Nicholas Sparks - A Bend in the Road

When she opened the door, however, she smiled in relief.

“Hey, Brian,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Sure… come in.”

He followed her inside and sat on the couch. Sarah sat next to him.

“So what’s up?” she asked.

“You ended up calling Miles’s boss, didn’t you?”

Sarah ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah. Like you said, I didn’t have a choice.”

“Because you think he’ll go after the guy he arrested,” Brian stated.

“I don’t know what he’ll do, but I’m scared enough to try to head it off.”

He nodded slightly. “Does he know that you called?”

“Miles? I don’t know.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not since he left yesterday. I tried calling him a couple of times, but he wasn’t home. I kept getting the answering machine.”

He brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and squeezed. “I have to know something,” he said. In the quiet of the room, his voice seemed strangely amplified.

“What?” she asked, puzzled.

“I need to know if you really think that Miles would go too far.”

Sarah leaned forward. She tried to get him to meet her eyes, but he looked away.

“I’m not a mind reader. But yeah, I’m worried, I guess.”

“I think you should tell Miles to just let it go.”

“Let what go?”

“The guy he arrested… he should just let him go.”

Sarah stared at him in bafflement. He finally turned to her, his eyes pleading.

“You’ve got to get him to understand that, okay? Talk to him, okay?”

“I’ve tried to do that. I told you.”

“You’ve got to try harder.”

Sarah sat back and frowned. “What’s going on?”

“I’m just asking what you think Miles will do.”

“But why? Why’s this so important to you?”

“What would happen to Jonah?”

She blinked. “Jonah?”

“Miles would think about him, wouldn’t he? Before he did anything?”

Sarah shook her head slowly.

“I mean, you don’t think he would risk going to jail, do you?” She reached for his hands and took them forcefully. “Now wait, okay? Stop with the questions for a minute. What’s going on?”

This was, I remember, my moment of truth, the reason I had come to her house. It was finally time to confess what I had done.

Why, then, did I not just come out and say it? Why had I asked so many questions? Was I looking for a way out, another reason to keep it buried? The part of me that had lied for two years may have wanted that, but I honestly think the better part of me wanted to protect my sister. I had to make sure I didn’t have a choice.

I knew my words would hurt her. My sister was in love with Miles. I had seen them at Thanksgiving, I had seen the way they looked at each other, the comfortable way they related when they were close, the tender kiss she’d given him before he left. She loved Miles, and Miles loved her-she’d told me as much. And Jonah loved them both.

The night before, I finally realized that I could keep the secret no longer. If Sarah really thought Miles might take matters into his own hands, I knew that by keeping silent, I was running the risk that more lives would be ruined. Missy had died because of me; I couldn’t live with another needless tragedy. But to save myself, to save an innocent man, to save Miles Ryan from himself, I also knew I would have to sacrifice my sister.

She, who had been through so much already, would have to look Miles in the eye, knowing that her own brother had killed his wife-and face the risk of losing him as a result. For how could he ever look at her the same way? Was it fair to sacrifice her? She was an innocent bystander; with my words, she would be irrevocably trapped between her love for Miles Ryan and her love for me. But as much as I didn’t want to, I knew I had no choice. “I know,” I finally said hoarsely, “who was driving the car that night.”

She stared back, almost as if she didn’t understand my words.

“You do?” she asked.

I nodded.

It was then, in the long silence that preceded her question, that she began to understand the reason I had come. She knew what I was trying to tell her. She slumped forward, like a balloon being slowly deflated. I, for my part, never looked away.

“It was me, Sarah,” I whispered. “I was the one.”

At his words, Sarah reared back, as if seeing her brother for the first time.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. I’m so, so sorry…”

After trailing off, unable to continue, Brian started to cry.

Not the quiet, repressed sounds of sadness, but the anguished cries of a child. His shoulders shook violently, as if in spasm. Until that moment, Brian had never cried for what he had done, and now that he had started, he wasn’t sure that he would ever stop.

In the midst of his grief, Sarah put her arms around him, and her touch made his crime seem even worse than the terrible thing it was, for he knew then that his sister still loved him in spite of it. She said nothing at all as he cried, but her hand began gently moving up and down his back. Brian leaned into her, holding her tightly, somehow believing that if he let go, everything would change between them.

But even then, he knew it had.

He wasn’t sure how long he cried, but when he finally stopped, he began to tell his sister how it happened.

He did not lie.

He did not, however, tell her about the visits.

During his entire confession, Brian never met her eyes. He didn’t want to see her pity or her horror; he didn’t want to see the way she really saw him. But at the end of his story, he finally steeled himself to meet her gaze.

He saw neither love nor forgiveness on her face.

What he saw was fear.

Brian stayed with Sarah most of the morning. She had many questions; in the process of answering them, Brian told her everything once more. Some questions, though-like why he hadn’t gone to the police-had no meaningful answer, except for the obvious: that he was in shock, he was frightened, that too much time eventually passed.

Like Brian, Sarah justified his decision, and like Brian, she questioned it. They went back and forth, time and time again, but in the end, when she finally grew silent, Brian knew it was time for him to leave.

On his way out the door, he glanced back over his shoulder. On the couch, hunched over like someone twice her age, his sister was quietly crying, her face buried in her hands.

That same morning, while Sarah sat crying on the couch, Charlie Curtis strode up Miles Ryan’s walkway. He was dressed in his uniform; it was the first Sunday in years that he and Brenda wouldn’t make it to church, but as he’d explained to her earlier, he didn’t feel he had a choice. Not after the two phone calls he’d received the day before.

Not after staying up for most of the night and watching Miles’s house because of them.

He knocked; Miles came to the door wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a baseball hat. If he was surprised to see Charlie standing on his porch, he gave no indication.

“We need to talk,” Charlie said without preamble.

Miles put his hands on his hips, not hiding the anger he still felt at what Charlie had done.

“So talk.”

Charlie pushed the brim of his hat up. “Do you want to do this on the porch where Jonah can hear, or do you want to talk in the yard? Your choice. It doesn’t matter to me.”

A minute later, Charlie was leaning against the car, his arms crossed. Miles stood facing him. The sun was still low in the sky, and Miles had to squint to see him.