As Much As I Ever Could

by Brandy Woods Snow

  “CJ?” Her voice cracks. “Come with me, please.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The door closes with a thud behind me. Suddenly, it’s as if the sterile corridor is a vacuum, sucking the air from my lungs. My stomach plummets to my toes and I grab the handrail affixed to the wall. I imagine it’s here for moments such as these—moments when you have no idea if the next words you hear will knock your legs out from underneath you. Mine are barely holding me up now, trembling with every step we take. Jenniston stops and turns to me, fresh tears streaming again as she gathers me into her arms and squeezes me tight.

  Oh, God. No.

  Everything about this is all too familiar, all too painful as the memories of another such hospital visit crash into my brain. Except then, I was the one in the hospital bed, covered in tubes, watching through the sidelight window as a doctor put his hand on my Dad’s shoulder and held it there a while. Dad’s eyes went blank, and he sank straight down like the floor swallowed him. Only his hand had remained visible, clutching onto the wooden rail much like the one holding me up now, as if it’s a life preserver.

  “Jenniston?” My voice is weak, barely more than a whisper.

  She releases her grasp and holds me at arm’s length. I try to swallow, but the lump is in the way; it’s like a brick lodged in my throat, threatening to strangle me.

  That’s when she smiles, wide enough to reveal most of her teeth. “He’s okay, CJ. Jett’s fine. A few bruises and some stitches. A mild concussion. But the doctor says other than a little soreness, he’ll still be able to race in two weeks. Isn’t that terrific news?”

  The relief floods through me, and for the first time since the accident, my lungs suck in a deep breath. She reaches down and squeezes my hand in hers.

  Before I can speak, the door swings open wide. “Y’all coming in or what? The patient has lost his patience.” Mr. Ramsey laughs and steps back, waving us into the room. Jett’s in the bed, elevated to sitting with the generic gray-blue hospital gown untied and pulled away from his chest. A congregation of beeping monitors and machines crowd the head of his bed.

  “Cami, check it out!” He smiles and traces a long line of puckered skin, neatly stitched together with small black knots. It snakes across his chest and out to his arm. Like mine.

  I’m pretty sure he wants me to laugh about it, but I can’t. Right now, I just want to put my hands on him. I need to touch his warm skin and feel his breath going in and out under my fingers. Make sure that this isn’t all a dream. Authenticate his life.

  I drop Jenniston’s hand and charge headlong into the room, plowing by Mr. Ramsey so hard he fumbles backward a bit. The wires and machines are no obstacle for my hands, which slip around his ribs and clench into his shoulder blades. After a sharp exhale, his muscles tense under my arms, and the beeps from the heart monitor pick up speed as his lips brush over my earlobe. “Easy tiger, I’m out of commission.”

  I can’t loosen my grip though, so I bury my face into his chest, sure I’ll dissolve into him.

  He whispers in my ear. “You’re good, right?”

  The words stick in my throat, so I nod and sit as close to him as the tangle of wires allow, pushing everything—the wreck, Rachel’s accusations, and my own haunting memories—out of my mind. The important thing is he’s alive. That’s what I have to focus on. Nothing else.

  The orange light for medium roast blinks as the machine whirs to life in front of me. I never expected our night to end with a hospital stay and a Styrofoam cup full of lackluster vending machine coffee. But at least it’s ending with Jett still alive.

  This is the first time since I saw him in that huge, impersonal bed, looking so small against the pillow, that I haven’t had my hands on him. Even through the vitals assessment, the nurse let me sit on the foot of his covers and grasp his ankle. It’s a defense mechanism because inside, a storm’s brewing. A howling around my heart says he wouldn’t even be here right now if it wasn’t for me. I’m trying to ignore it.

  They’re keeping Jett overnight for observation. Just precautionary. At least that’s what the doctor said when he encouraged everyone to go home, get some rest, and let the patient recuperate. But the thought of leaving him nearly knocked the air out of me. Thankfully, Mr. Ramsey—surely noticing my death-grip on Jett’s hand—asked if I wanted to keep Jett company for the night.

  The answer was unequivocally yes and for very selfish reasons. My fried nerves ache for his comfort and the reassurance that he is totally fine.

  Afterward, as Jenniston left to pull the car around, she hinted it might be good for me to call Memaw and get something to eat or drink. A protest rose in my throat when Mr. Ramsey grabbed the reclining chair and slid it alongside the bed’s rail. He needed some time alone for a little father-son talk, probably to reassure Jett and tell him how grateful he was to see him alive.

  Three short beeps bring me back to present as the vending machine’s clear plastic door automatically lifts and reveals my cup, brimming with fresh coffee. I slide it off the platform and blow away the ringlets of steam before sipping. The hot liquid singes my lips, but I drink it anyway. If I keep busy, the darkness lurking at the edge of my thoughts won’t consume me.

  I turn the corner and walk down the hallway when a loud voice—not angry-loud, just firm—spills out of room 212’s partially ajar door. I shrink against the wall, nearly spilling hot coffee down the front of me as I lean in to listen.

  “…it’s been all summer, son. Not just tonight.”

  “You’re sounding more and more like Rachel.”

  Mr. Ramsey snort-laughs. “I normally wouldn’t take that as a compliment, but under these circumstances, I do.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” There is a faint rustle of sheets, and Jett’s groans bleed out into the hall.

  “Rachel’s attitude is shit, Jett—we both know that—and I don’t like some of the underhanded stunts she pulls on the track, but…”

  “But what?”

  “She has a point. She’s been warning you, me, everyone all summer that your focus is off. You’re too…consumed…by other things.”

  “Oh, I see. So you’re next in line to start in on me and Cami? First Rachel and now you? That whole line is a bunch of bull—”

  “Give it a rest, Jett.” Mr. Ramsey’s voice is cool, hard. “This isn’t some sort of witch hunt. I like CJ. She’s a terrific girl. And I get it. But listen to me, what good are you going to be to her if you’re dead?”

  “I’m not dead.” Two loud smacks, like skin on skin, ring out between his words. I imagine him slapping his chest the way I’ve seen him do when and he and Bo are smack-talking. “Still flesh and blood right here.”

  “You’re damn lucky you aren’t dead after tonight. But you could very well end up that way if you don’t get your head in the game.”

  “My head’s fine.” His voice is flat without intonation. Almost robotic.

  “Missing practices? Showing up late, then leaving early? Stopping every 10 minutes to text on that damn phone?” Mr. Ramsey pauses but Jett doesn’t respond. Not even a discernible sigh. “Rachel says she warned you about Tyler’s plans, but you blew her off. You should’ve seen that trick coming a mile away, but you didn’t. You got too cocky out there, showboating for your girlfriend, and you got sloppy.”

  The beep-beep-beep of monitors increases again. “Sloppy? I won the last race, and I was well on my way to winning another before that jackass Tyler—”

  “You’re saying that with a straight face? You barely pulled out the last win, and tonight? Well, that’s a whole different story.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Tyler would’ve never had the guts to try that maneuver if he didn’t think he could pull it off. He’s good technically, but he’s always lacked that fire, that determination that used to set you apart.”

  “So now I suck?” Jett laughs, sending a thousand ice cubes down my back.

  The chair legs screech across the tile.
“God, son, are you listening? Word’s getting around, and the vultures are circling.”

  “What word?”

  “Have you looked at the online forums? Even the fans see it, saying you’re off your game, screwin’ up left and right. Spending so little time at the track that your skills are suffering. I’ve been trying to ignore it all summer, but after tonight…I can’t ignore it anymore.”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “You’re becoming a liability to the team and to yourself. Get your shit together or you’re off the team. I’ll pull the plug before you ruin your career or get yourself killed.”

  “An ultimatum? Really?”

  “Learn from my mistakes, son. When you’re with CJ…be with CJ. Focus on her, make her feel special, be involved, all that fun stuff. But when you’re on the track, focus on the track. Only on the racing. It takes one mistake to end your career…or your life.” The doorknob twists, and the crack in the door widens slightly. “Just think about it. I love you, Jett. I only want the best for you.”

  The wooden door squeaks the rest of the way open, and I step behind a large rolling cart of medical supplies so Mr. Ramsey won’t see me. I peer out between the boxes of bandages and rolls of gauze. He steps out into the hall, pausing long enough to stare back in the room for a minute, then sighs and heads off toward the red exit sign.

  It’s only then I realize I’m holding my breath. My chest tightens from the lack of oxygen. My hand shakes so violently that ripples of coffee slosh against the sides of my cup. The thought of another drop on my tongue spikes a churning nausea. I drop it into the garbage can in the empty room across the hall and step back into the hard glare of the fluorescent lights as I dart toward the family lounge, where I can be alone to digest Mr. Ramsey’s words.

  By the time I return to Jett’s room, the nurse is pushing her mobile instrument panel into the hall after having checked his vitals and given him a dose of pain medication to last the night. She whispers he might have a good five minutes before they take effect, so I slip through the door to his bedside. The hospital gown is crumpled in a pile around his waist, all but the pulse and blood pressure monitors disconnected and pushed to the background, and his chest is bare except for the snaking black strings suturing the gash.

  Jett slits his eyes and grins, patting the bed on his right, uninjured side, and I ease onto the mattress, curling up in the small void beside him.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Getting coffee. Calling Memaw.” I clear my throat of the lump rising deep within. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, now that you’re here.”

  “I doubt my presence is the cure-all for your pain. But rest is. Why don’t you close your eyes and relax?”

  “If I close my eyes, I can’t see you.”

  “I’m right here. You need to focus on your healing, not me.”

  “I’m always focused on you. All the time, every day. 24/7.”

  His voice takes on a slight slur as the medicine infiltrates his blood. I swipe my hands over his eyes, closing his eyelids. The drowsiness keeps him from re-opening them. I scoot farther down and loop my arm over this waist.

  Before he totally gives it up, he pushes out a few more words, garbled and breathy. “You…make me happy…Cami.” He stops and smacks his lips a few times. “You’re all…I could…think…about…tonight at the…track…” His voice trails off as he succumbs to sleep, but his words cut deep. His dad was right. Rachel was right. Jett just admitted it. He was thinking about me when the wreck happened. His dreams—his life even—are in jeopardy, and it’s my fault.

  I demanded too much of his time and focus—attention he should’ve been putting on his racing. Rachel’s words ramble around my brain, but even more, the private discussion she had with Jett before the race is omnipresent. She hadn’t known I was there, so there was no reason to showboat. No, that discussion had been pure honesty, but he’d brushed off her warnings. The only time he’d shown any fire at all was when he took the words as a slight to me.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and click the link for Jett’s racing social media page. His dad said people were talking. Maybe it’s time to find out what they’re saying. The discussion thread has five new comments in the last hour since Mr. Ramsey posted details about Jett’s condition.

  * * *

  Ir8 Drvr Rookie mistake. Didn’t look like championship material tonight

  RamFan17 Tyler coming on strong. Don’t underestimate him.

  Axlr8 Heard he has a new gf. Reckon she’s been keeping him up late? LOL

  Jettster @Axlr8 If so, he needs to drop her like a bad habit. Ruining a good thing

  Ir8 Drvr Glad he isn’t dead. Could’ve been much worse. Might not be so lucky next time.

  * * *

  I click off my phone and shove it deep in my pocket, swallowing hard. There’s the evidence in plain view. Next time? My stomach churns.

  There can’t be a next time.

  I’ve been staring at Jett for the last six hours. The room’s silent except for the occasional blip from a machine or the gentle exhales he makes when readjusting. I can’t bring myself to sleep because as everything runs circles in my head, and I piece together the whole truth, the more I know what I have to do. So instead of closing my eyes, I lay against his shoulder, tracing my fingertips over and over again across the curves of his arm and hand. Feeling him. Memorizing him. Because one day soon, this will be all I have left of us. Memories. And it makes me sick.

  Sometime before dawn, I kiss Jett’s lips, steady and slow, then slip from the bed to the reclining chair.

  An hour later, he flutters his eyes and scans the room. When they land on me, he smiles and pats the bed beside him. “Morning. Come snuggle?”

  Oh God. My heart is blowing up in my chest, but I have to stay calm. I bite my lip, shaking my head. The words stick in my throat like glue.

  He squints and pushes himself up in the bed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “With my life.”

  “Good. It’s your life I’m concerned about.”

  “Here it comes.” He tosses his hands in the air with a small snort. “You’re still freaked about the wreck. I saw it in your face last night, but Cami…it’s only one wreck.”

  His words slap me across the face. “Only? You could’ve died.”

  “Wrecks happen in racing all the time. It scared you and dredged up bad memories, but—”

  “It dredged up a lot of truths, too.” I jump to my feet, pacing beside his bed. “Things I’ve been trying to ignore. Things you’ve been denying.”

  The beeps on his pulse monitor accelerate as his voice hardens. “What do you mean?”

  “I overheard you and your dad talking last night. He thinks your focus has been slipping all summer. Exactly like Rachel said. Your head’s not in the race.”

  Jett slams his hand on the bed rail; the attached TV remote falls to the floor. “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks! They don’t—”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about.” I grab Jett’s hand, squeezing his fingers in mine. “Your dad didn’t threaten to kick you off the team for nothing. You’re not listening to their warnings. I wasn’t either. At least, not until last night.”

  “Look, Tyler snuck up on me. He got the better of me this time. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t. Because I won’t be there to distract you anymore.”

  He rips his hand from mine and crosses his arms. “What are you saying?”

  “They’re right. I’ve been taking up too much of your time. Time you should’ve been committing to the track, and—”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Please. Let me finish while I still can.” I sit on the edge of his bed near his feet, unable to get closer for fear of the look on his face when I tell him everything. “I want you to get that championship. I want you to get that architecture degree. I want you to be happy
…and alive. What I have to do now is make sure that happens.”

  “Why are you talking like this?” Jett’s face softens. His eyes are wide, almost pleading.

  “Because two people are already dead because of me, and you mean too much for me to let you be the third.”

  He shakes his head. “No. You’re not doing this to us. It’s you and me, remember? If you walk away, we’ve lost each other already.”

  I want to give in. Nothing would taste better than his lips against mine. Nothing would feel better than wrapping my arms around him and nursing him through this. But how can I stay if his feelings for me might be the very thing that kills him?

  “Jett, please understand…”

  He drops his head for a minute, then lifts it again. He’s glaring at me. Stone-faced. Hard. “Oh, I understand. You swore you wouldn’t do this. You said you’d always come back. That you cared about me, but…you lied.”

  “That’s not fair! I’m not leaving you because I don’t care about you. I’m leaving because I do! I can’t watch you…” Tears slip down my cheeks as I watch everything we had—could have had—circle the drain. Oh God, this is killing me. I bury my face in my hands as the door clicks open. From between my fingers, I see Mr. Ramsey walk into the room.

  “Just leave then. The door’s right there. Or better yet, call my mother, and she’ll tell you how it’s done.”

  Mr. Ramsey backs into the wall, as if the bullet aimed at me has struck him too. I lower my hands and approach Jett’s bed. “I’m not your mother.”

  “No. You’re worse.” He turns his head toward the wall, blocking me from his sight. “Now get out…CJ.”

  Of all the emotionally-charged words shared, his calling me CJ hurts the most.

  I retreat toward the door. Mr. Ramsey’s mouth is curled into a frown. His chest heaves up and down, but the look he’s giving me isn’t one of hate, but of sadness. Sympathy and gratitude.