Page 99 of Whistle

My sister lost her life. She would never lose me.

That choice cost me a lot, but truthfully, I’d make it again.

Do the best you can until you know better. Then do better. I did the best I could at that time with the information I’d been given and my shattered world. When I learned better… I tried to do better.

I failed.

Sometimes you just can’t put things back the way they were. No matter how much you want to. Maybe if I hadn’t been so grief-muddled, I would have known. Known that there was no way in hell Jason Rush could ever kill my sister.

Brynne loved Rush. More than she should. And ultimately, that was her downfall.

Maybe I blamed him for that too.

Maybe if he’d loved her more—the way she wanted him to—Brynne would still be alive today.

That’s not fair, reason whispered deep inside me.

Pain rarely listens to reason.

The Corvette pulled away from the curb, and I stared at everything except the man driving. Gone were the easy insults, loud music, and stupid bets. My eyes moved to another place that would bring another bout of bittersweet nostalgia.

Brows pinching, I said, “Is this not the same car?”

Rush looked at me from the corner of his eye.

“The scratch,” I said, leaning forward to rub my finger over the leather on the dash where I’d scratched it one night when I’d been drunk. “It’s not here.”

“I got a new car,” Rush said, downshifting. “The last one was totaled. Don’t you remember our visit with Brittney?”

Right. I’d come to Westbrook during spring semester last year to tell Rush I believed him. To try and mend the relationship we’d lost. It hadn’t gone well at all. The second I saw him, red filled my vision and anger I thought I’d let go of reared its ugly head. All we did was argue and throw hurtful words at each other. And then Brittney showed up. My sister’s best friend. Well, apparently, she’d been here a while and no one knew. She also blamed Rush… We all had. She came for revenge.

“Your Vette was totaled?” I asked, thinking back. I hadn’t realized. But it wasn’t exactly like we’d had a civil conversation.

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. “I know how much you loved that car.”

“Not more than my family,” he replied like it was no big deal.

They were nice words. Words of a good man. A loyal man. They twisted inside me, mucking and muddying the clear thinking I wanted to have and needlessly reminding me I was an outsider.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Breakfast.”

“I said I’m not going to Shirley’s.”

“That’s not the only place in town.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am, and we need to talk.”

I fell quiet even though a part of me wanted to keep arguing. Guess it wasn’t as strong as the other part of me that wanted to talk. Like a real talk, without fighting. Like old times when he was my best friend. When I fit somewhere and with someone. Part of me still really wanted to repair the break between us. I ached to apologize, for him to understand why I had to side with my sister. I missed him. Our friendship. The loss of it cut me almost as deep as the death of my twin.

I didn’t know how to say any of that out loud, though. Whenever I tried, the words got jumbled. Why was it so much easier to be angry and lash out? Why was it so damn hard to ask for forgiveness?

Maybe you aren’t worthy of it.

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