Guilt was a funny thing.
Tyler sat on the couch in his living room. The TV was on—more for company than anything else, since neither of his parents were home—but he didn’t even know what channel it was. The remote was on the coffee table, unused.
It was screwed up, Tyler thought, how the principal emotions were considered to be love and hate. Love and hate controlled everything. Except they didn’t.
Guilt did.
Guilt, like they’d discussed the first day of class. Guilt, for what they’d done to Stratford. Guilt, for tossing his body in the river like so much shit.
For causing his wife so much worry.
And now, for stealing Kinley’s earpiece. Beautiful, clever, cheating, lying Kinley.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. And he wanted to. He desperately wanted to.
He reached forward for the remote and began clicking through. Blindly. Watching a man demonstrate a blender. A woman on an obstacle course, climbing an impossible wall. An old man, dying, while a young man watched him.
Another news report about Stratford. It flashed to a picture of his family—Stratford, actually smiling, and not in the angry half way that he did in class. The bastard was really smiling, with his arm around his wife.
And his daughter, blond haired and gap-toothed, sat in front of them.
He had a daughter.
Tyler felt his heart collapse in on itself.
He’d helped cover up the murder of a man with a daughter. A wife. A family. He’d been more than the crotchety old man who despised his students. He’d had a life. He was a real person, not the mean-teacher caricature that Tyler had been erecting in his mind.
“Hey, Ty.”
Tyler jumped. He hadn’t realized anyone was home. Jacob held out his hands, palms up. “Whoa. Calm down, buddy.”
“I’m fine,” Tyler said. He tossed Jacob the remote. “I’m going to bed.”
“Bed?” Jacob squinted at him. “Dude. It’s seven thirty.”
Tyler didn’t look at his brother. He just walked past him, toward the stairs that led to his bedroom.
“I need more.”
Jacob’s voice was cold and clear and desperate. Tyler turned around, halfway up the stairs. “Sorry, bro. I told you to make that stuff last. My probation officer is putting the pressure on. I have to keep my nose clean.”
It wasn’t a complete lie.
Jacob jogged up a couple stairs to face his brother. “Please? I need it.” His face was tight and pleading; his lower lip jutted out.
Tyler stared through him. “Find it from someone else. I’m not your guy anymore.”
“Shit, Tyler. No one gets the shit you get. I can’t risk it showing up in a drug test. I’m begging you, dude.”
Tyler leaned back against the wall. “Don’t you want to actually win on your own for once without steroids?”
“Just enough to get me through the summer,” Jacob begged. “I have a scout coming to a summer meet next week to watch me. I need it for that, and then I’ll stop.”
“And then what? You get recruited and screw up your sophomore season because you quit?”
Jacob hunched his shoulders, and Tyler could see his anger growing. “I’ll figure it out, okay? Just get me more. I need you to get me more.”
And Tyler, who had always been in the shadow of his brother, had had enough. He couldn’t be a part of this for one second longer. He couldn’t be a part of one more shitty thing.
It couldn’t happen.
“You’re done, Lance Armstrong.” Tyler punched his brother on the shoulder playfully. “Good luck in your next meet, though.” He jogged the rest of the way up the stairs.
“I’ll tell Mom and Dad,” Jacob said.
Tyler froze. He turned back to stare at his older brother. “What are you going to tell them? That you’re juicing?”
Jacob met his eyes. “I’m going to tell them that you made me. I’m going to tell them I didn’t know about it at first. I’ll tell them you got me addicted.”
“That’s stupid, Jacob.”
“Who will they believe?” Jacob smiled nastily up at him. “Me or you? Don’t you know all the cops on a first-name basis?”
Tyler studied his brother. Jacob was right. They’d believe his brother over his word any day of the week. They never believed him. If anyone ever, even once, believed Tyler, he would never have gone along with all the Stratford bullshit.
But he knew better.
“Get my shit, Tyler,” Jacob said, his voice unusually high. “Figure it out.” And Jacob ascended the stairs and pushed past his brother.
Tyler resisted the urge to punch him. He resisted the urge to lay him out, right then, and to scream at him. But who was he kidding? His roid-rage dick of a brother would kill him. He was bigger. Stronger.
Angrier.
He let him go.
Kinley would have to wait on her flash drive. And he was going to have to take the car out again. He knew that his guy, Jer, was at home right now. And Jer probably had some.
And before he’d even made the decision, Tyler was in his car, behind the wheel, driving. He was leaving the relatively good part of town and he was going toward . . . if not the bad, then what his mother would call the less fortunate.
He drove slowly. And he hated himself with every mile his car crept forward. He should have told his brother no. Not just tonight, but the first time, when his brother had come to his room, crying, and begged him for help. Any kind of help. Anything.
Now his brother—his perfect, sweet brother, who charmed every old lady he’d ever met and had a secret Pokémon collection—was an addict. He was a mess and he was ruined and he was staking his entire swimming career on a drug that Tyler had gotten him started on because he’d just wanted to help. A drug that—maybe unfortunately—broke down really quickly in the blood. A drug that didn’t show up in standard tests.
He wanted to run away now more than ever. But what would happen if he did?
He pulled up across the street outside of Jer’s house and put the car in park. But he didn’t shut it off. He rested both his hands on the steering wheel and put his head down. He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t ever want to see Jer again, not even for a joint.
They’d been friends, at first. They’d smoked together. They’d tried new shit together. And then Jacob had gotten involved and it hadn’t been fun anymore.
Tyler put his hand on the door handle. The shitty Jeep was in the driveway with the hood popped. Not surprising. The thing was always breaking down, but Jer refused to replace it.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed. He glanced down at it. A text from his mom. Either she was coming home soon, or she already was there, and she’d noticed his car missing. He wasn’t exactly supposed to be driving.
He opened the door, just a crack, and that was when the car pulled up.
Tyler froze, his senses tingling. He very softly, very carefully shut the door. He did not look at the car directly.
“Damn it,” he said under his breath.
It was a light blue car with an extended mirror and state license plates.
A cop.
Shit.
A cop.
The officer opened the door of his car, stepped out, and walked around to Tyler’s door, where he paused. Tyler’s heart went frantic. For a moment, he was sure he was going to die.
In the two seconds it took for the cop to reach his car, he saw it all laid out before him. Being thrown over the hood. Arrested for murder. Charged, while his parents and his brother watched from the back of the courtroom. Jailed for the rest of his life.
The cop pounded on Tyler’s window with an open hand.
Tyler sucked in his breath. His fingers shakily pressed the down button, and the window rolled downward with a quiet hum.
“Can I help you, sir?” Tyler asked. He thanked God it wasn’t a cop he knew, not anyone who’d arrested him or ticketed him before.
The cop eyed him. “What are you doing here with your car running?”
Tyler held up his cell phone. “My mother told me if she heard I was texting and driving one more time she’d take away my phone. So I pulled over.”
“Can I see the phone, son?”
Tyler bristled inwardly. He hated when cops called him son. Like they actually cared.
He quickly unlocked the phone and showed the officer his mother’s text message—which, thank God, said simply: Home soon. Lasagna ok?
“Is your mom’s lasagna good?”
Tyler shrugged. “It depends on if she decides to put spinach in it, sir.”
The cop guffawed, and Tyler smiled tentatively.
The officer patted the side of his car twice. “Get home. This isn’t a good neighborhood.”
Tyler said “sir” like the police said “son,” usually. He didn’t mean it. But if a cop, for once in his life, was letting him go, he could “sir” all day.
“Have a good night,” he told the officer.
Tyler watched the officer get back into his car. And then he drove back to his house, staying exactly at the speed limit the entire way.
He was done with Jer. And his brother could tell his parents. He didn’t give a shit.
He was just done.