Reminders of Him

Or at least fast-forward to the end.

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CHAPTER TWELVE
LEDGER
It’s typical for people to be praised in death. Heralded to the point of
heroism sometimes. But nothing anyone said about Scotty was embellished
for the sake of remembering him fondly. He was everything everyone said
about him. Nice, funny, athletic, honest, charismatic, a good son. A great
friend.
Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could have traded places with
him, in life and in death. I’d give up the life I’ve been living in an instant if
it meant he could have just one day with Diem.
I don’t know that I’d be this angry—this protective over Diem—if
Kenna had just simply caused the accident. But she did so much more than
that. She was driving when she shouldn’t have been, she was speeding, she
was drinking, she flipped the car.
And then she left. She left Scotty there to die, and she walked home
and crawled into bed because she thought she could get away with it. He’s
dead because she was scared she’d get in trouble.
And now she wants forgiveness?
I can’t think about the details of Scotty’s death right now. Not with her
sitting next to me in this truck, because I’d rather be dead than allow her the
satisfaction of knowing Diem. If it means driving us both off a bridge, I
might just be vengeful enough to do that right now.
The fact that she thought it would be okay to show up is baffling to
me. I’m pissed she’s here, but I think my anger is amplified by the
knowledge that she knew who I was last night. When we kissed, when I
held her.
I shouldn’t have ignored my gut. There was something off about her.
She doesn’t look like the Kenna I saw in the articles five years ago. Scotty’s

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Kenna had long blonde hair. But I never really looked at her face back then.
I never met her in person, but I feel like even just seeing a mug shot of the
girl who killed my best friend should have stuck in my head more.
I feel stupid. I’m angry, I’m hurt, I feel taken advantage of. Even today
in the store, she knew who I was, yet gave me no hint as to who she was.
I crack my window to get some fresh air, hoping it’ll calm me down.
My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel.
She’s staring out the window, unresponsive. She may be crying. I
don’t know.
I don’t fucking care.
I don’t.
She isn’t the girl I met last night. That girl doesn’t exist. She was
pretending with me, and I fell right into her trap.
Patrick expressed concern several months ago when we found out she
was released. He thought this might happen—that she might show up
wanting to meet Diem. I even put in a Ring camera on my house that points
at their front yard. It’s how I knew someone was sitting on the curb.
I told Patrick he was silly to worry. “She wouldn’t show up. Not after
what she did.”
I grip the steering wheel even tighter. Kenna might have brought Diem
into the world, but that’s where her claim to Diem ends.
When her apartments come into view, I pull the truck into a spot and
put it in park. I don’t kill the engine, but Kenna doesn’t make a move to exit
my truck. I figured she’d jump out before I even came to a complete stop
like she did last night, but it looks like there’s something she wants to say.
Or maybe she just dreads going into that apartment as much as she probably
dreads staying in this truck.
She’s staring at her hands folded together in her lap. She brings her
hand to the seat belt and releases it, but when she’s free from it, she remains
in the same position.
Diem looks like her. I always assumed she did since I didn’t see much
of Scotty in Diem’s features, but until tonight I had no idea just how much
she resembles her mother. They have the same reddish shade of brown hair,
straight and flat, not a wave or a curl in sight. She has Kenna’s eyes.
Maybe that’s why I saw red flags last night. My subconscious
recognized her before I could.

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When Kenna’s eyes slide over to mine, I feel a tug of disappointment
inside of me. Diem looks so much like her when she’s sad. It’s like I’m
looking into the future at who Diem is going to someday be.
I don’t like that the one person I dislike the most in this world reminds
me of the person I love the most.
Kenna wipes her eyes, but I don’t lean over and open the glove box to
retrieve a napkin. She can use the Mountain Dew shirt she’s been wearing
for two days.
“I didn’t know you before I showed up at your bar last night,” she says
with a trembling voice. “I swear.” Her head falls back against the headrest,
and she stares straight ahead. Her chest rises with a deep inhale. She
exhales at the exact moment my finger meets the unlock button. My cue for
her to exit.
“I don’t care about last night. I care about Diem. That’s it.”
I watch a tear as it skates down her jaw. I hate that I know what those
tears taste like. I hate that part of me wants to reach over and wipe it away.