Free The Darkest Part by Trisha Wolfe Page B

train station is loud and dirty, and smells like rotten eggs and farts. I’m told that’s just the smell of the paper mill coming downwind, but I’m not so sure I believe that. This place is filthy. And I swear people are staring at me. Like they know I’m carrying my stolen boyfriend in my pack.
    I keep peeking over my shoulder, waiting for Mr. Marks or the cops to come barreling in. I switch seats again, not sitting in one place longer than five minutes. Maybe if I keep moving around time will go by faster, and my train will be ready to board.
    Checking my phone again, I curse. I still have fifteen minutes.
    I left early this morning by cab. The note I wrote my mother sits on the kitchen counter by the coffee maker. Last night, I almost told her. I’d curled up with her on the couch while she was reading one of her mystery novels (she loves them almost more than she loves watching Law and Order ), and I just laid my head in her lap. Like I used to do when I was a kid.
    To my relief, she didn’t ask me what was wrong. I mean, what’s not wrong with my life? She just ran her fingers through my hair and continued to read. Before I went to bed, she actually commented on my hair, saying that it looked good. And then smiled.
    She always hated my hairstyles before. But she thinks I’m doing better. That the medications are helping, and that I’m returning to the Sam she loves. I almost blurted my plans right then, but I couldn’t bear to see the relief and hope in her eyes shattered.
    The note explains that Dr. Hartman’s encouragement (damn right I blamed it on her) helped me realize that I needed a change, an adventure, to get out and discover my independence. I let her know I’d have my phone on at all times. And I’d keep her posted on my “adventure.”
    Hopefully she’ll see this as a good thing, like I’m just doing what Dr. Hartman suggested and trying to find myself.
    I move to another seat, where I have a direct view of the tracks, and tuck my backpack between my feet. I can feel Tyler’s picture box against my Converse. The jade one I’d given him the day we left for college—that now holds his remains instead of our memories. I’d made one last-minute stop before meeting Holden at the cemetery yesterday. Tyler’s room.
    Taking the chance that Amber would be more understanding (women often are), I waited until Mr. Marks left for work, then apologized to her for upsetting him, as I’m sure my request had. Then I told her that I would work up to telling him how sorry I was, but he had always intimated me.
    She was more sympathetic than I thought she’d be, saying that her fiancé doesn’t know the boom of his own voice. Then she let me into Tyler’s room. I just needed to see it one last time.
    Everything from his residence hall apartment had been moved there, mostly still in boxes, and nothing else had changed since the day he left for college. I knew what I was looking for, I just didn’t know where to start. But with luck, I quickly found both things. Like I was meant to.
    As I stare down at my pack, a sliver of doubt wedges its way into my thoughts, making me question . . . everything.
    But, Tyler is able to tell me what he wants. They are his ashes, and his wishes should be honored. As long as Tyler is strong enough to materialize near me, as long as I’m anchoring him on this plane, he can go on his trip. I won’t feel guilty for giving him this.
    With my conscious in check, and my nerves slightly more under control, I pull out a paperback to get lost in.
    A distorted voice blares over the speaker system, announcing it’s time to board the train, and I quickly slip my novel into the zipper compartment of my pack and then thread it over my shoulder. My stomach’s tossing with nausea (probably should’ve skipped the donut), and my chest flutters with heart palpitations.
    Once I get seated on the train, I’ll feel better. Safe. No turning back. I force my feet to keep moving. This is the