The Darkest Part by Trisha Wolfe

then snatch out the drawing. Sam’s jewel-like eyes, that’d I’d been trying so hard to capture, stare back at me, her mouth inviting—the moment right before I kissed her.
    I ball the drawing up and throw it in the trash.

Sam
    My eyes tear as I bite down on my lip, trying to cause physical pain to distract the ache gripping my heart.
    The words in Tyler’s journal are ripping a hole through me. I’m not sure I believe him now, that he couldn’t remember where it was. He didn’t want me to read it, to know this . I shift the paperback higher, hiding the journal between the pages, and read another line.
    He started writing it in middle school, and I had no idea his father . . . I can’t even think it. Anger tears through me, making my hands shake. How could their mother do nothing? How could Tyler, during all the years we knew each other, hide the abuse from me? How could I have never seen it?
    My mind drifts back, remembering every bruise, broken bone, missed school day, extended vacation, and I’m so ashamed at my selfishness. At my parents’ selfishness. Being so caught up in our own lives that we never saw what was obvious. But Tyler, even from a young age, was so good with words.
    He never batted an eye when I asked how he got hurt, just recited off a list of believable explanations every time. And he was a boy. I mean, boys get hurt. They’re rowdy and outgoing and tough . . . and now I feel like I’m just making excuses.
    I peek above the top of the book at Holden. He’s staring straight ahead, his fingers bouncing on top of his thigh to the beat of the music. He’s changed the CD, and we’re now listening to Radiohead.
    In the journal entry, Tyler writes about the time Holden got caught stealing a bike, and how their dad, instead of making Holden return it and apologize and then grounding him (like a sane parent would do), forced Holden to ride the bike for hours and hours. He drove his car behind him, beeping the horn whenever Holden tried to take a break, Tyler in the passenger’s seat.
    And when Holden was too exhausted to go on, their dad chucked the bike in the woods. Then he took a too-tired-to-defend-himself Holden home and whaled on him. Tyler says his dad never left suspicious marks, always inflicting pain in a way that could be easily explained away. He was involved with law enforcement before he became a lawyer, and he knew how to hurt without leaving evidence.
    My stomach lurches. Through the saliva coating my mouth, making it difficult to do anything past hurl, I manage to say, “Pull over.”
    Holden eases off the gas and glances over. “What’s wrong?”
    “Please.” I breathe through my nose and shake my head. “Just pull over for a minute.”
    “Hell.” He steers his truck toward the shoulder of the road, then pops the emergency brake and turns on the hazards. “Sit up,” he instructs as he slides across the seat.
    After quickly tucking the book and journal under the seat, I push myself up, and one of Holden’s arms slips around my waist as he pulls the door handle with his other hand.
    “I can walk,” I say, but he’s already lifting me into his arms.
    He bounces out of the truck and carries me a couple steps before setting me down on the grassy roadside. I slump to the ground, and he leans over, sweeping my hair from my shoulders and holding it against my back. Before I can protest, I bend at the waist, and the contents of this morning’s breakfast expel from my stomach with a harsh wretch. “Please don’t watch,” I get out before another wave hits.
    “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. “Did you eat something bad?”
    I shake my head, swallowing past the gag. “I don’t know.” But I do know. And I’m not sure I can ever look at him the same way again.
    After the last of my stomach is on the ground, I sit back on my knees. Holden brushes my hair against my back and then stands.
    “I’ll get you some water.”
    I rub my hands over my face, into