Page 11 of Silent Is The Heart

Jason must have opened it. I know it. I don’t want to know it, but I know it’s the only conclusion.

“Grace, I didn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear it. I’ve been through enough. My son provided you with a good home. With an exquisite life. I don’t know what you’re doing to throw yours away, but I will not let you tarnish his name. Take care of this. Immediately.”

I’m not sure how long I stare at the silent phone or what I think doing so will accomplish. Damaged is no longer an accurate description of what I am. I’m just breathing. Nothing more. I don’t know how I’m still breathing when everything in me feels like it’s given up. I have nothing left. Neither physically nor emotionally. A step beyond drained.

Shuffling across the hardwood floor of the small living room, I bump into the few boxes that George and I hauled inside. The house is so empty the scraping of my feet echoes off the walls. Somehow, my body musters the strength to flop the spare mattress away from the wall that Mom and Dad gave me. It lands with a resounding thump, shaking the floor, where I collapse onto it in a heap of hot tears.

How is this my life? How can any of it have happened?

How much does he owe? I’ve already sold and paid everything I possibly could. I’m driving a rusty, fifteen-year-old truck that was a rent-to-own sale from a dodgy dealer in Seattle, for crying out loud. There is no more meat left for vultures to pick from my bones.

For better or worse.

For rich or poor.

No one emphasized just how bad‘worse and poor’could be.

CHAPTER 7

Easton

“What the fuck do we need that for?” I ask, taking the picture frame Wolf thrusts at me.

“It’s cool.”

Snorting, I roll my eyes. The image shows us smirking and posing with our arms crossed over our chests. Punks. We were such wannabe punks.

It was taken the summer we met, so I was still scrawny as hell having just busted free from Hampton Hills. It definitely needs to be burned.

Thrusting it back at him, I make sure I have his attention in case he needs to read my lips. “You’re fucking delusional.”

Nostrils flaring, he heaves a sigh, making me chuckle. I take pride in being the more difficult friend, but he certainly pulls his weight carrying part of that title. “It shows where we came from, that we’ve been together for years. It helps prove we’re a trusted establishment and shows part of our story. People like stories. Something they can connect with.”

Now, he really is delusional. Ourstory? How much did he smoke today? I know he doesn’t like his story as much as I don’t like mine.

Still… I feel a twinge in my chest over his sentimental, if not ridiculous, logic. We have been together for what feels like forever. Eight years feels like a lifetime ago.

My hair was still short in the photo, but starting to grow out from the stupid haircuts they gave me at Hampton Hell. Wolf is grinning like he just felt up a girl for the first time and standing in front of the old motorcycle his mom’s ex-boyfriend, Jasper, helped him fix up.

He was so proud of that thing. Shit, we rode it everywhere. It was love at first rumble for me, feeling it between my legs and the wind on my face. I thought I’d be scared to drive after the accident with Mom. Thought I’d be terrified of wiping out and shattering my leg, even though it had healed decently by then. Neither deterred me once we hit the open road, and Wolf let loose. Maybe it was the thrill of knowing turmoil could be the end result, couldstillbe the end result each time I hop on my own bike now. It was a big fuck you to all the ugly fears I had when I was holed up in that shithole, all the fears I had each time I knew Leonard was coming home.

I shared all my firsts when taking my new life into my own hands with Wolf. So, yeah, in a way, I’m sentimental too. Still, I don’t see why the hell anyone at this stupid festival we’re planning to set up a booth at for our tattoo shop needs to see this shit.

“No way, man,” I grumble.

Rustling through a box of old design work photo albums, Clark Wolverton is oblivious to my continued skepticism. Either that, or he’s just ignoring me. My tone is too low and gravelly even for his fancy hearing aids sometimes, but he’s good at ‘playing deaf’ when he doesn’t agree with me.

Tapping him on the head with the framed picture, I get his attention. Enunciating as much as my stupid throat will let me, I make my annoyance known. “We don’t even have any freaking tattoos in this picture!”

His expression sours. Tilting his head, his long, wild black hair lilts over one eye as it narrows at me. Great. Here come the hands. That means he’s not willing to negotiate.

Just put it in the fucking box,he signs.

Rolling my eyes, I sigh and pitch the frame carelessly into the box he’s filling to take to our booth tomorrow.Fine. But it’s stupid,I sign back.

I get the middle finger. Because I’m a bit of a sadist who likes to push his buttons, I return the proper ASL sign forfuck you.

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