by Jessi Kirby
I look at him standing there in his bacon apron, his morning hair still sticking up in every direction.
“Of course. I just need to you cover with me for Mom and Dad tomorrow afternoon.”
“For what?”
I shake my head. “Just something I need to do, that I know they’d say no to.”
“Well, that narrows it down. Sure. Yeah. No questions asked.”
I cross the kitchen and give him a big hug. “Thank you, you weirdo.”
He puts his arms around me for an awkward half a second, then steps back. “That’s boss weirdo to you.”
SEVENTEEN
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Matt picks me up because my car is still at the bottom of the bay—and because I don’t know how to drive. He opens the passenger door and helps me up into the truck. This time, I remember about the seat belt, and pull it slowly across my lap until I can click it. This makes him smile, but I can tell he’s nervous. I am too. Dana Whitmore had been happy to take my call, and even happier to schedule an interview ASAP, before I had to go back to work.
I don’t mention to Matt that I didn’t ask my parents if I could do this or tell them where we’re headed. I know what their answer would’ve been, and by the time they see it, it’ll be too late. I’ll face the consequences then. I don’t know if this is something I would’ve ever done before, but it’s something I feel like I need to do now—for Matt, and, if I’m being honest, for me too. Dana Whitmore had said she’d do her best to get Walker to show, and if there’s any chance he does, I want to be there.
I look over at Matt as he drives. He’s dressed in a striped collared shirt and a dark tie, his blond hair combed neatly, face freshly shaven. He’s definitely good-looking in that classic, clean-cut kind of way. And it’s kind of endearing how he keeps glancing over and smiling nervously. I try to embrace these thoughts, try to remind myself that he’s my boyfriend, and we love each other, and whatever I’d said to my brother had probably blown over, like he said. So now, if I just keep playing the part, the rest will come naturally. I hope, anyway.
“You look nice,” I say, reaching across the seat and brushing his shoulder with my hand.
He glances down at my touch and smiles. “Thanks. First time Homecoming clothes are good for more than one night.”
“So we don’t dress up much?”
He looks at me. “Not really. For special occasions, mostly.”
“I assume we went to all the dances? Danced? Had fun?” I run my eyes over his shirt and tie again, trying to summon even a flash of this.
He smiles. “Yeah.” It’s quiet for a few seconds, then he looks at me again. “We’re good, dancing together. People watch when we do.”
This makes me laugh. “That’s probably because I can’t dance. I do remember that much.” And I do. In seventh grade, I hit a growth spurt that rendered me tall, gangly, and comically uncoordinated.
“That’s not true,” Matt says. Then he laughs. “I mean, it’s taken years of practice, but you’ve gotten a lot better.”
“So you’re saying I can dance now?”
He nods. “Oh yeah.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then I’ll just have to show you one of these days,” he says with a smile.
“Okay,” I say. “Deal.”
We fall back into silence, and I try to think of something else to talk about before the relative ease of it slips into awkwardness.
Matt beats me to it. “You look nice too,” he says. “Is that a new dress? I don’t recognize it.”
I look down at the dress I’m wearing, one of about twenty that I pulled out of my closet, tried on, and finally settled on. “Well, that makes two of us, because I have no idea.”
For whatever reason, this strikes me as funny rather than strange or sad, like most other things have, and it makes me laugh, which still hurts. But I’m glad because Matt starts laughing too, and by the time we pull into the lot of our local news studio, it feels like a start of some sort. A turning point, maybe, that we can laugh together at a tiny part of our situation.
I can feel us both relax a little, but that lasts only until he parks and shuts off the truck. We both look out the windshield at the news station building in front of us, but neither of us makes a move to get out.
Matt looks at me. “Are you sure you want to do this? I don’t—I hope I didn’t pressure you into it. Especially if you’re not ready.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “She contacted me too, and I thought about it, and I decided I want to. I really do.” I pause. “The only thing is, I don’t . . .”
His eyes run over my face, searching for what I’m trying to say as I try to figure out how to say it, but he doesn’t push. He gives me time to find it.
“I just really don’t want to talk about my memory loss,” I say.
He nods.
“I mean, I know it’s normal not to remember the accident, but I don’t want people to know about the rest because . . . I don’t want the whole story to turn into that, and have to answer a whole bunch of questions about it.”
“Of course. I won’t mention it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I want this to be about us. And moving forward.”
The words sound like someone else’s in my ears, but this is what I’ve decided moving forward is for me right now.
Matt’s eyes soften, and he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Thank you, Liv,” he says, and he leans into me, close. Inside, I tell myself it’s okay if he kisses me. He’s my boyfriend, and we’ve probably kissed thousands of times. Still, I feel myself tense up.
Again, it’s like he can read my mind. Or my body language. He stops in the middle of the space between us and gives me a smile that’s more sad than anything else. Leans back in his seat. We’re both quiet, and neither one of us knows what to say or how to acknowledge the strangeness of the moment.
“Liv,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens with this—with us, I want you to know I love you.”
I fight the urge to look away. “I . . .”
“You don’t need to say it back,” he says quickly. “I just . . . need you to know that.”
I nod, relieved. And surprised. This may be harder than I thought.
We get out and walk around to the front of his truck, and he takes my hand in his, and when we walk into the studio, I remind myself that it’s as a couple who’ve been together for over two years, who went through something traumatic together, and who should be closer and stronger because of it.
As soon as we walk through the door, we’re greeted by a young guy in a headset who ushers us down a hallway to a room where he asks us to wait for Dana Whitmore. No sooner does he leave than she walks through the door wearing a jacket, skirt, and heels that push the definition of professional.
“Hello, you two!” She says, arms outstretched as she walks to the couch we’re sitting on, huge TV smile plastered to her heavily made-up face. Her teeth are the most brilliant shade of white I’ve ever seen, and it takes me a moment to realize that Matt has greeted her already and that I should too.
I reach a hand out, but she takes a step past it and envelops me with a hug and perfume that smells exactly how she looks. “And Liv,” she says, pulling me back by my shoulders like my mom would, which seems odd given that she can’t be that much older than me. “How are you?”
She asks it like it’s a huge question—one you’d end with multiple question marks if you were writing it.
“I’m good,” I say, taking the tiniest step back to put a little distance between us. She’s a lot.
She takes the hint, steps back too, and shifts into business mode. “Well, thank you both, so much, for agreeing to come in. This was such a big local story, but we’re still getting inquiries from all over the country—people wanting to know how you two are doing, so this is a great chance to let them know that you’re okay—heroics, and healing, and human triumph, and all.” She smiles again. “Can I get you anything befo
re we go on? Water? Soda? Restroom? We’ve got a couple minutes.”
Matt and I both shake our heads. “No thanks,” I say.
She claps her hands. “Okay then. Let’s head to the studio. We’ll get you all set up and then get started.”
She leads us back down the same hall to a door that opens up into the studio. There is a brightly lit stage with a chair and a small couch on it, surrounded by multiple large cameras. My stomach does a flip-flop as she leads us to the couch and gestures for Matt and me to sit.
It’s just us. There’s no sign of Walker.
I try not to look disappointed as the same young guy appears out of nowhere with two mics—one that he clips to Matt’s shirt, and another that he hands to me, with instructions to clip it to my dress. Someone swings a light our way, momentarily blinding us. I flinch and blink, and it moves away. Dana sits down across from us and smooths her dress. Clips on her own mic. A girl comes by with a big makeup brush and adds another layer to her face.
Dana smiles at us again. “Just so you know, this isn’t live. It’ll go up as an edited segment tomorrow or the next day, so if you stumble over an answer, don’t worry. Just try to relax and tell your story, okay?” She punctuates the question with another wide smile, sits up impossibly straight in her chair, and before Matt or I can respond, the bright light beams on us again and the young guy behind the camera is counting down.
Dana angles herself toward the camera, her face now serious. “Thank you, Mark. And now I have a very special report for you. Over two weeks ago, Pelican Bay witnessed an accident that could have been one of the worst tragedies this town has seen when the driver of an eighteen-wheeler lost control of his truck and struck a car carrying two teenage passengers, sending them off the Carson Bridge and into the bay. But today I’m here with Matt Turner and Olivia Jordan, the two teens who miraculously survived this accident.” Now she looks at us. “Matt, Olivia, thank you so much for being here. I know you’ve been through a lot in these past few weeks.”
She pauses, and for a moment I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer, but then she picks right back up. “So can you tell us about what happened that night—before your car was hit?”
She’s looking at me, and all of a sudden I don’t know what I was thinking saying yes to this, because I have no idea how to answer. I try not to panic, try to search through what I’ve been told and what I’ve seen and read, for the basics, but all I can think of is that I don’t want her or anyone watching to know that I don’t remember. That I’m still so broken.
I swallow. “I . . .” I feel my cheeks get hot, and the heavy weight of the emptiness in my mind.
“We were coming home from a friend’s house on Farris Island,” Matt says, rescuing me.
“It was a party, wasn’t it?” Dana Whitmore asks.
There’s a beat before Matt answers again. “Yes.”
“Was there drinking going on at the party?”
“Um . . . I don’t see what that has to do with the accident,” Matt says, his brows drawn together.
“Were you drinking that night?”
Matt shifts in his seat, and I wonder if he was—or if he even does. I have no idea. Maybe that’s what he’d meant the other day, about people saying things. Maybe that’s why he feels so guilty. But he shouldn’t, even if he was drinking. I was the one driving.
“I . . .” Matt looks helpless.
I want to save him, and somehow that gives me the voice to speak up, even though I don’t know the truth.
“No, we weren’t,” I say firmly. “And that’s irrelevant anyway. The accident happened because the truck hit us from behind.”
I see Matt’s shoulders relax the tiniest bit, but he doesn’t chance a thank-you glance at me.
Dana seems to accept my answer. “Okay, so let’s talk about what that was like, when the truck hit you. Did you see it coming? Did you try to react?”
She’s looking at me again, and again I don’t know the answer. I don’t have an answer. “I don’t remember,” I say quietly.
Matt puts a hand on my knee and squeezes gently. “We both saw the lights in the rearview. They were too bright and too close all of a sudden. She didn’t have a chance to react, because right after that it hit us.”
“And it sent you over?”
Matt answers again. “Not right away. It pushed us up and over the guardrail, and there was a second where the car kind of just sat there.”
Dana Whitmore looks at me. “That must have been terrifying. Did you try to get out?”
Matt saves me again. “We didn’t have time. Because then it tipped and we were falling. The car hit the water and glass exploded. Then the water came pouring in through all the windows.”
Dana Whitmore is shaking her head. “So what were you thinking at this point?”
“That we were gonna die if we didn’t get out.” Matt falls quiet, looks down at his lap.
“And what happened next?” Dana asks, softening her tone a little.
Matt looks up at her, his hands twisting in his lap. “We started to sink. Fast. And water and airbags were everywhere, and I was trying not to panic, but I couldn’t even see her.”
He looks in my direction, but it’s like he’s seeing that night. Like he’s remembering. And for the first time since the accident, I’m glad I don’t remember.
“I didn’t know if she was alive,” he continues. “But I knew we needed to get out because we were sinking so fast.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how I did it—the water and the adrenaline woke me up, I guess. I was holding my breath, and pulling myself out, and then I was free, and I found her and tried to get her out, but I was running out of air.”
“So you had to swim up to the surface?”
“I . . .”
Matt’s hands are shaking. He looks at me with eyes so sorry I wish we could just get up and leave right this moment.
Dana waits, giving him time to answer. I can’t handle seeing him this way. Now it’s me who takes Matt’s hand, and I hope the camera sees it.
“I didn’t want to leave her down there.”
“But you needed air,” Dana fills in.
He takes a deep breath like he needs air now too, then nods. “Yeah. I swam up, and took a breath, and dove back down. I could see the headlights, so I followed them. And I got to her, but she was stuck in her seat belt like I was, and I couldn’t get her out.”
This is the first time I’ve heard the story in his words, with his details. I don’t remember it, but I can see it like I do. The broken glass, the dark water pouring in through the windows. I can almost feel the burning in Matt’s chest as he tried to hold his breath to get me out. The thought of it puts a lump in my throat, because for the first time since I’ve woken up I realize that the accident didn’t just happen to me. This happened to both of us, and having the memory of it might be just as bad as not being able to remember what came before it.
“That must’ve been absolutely terrifying,” Dana says sympathetically.
“Yeah.” Matt glances at me and presses his lips together for a moment before he continues. “I knew she was gonna die if I couldn’t get her out.” He shakes his head. “I just wanted to get her out.”
I put my other hand on top of his. Try to remind him that I did get out, and I’m here with him, and that we’re here together.
Dana nods and turns to the camera. “It was at this time that Walker James, a nineteen-year-old fisherman, was coming into the harbor on a small boat. This footage was captured by an eyewitness.”
Behind us, a short clip of the video appears. Matt doesn’t look at it. He just stares straight ahead, but I can’t help it. This I know, like it’s a memory. The headlights in the water. Matt’s waving arms, barely visible in the lights from the bridge. The boat slowing down.
I glance at Dana, who has one hand on her headset and the other over her ear, like she’s trying to hear something over the hissing sound of the wind in the video. It stops, and the image
of the boat freezes on the screen. Dana straightens up. Puts on that smile again, and looks at the camera.
“At this time I’d like to welcome Walker James, the young man who was on that boat, and whose heroic efforts saved the lives of these two teens that fateful night.”
What happens next feels like it’s in fast-forward and slow motion at the same time. Dana waits, her too-wide smile still in place, mascara-covered lashes blinking expectantly. Matt lets go of my hand. Sits up, ramrod straight, looking around. And I am frozen in place, heart pounding in my ears as Walker James steps out from the darkness behind the cameras, onto the stage with us.
EIGHTEEN
WALKER JAMES WEARS a beat-up pair of jeans, work boots, a faded T-shirt, and an almost-scowl on his unshaven face as he crosses the stage.
Dana stands and extends her hand. “Walker, welcome. Wow. Thank you so much for joining us on such short notice.”
He gives her hand one shake and acknowledges her with a nod, but doesn’t say anything. His expression says it all, though. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. It makes me wonder why he’s here at all.
I take a nervous breath, notice the familiar pinch in my ribs. And then the air goes right out of me, because in this moment I realize that the pain that I still feel is connected to Walker, who is standing right in front of me, and to what he did that night to save my life. I flash on the image of him, above my body on the boat deck, and my hands feel the tiniest bit shaky.
“Please, sit down,” Dana is saying. She motions to the couch, and I realize the only place for him to sit is on the other side of me.
Walker’s eyes flick to the empty space, and I scoot closer to Matt to make room. Matt stands so he can pass, and they shake hands, nodding at each other like guys do. And then it’s my turn to greet him. I stand, not quite sure what to do. He looks like he doesn’t know either, and our eyes catch, and I see the green of his. It’s a moment that stretches out, tense, until Walker breaks it by extending his hand. I take it with my own, we shake, and meeting the person who saved my life is over in just a few seconds, too fast for me to even begin to process, and I want to slow it down because it’s a moment I thought would be bigger somehow.