Won't Let Go Page 12

  “It’s like someone unloaded their entire house in here,” Embry says as both of us stare down a mountain of boxes and furniture.

  I glance at my watch. It’s just after seven. “We better hop to it. I’ve got to be back by ten at the latest.”

  “Okay, I’ll take over here.” Embry points with his long slender finger. “And you take over there.”

  Nodding, I step in front of the first box and open it. “It’s just plates and bowls.”

  “Keep looking. There must be something here.”

  And there is something here, as Embry said—an entire house full of stuff.

  Embry walks over to where I’m looking through a box piled high with clothes—boy clothes. “Take a look at this.” He passes me a picture frame.

  I brush off the layer of dust that has settled on the glass and then bring my hand over my mouth. “Oh Embry!”

  Streaked with a grimy film is a family picture, Embry and Elliot in the foreground, and I assume, his parents in the back. His mother is beautiful. Her hair is set in perfect curls, a nice blue blazer, and skin like porcelain. She’s swept a lovely shade of red across her cheeks, brightening up her face, making her blue eyes pop. Her hand is resting on Elliot’s shoulder, and rested on her shoulder, is Embry’s father’s hand. He’s captivating, the same features as Embry and Elliot. It’s almost uncanny how alike the three of them look. He’s wearing a crisp white button down shirt, a blue and red paisley tie, and his graying hair is slicked back. And I’ll be dammed if he doesn’t have those stunning blue eyes, too.

  “They just—left everything.” Embry pulls a trembling hand through his blond hair. He takes the picture from my hands, sets it down and I take him into my arms. We hold each other for what feels like an eternity, pressing our bodies together as if we are one. “How could they? They just dropped everything and left,” Embry says into my shoulder.

  I squeeze tighter. “I don’t know.” But I do, kind of. I think I can piece it together. One son comatose in the hospital and the other in jail—they gave up. They walked away from their children. Maybe it was too hard to bear. Maybe they felt responsible. Or burdened by what became of their children.

  Any way you look at it, it’s not right.

  It’s horrible and selfish.

  As much as I’d become a burden on my parents, getting into trouble and treating them more like over-paid babysitters, I know they wouldn’t have given up on me. And I’m thankful for that. My parents are my rock, and I feel terrible about the last three or four years. I wish I could blame it on the hustle and bustle of L.A. but that wouldn’t be fair. I also realize I could never give up on them, either. No matter how angry or upset they make me. We are a family, a unit, and without one of us in the mix, we’d be hard pressed to survive. It makes me hope I remember that. Because Embry’s lost so much, and I haven’t lost anything. I should be more grateful.

  “There must be more here, maybe a journal,” I say, though Embry doesn’t seem like the type. “Or a yearbook. Something we can use.”

  Shortly after finding the picture, we find boxes of albums. Years and years of memories captured in time. I watch as Embry mechanically flips through the pages, eyes desolate, expression flat. It doesn’t help him. If anything, I think the pictures make it worse. He still doesn’t remember, but now he has proof he had a loving family—once—and his life didn’t just start when he found himself in that house. He had years and years before that, but it all means nothing to him. Life means nothing if you can’t look back and remember the memories you are supposed to have. I should know, I still have them, even if they are clouded over, and I have to wipe the film from them just like the picture. They are still stuck in my mind, swirling around.

  We do end up finding yearbooks, Embry’s family kept them all. Kindergarten all the way up until his last year. Elliot’s too. For someone who was so quick to run away, I’m amazed she didn’t just heap everything into a pile, pour gasoline on it and set it ablaze. Then again, maybe this was left on purpose. They wanted it to be found.

  Embry takes the whole thing pretty hard. He decides we’ve found enough. I grab a few yearbooks and slip them into my messenger bag, leaving the rest behind.

  Outside, I climb the fence again, and damn, I can climb that fence like nobody’s business. Getting down though, I still need Embry. At least this time I don’t hesitate when he tells me to trust him. I take the bag from around my neck, drop it into his open arms and then take a deep breath, let go of the links and fall safely into his arms. Embry does his knight in shining armor catching the damsel routine flawlessly, causing my heart to tug a little. He didn’t let me fall to the ground this time either.

  I expect him to take my hand and walk back to the car with me, only he doesn’t. He stands awkwardly, a world of emotion I can’t quite comprehend filling his face. Then simply he leans in giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek and one last tight embrace. Before I have a chance to open my mouth and spill out some sort of useless fact or words of sympathy, he disappears. His body dissolves into a million colored grains of dust, falling to the graveled ground. He didn’t utter a word. He didn’t even say goodbye.

  Now, as I drive back home, my curfew creeping up on me, a few tears roll down my cheek. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. I swear, I usually am not so emotional, but with each passing hour with Embry, my heart breaks a little more. A few shards breaking off each time I kiss him, each time he leaves, and now because he truly does seem to be all alone in this world.

  When I get home, my parents are already in bed. I climb the stairs with the books pressed tightly against my chest and make my way to my room. I’m not surprised Embry’s not here when I open my door.

  If I were him, I’d need some space, too.

  His parents just abandoned him.

  It’s a lot to take in.

  I change into comfy PJ’s and curl up in bed. Betty Boop casts just enough light so I can start flipping through the pages of the yearbooks until my eyes can no longer stay open. I don’t even bother moving the books or shutting off the light.

  It’s the next day. An entire night and morning has passed and still no Embry. I’m disappointed. In the few days I’ve known him, Embry’s become like a permanent fixture in my life. It almost hurts to breathe, knowing I might not be able to help him, or he might no longer want my help. But I’m determined, either way. Embry deserves to know the truth, even if that’s all I can give him.

  I ignore his suggestion that Elliot can’t help us. Instead I endure the drive, the intense security, and now wait in my tiny vestibule, perched on the stool with two years of Embry and Elliot’s yearbooks laid out before me.

  Something I didn’t notice last night, but do today, is what sets the yearbooks apart. Sure, they’re for different people, but that’s not the only thing. Elliot’s front and back covers are littered with signatures, comments, and smiley faces. Inked in blue, black, and even fancy glittered pen are the words of kindness, sarcasm and jokes. They all say one thing, Elliot was well liked. They pay homage to his football status, his seat on the student council, and about a dozen other efforts he must have thrown himself into.

  On the other hand, Embry’s yearbook shows a stark contrast. Only a few signatures are on the front cover, all from girls, and all slightly derogatory. They are the words you would expect to read on a yearbook of a womanizer. Each flirty bimbo promises in less than proper grammar what a great summer he could have, if he chooses her. I’m disgusted. I know the type. We had them back in California. Every school has them, and I just can’t understand how this is who Embry really was. Not my Embry, I scream inside my head. He could never be this kind of person, never. But the words and the glossy, stained print of lips kissed right onto the page don’t lie. The undertone of each comment is what might really be the truth. The real Embry Winston was a man-whore.

  “It looks like someone just kicked your puppy.” Elliot’s voice, the jingle of his chains and the bright orange of his jumpsuit pul
ls me out of my thoughts.

  I ignore his response. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and hold my chin steady, stuck out with so much priss I hope it gives him something to think about. I’m not going away until I get answers.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Two days in a row. To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Yesterday you played a game. I went along with it, but I won’t do it again,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, calm but authoritative.

  “So what is it you want, girly?”

  I look straight into his eyes, desperate to see what’s beneath the oceany blue. “I want to know who really tried to kill your brother.”

  Elliot licks his lips. “I thought we covered that yesterday. You’re looking at him.” He chuckles, but as I bore into those blue orbs, the laugh, the grin, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  I simply state the truth. “No. You didn’t.”

  The grin on Elliot’s face falters, the daring look in his eyes lightens, and he stops laughing. “Well, I’d say you’d be wrong because an entire town seems to think otherwise.”

  “So that’s it, you’ve decided to give up? What about your brother? He needs you, and you’re stuck here.” I wave my hands in the air.

  “Don’t tell me what my brother needs! If he needs anyone it’s not me, it’s his parents,” he seethes.

  “No. They gave up on him like they gave up on you.” My body temperature rises a few degrees. “You’re all he has left.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It never mattered. The second they said he might never wake up, my responsibility for him went out the window. That was the same moment they locked me in here.” He gestures his arms in a wide circle.

  “So you’re just going to rot in jail for a crime you didn’t commit. Because dammit—” my voice rises a few octaves—“it may have been your car, you might have been behind that wheel when they found you, but I know, I know you didn’t do it. So who did?”

  “Why are you so sure of yourself? They caught me red handed. His blood was smeared against the bumper, skin and hair were stuck in the grill, his broken body was twisted unnaturally under the wheels...” His voice peters out.

  My stomach churns and bile rises in my throat. I swallow thickly, take a deep breath, and push down the disturbing image of Embry mangled beneath a car. “Because I know you didn’t do it. I can see it on your face, the torment, the feeling you’re getting as you rehash those moments. I’m not the only one out there who knows you didn’t do it. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to prove your innocence.”

  “But why?” he stammers.

  “Because,” I say, then I flip open a page of Embry’s yearbook and smash it against the bulletproof glass. “So, who did it?”

  He sighs. “I don’t know.”

  I pull the book back, turn the page, and press it against the glass again with a loud thud. “The hell you don’t. You must know something. Tell me about that night then, what the papers didn’t say. You can help me. I know you can.”

  Elliot’s mouth is pressed in a hard line, he wrings his hands together and the chains and cuffs scrape against the table. He leans forward. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t see how it will help.”

  “It will. I promise you, Elliot, it will.”

  He sucks in a deep breath of air, his chest puffs out, then he exhales. “It was Friday night...”

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I leave Elliot, my head is spinning. No wait, I think my whole body is reeling. I must have tripped at least a dozen times on the way out. I threw up in the visitor's bathroom. And now as I drive back to Willard Grove, I can’t control my jittering hands. They shake my body and the steering wheel so much I can barely concentrate on the road. I’ve never been so confused in my life.

  Elliot replayed that night—to the best of his ability. Not leaving out any details, he took everything I thought I understood about Embry and crushed it.

  His ghostly form is nothing like how he really was.

  Not even close.

  They are like black and white. Polar opposites. And I can’t even begin to understand how I feel about that.

  Elliot gave me names, told me who to talk to, but three years can easily trample those leads. How many kids from that class are still around? But that doesn’t stop me from pulling out my cell. I scroll through my contact list and find Allison’s name. The conversation is short. She agrees to meet me at the donut shop in an hour. I’m hoping she can help me, point me in the right direction.

  But as I drive, all I can hear are Elliot’s words. I’m playing them back like a tape recorder on a loop, even though I don't want to. I don't want to replay the conversation, because it hurts. Embry can't, he just can't be that person. I don't want to believe it. But I try to find the hole, to figure out the secret, pushing aside as much of my feelings as possible.

  My brother might have been a dick, might not have cared about anyone but himself, but he never missed a game. Not one. He was always there to watch me play. At least until that night, Elliot said. What made it more complicated, him watching every pass I threw, every catch I made, was that he was better. He could have been better, and I knew it. He chose to stand down when my parents made it a point to choose me, put me on a pedestal and not him.

  That’s when he started getting into trouble. If he couldn’t be a star in their eyes, the perfect child, he strived to be the bad son. Drugs, alcohol, ditching class, you name it, and he was a master at it. Teachers always said, ‘If he’d just apply himself.’ And he was, everyday. He just wasn’t applying himself at what they wanted.

  I blink, pull the car back towards the center line and take deep breaths, in and out, in and out.

  But I can’t stop the loop.

  Even when I try, Elliot’s voice still resonates within my mind.

  I don’t know why, but I was so angry at him for missing that game. I mean what’s one out of the dozens he did come to? But he missed one of the most important games of my life. I had the ball and made a sweet pass. It soared through the air and landed perfectly into my teammates hands. It was the farthest I had ever thrown—record breaking—and it bothered me he missed it.

  After the game, I found him at the donut shop. It was our after game ritual. But he was trashed, falling down drunk. He smelled like a brewery. Puke covered the front of his shirt, and he could barely string more than two words together. It might have been the lowest I’d ever seen him. Hell, he couldn’t even remember where he put his wallet and had no money to pay for his cup of coffee. But I wasn’t doing so great myself. After the game I had shot-gunned a few beers, pounded back some shots. I was flying high off a celebratory buzz.

  After the third honk from a car trying to pass me, I figure I’m probably a menace on the road. I have to pull over. Either that or I’m going to get myself killed, or worse, kill someone else. I shove open the door and fling myself out onto the road. Walking around to the passenger side, I slide down against the tire, letting it hold me up as Elliot’s voice still consumes me.

  What you have to understand is Embry was always selfish. He’d break some girl’s heart and toss her to the curb. That’s why most of the guys loved having him around. They’d be there to swoop in and pick up the pieces. After any girl had been with Embry, she was an easy target for the guys she had, at first, overlooked. When you’re nursing battle wounds, a football player or a band geek is the perfect way to forget.

  I don’t think I can hear any more, I remember saying. He was tarnishing the very guy who held a huge piece of my heart. My hands are tightly wrapped around my stomach like I’m holding in my insides. As if I let go, they’d spill out. But Elliot didn’t stop.

  You wanted to hear this, so suck it up and listen, he said, but I remember the expression on his face.

  He could see what his words were doing to me—even if he didn’t understand—because they were doing the same thing to him.

  It was torture, pure and simple.

  Every o
nce in a while he’d mess up the wrong chick. He’d piss someone off, and they’d come looking for him and a fight. Because hidden in the shadows of most every girl, is a guy who secretly pines for her. You know, the whole unrequited love bullshit. That night was no different. When the rest of the team showed up, and a few other kids from school, someone tried to pick a fight. I remember, he shouted, ‘Why her? Why’d you go and have to mess with her?’ At the time I didn’t even know who ‘her’ was. It was hard to keep track of Embry’s latest conquest. I swear it changed almost weekly. But Embry didn’t care, never batted an eyelash as the guy came at him full force, fists flying. He just sat on his stool, smug as a bastard, and took it.

  Why did you let someone pound on your little brother? I asked. My voice cracked from so much listening.

  I didn’t. I never did. I stood up for him even when I felt he deserved it. Even though I was watching him ruin his own life, flushing it down the toilet along with his puke and pride, I never forgot what he did for me. He seemed to give up a part of his life, just so I got to be stronger in my own. I took a few hits in the face, but then something awakened in Embry, and maybe even in me, because the next thing I knew, the fight was no longer between Embry and some other guy. It was between Embry and me. A fight to be on top or something. I didn’t even see the window, not until it was too late, and we both smashed through the front of the shop and spilled out onto the street.

  We scuffled for a few minutes more, the whole of the donut shop standing around watching, until Embry gave up. He just stopped. No more fists, no more kicks. He just fell to the ground, broken. The last thing I remember was hauling him off towards my car. He was alive. He was defeated, but alive. And the last thing the entire town remembers? A huge fight between two brothers. No wonder they didn’t think twice when they found us.