “Theo? That you?”
I’ve barely turned before I’m engulfed in a tangle of platinum hair and acrid, cloying perfume that burns the back of my throat. Arms wrap around my neck, gloss-slicked lips brushing my cheek.
My body turns to stone. “Get the fuck off me. Now .”
Kristen pouts as she steps back. My gut fucking shrivels as she eyes me. “You look… good, Theo. Real good. Where you been?”
Another reminder of my fuck-ups.
When she reaches for my arm again, I see red. My hand swoops out, knocking her wrist away. “Don’t touch me, Kristen. I’m mated.”
Her mouth falls open slightly before she tosses her hair, a smirk crossing her lips. “To that red headed freak? I don’t care about that. And neither did you.”
She has no fucking idea how much I cared. Even when I thought I despised every second of it. I grit my teeth. “Don’t call her that. Look – I’m sorry if I gave you that impression before. But I’m taken, Kristen. Happily so. Go find someone else.”
She gapes at me. “Seriously? Her ? I heard she’s in some institution or something—,”
The growl that ripples from my throat pulls the whole damn diner into silence. “Say another word about my mate, and we’re going to have a fucking problem .”
I fucking hate rumours. But Kristen Edwards has more than her fair damned share, and I’ll happily wield them on Kenny’s behalf. Including to her mother.
If she were here—
God, that hurts. It hurts so fucking much that I’m looking at Kristen’s stunned face instead of freckles and the sun. It makes me wonder how the fuck I’m still standing.
A cough behind me. “You want this bat or not?”
“Yes,” I snap. I shove my card in, paying as quickly as possible before snatching the bat and stalking out without saying goodbye.
I stop at the sight of the truck.
Oscar and Jake lean against it, watching me. My throat tightens. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“Find my phone.” Oscar folds his arms. “Wonderful invention. What’s with the bat?”
I look up the street. From this angle, the setting sun makes the head of the statue glow like some sort of fucking halo. “It’s not staying there another fucking day.”
Like an itch under my skin, I focused on the bigger problems. On keeping Kenny alive. On paying for her care. On learning how to survive an existence that feels like a punishment every single day. On trying to build the blocks of a broken life.
You don’t focus on an itch when you’ve been hit by a fucking truck. But it doesn’t go away.
And today, I need to fucking hit something.
Jake’s eyes gleam. He moves to the back of the truck, digging around in his tools and coming up with an axe. “Hell yes. I’m in.”
We both look at Oscar. His mouth twists as he pushes up his glasses. “Obviously. Is there anything in your kit for me?”
Jake tosses him the axe by the handle. “Take that.”
When he reappears, we both stare at the sheer fucking length of the metal tool in his hands. He hefts it in his hands. “Electric trimmer. What’s the statue made from?”
“No idea.” We start walking, the three of us wielding fucking weapons. “You think we’ll get arrested for this?”
“Maybe,” Oscar says absently. He twists the axe. “Class one misdemeanour for wilful damage of public property. Prison time is a possibility, but community service seems more likely.”
“It’s not public. Charles owns this plot.” And I’d love to see him try to get us punished over this. If there’s one thing he cares about, it’s his image.
If he didn’t, life would be a hell of a lot different for all of us.
We spread out in front of it. My brother’s face – my fucking face – with its golden gilding, stares down. Impervious and haughty, as if he’s taunting us.
My throat turns to sawdust, as if my work at the construction site followed me here. My voice sounds hoarse. “Why didn’t we see ?”
“We did see,” Jake says quietly. His face is troubled when we turn. “You know we did. We didn’t see what he did to Kenny – who the fuck would - but we knew something was wrong with Brett.”
“I thought it was… I don’t know. Growing pains, maybe. The challenge of growing into adulthood, of developing as an alpha. His dominance was always so fucking strong—,”
Because of what he was , I realize. Because he was feral.
“I should never have let him take her up there.” Regret sticks to me, cloying, threatening to drown me all over again. “I nearly said something. I stood in that doorway, and I didn’t want her to go. But I didn’t stop him.”
“None of us stopped him.” Oscar’s voice is low. “I was probably the only one who could have. And I didn’t stop him either, Theo. Keep some of that guilt for me.”
There’s plenty of guilt to share. But the rage that tightens my chest – that’s all for him. “I’d kill him if he was here.”
I’d bury him. Put him in the fucking ground and make him beg, and it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t fix things.
But maybe it would help the pain.
Stepping up to the statue, I grip the bat in both hands before swinging back and letting it fly. It smashes into his arm, knocking off a chunk of white and gold.
We all look down, through the dust. Jake pokes it with the toe of his boot. “Plaster with gold leaf.”
Cheap fucking bastard.
It makes it easier though. Oscar steps forward, his eyes blazing. His swing hits Brett’s other side, losing several fingers and sending a crack up his arm. “That felt… surprisingly good.”
Jake grunts. “I think I brought a mountain for a molehill. Out of the way.”
We step back as he switches on the trimmer. It cuts through the plaster easily as Jake shears a line down the side, knocking off his right arm and moving on to his left.
It takes a few minutes between the three of us. To smash Brett’s statue to pieces, using our boots to crush the plaster down until there’s nothing left of him but dust.
Borrowing Oscar’s axe, I hack the plaque off the wooden bench, turning it over in my hands.
In memory of Brett Rivers.
I wonder if he’s watching.
I hope you’re screaming , I say silently. Wherever you are, brother, I hope it fucking hurts.
Turning, I toss the plaque into the trash. He deserves nothing less than to be forgotten.
My breathing is heavy as Jake grips my shoulder. “You good?”
I brush off my hands and pick the bat up. “Yeah. Let’s go.”