by Paula Stokes
“But you haven’t forgotten.”
He’s got a point. I can’t forget. I will never forget. I think of that day every day when I do my morning rituals. “How do you even know where it happened?”
“You’re not the only one who’s been doing internet research.”
“You spied on me?”
“It’s okay for you to look me up, but not the reverse?” he asks. “How is that fair?”
I don’t answer, because it’s not fair. “I’m scared,” I say. “I don’t know if I should go back there.” The warm day suddenly feels chilly. I hug my arms around my chest.
“What about last week? You said your gut wanted to finish.”
“My gut would like to change its answer.”
Jordy glances over at me. “Do you really want to turn around?”
“I don’t know.” Trees fly by on either side. The road narrows. I haven’t seen another car in a while. We’re all alone—me, Jordy, and my memories. “No. I guess not, but please realize things aren’t as easy for me as they are for you.”
“Things aren’t easy for me either,” Jordy says. “I know my issues seem silly and weak compared to yours, but it was hard for me to stand up to my parents, to tell them I was going to make time for a life beyond tennis and studying.”
I fiddle with the strap of my seat belt. “What did they say?”
“They were pissed. They accused me of trying to sabotage my future, said that I was just setting myself up for failure.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That they were wrong. I don’t have to cut back on tennis to care about other stuff. It’s not like I practice ten hours a day every day. I can be with you and play on the tour. I just might have to organize my time a little differently.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I have to believe it. There are pro tennis players who are married with kids. There are guys doing the tour who work other jobs. I should be able to have a girlfriend if I want. Playing tennis is not worth giving up everything.”
I turn and study the landscape outside of my window—the trees in the foreground, the ridge of mountains way off in the distance. Everything is green and gray.
Everything is gray.
“What about you?” he continues. “Would you give up everything to stay in your safe little bubble if it meant not feeling responsible for anyone being hurt?”
I pick at a ragged cuticle. I feel like the answer should be yes; two months ago it would have been yes. But now I don’t know. How do I weigh the presence of joy against the absence of guilt?
Jordy lets out a deep breath. “Dammit, Maguire. Your answer should be no.” He turns to me. “You deserve a chance to be happy. You can’t live your life for everybody else.”
I don’t respond. Something moves at the side of the road. A bit of brown amidst the green and gray. A deer. She leaps out of the woods and onto the pavement, but Jordy’s still looking at me. “Watch out!” I gasp. I brace myself by grabbing for the door handle.
Jordy’s head snaps around. He swears loudly as he hits the brakes. I pitch sideways in my seat, my head slamming against the window. Rubber burns, rank and hot. Jordy swings the steering wheel to the right. We skid. I try to scream but nothing comes out. The car tilts wildly. I catch a glimpse of the deer’s slender legs moving out of the roadway as Jordy’s car careens off the pavement.
My head hits the window again and I see stars.
I see glass.
I see blood.
And then I don’t see anything at all.
CHAPTER 36
The pain awakens me, sharp and shredding, like someone is putting my left arm through a meat grinder. My eyes are caked with dirt and blood. The air is full of haze. My first thought is that I’m dying. If you’ve never been close to death, life probably seems pretty solid. The truth is, it can be destroyed in an instant, like a photograph. One moment your world is slick and shiny. But then the Universe crumples everything into a ball. And even if you don’t get crushed, if you fight to straighten things out, your life will never be the same again.
The world is full of holes and uneven seams, wrinkled places that you can’t make smooth, no matter how hard you try.
I have to try.
I lie smashed against what I think is the floor but turns out to be the passenger door. The car must have flipped onto its side when we went into the ditch. Bits of broken glass cut straight through my shirt and into my skin. My black curls snake out from my face like they’re trying to slither away from the wreckage.
I try to sit up, but can’t. I’m not even sure which way is up. It takes a fair amount of effort just to turn my head. Jordy is still strapped into his seat. Blood drips from a cut above his eye. He’s pale. Too pale. Reaching over, I shake his shoulder gently. His arm flops back and forth like he doesn’t have any bones.
No. He’s not dead. He can’t be.
This is my fault, I think. I should’ve stayed in my room, in my bed, reading under the covers where it was safe. Why did I leave? Why did I risk everything?
I did it for a lot of reasons.
I wanted to go to Ireland with my mom, to honor my family.
I wanted to be good at something for once.
I wanted things to be different.
I wanted Jordy’s attention, as much as I hate to admit it.
Mostly I did it because I wanted to believe. That I wasn’t cursed. That the past wasn’t my fault. That the future still held possibilities.
But maybe the only possibilities for me are ones that involve hurting the people I love.
The inside of the car begins to blur, darkness sneaking up on me slowly, gently, like a blanket unfolding.
You did this.
Maybe I did.
Bad Luck Maguire.
Maybe that’s who I am.
But maybe I can choose to be someone else.
“Jordy.” The word falls from my lips in pieces. I reach out for him again. There are two ways this can end. Fight or give up, I tell myself. But choose. For once in your life, don’t let the Universe choose for you.
“Jordy, wake up.” I nudge his shoulder again. No response. Lifting my hand to his neck, I search for a pulse. I think I feel one, but I’m not sure.
A drop of blood runs across his forehead and drips onto my injured arm. A wave of dizziness washes over me. I bite my lip, embrace the pain, fight to stay conscious. Wriggling out of my seat belt, I scan the wreckage for anything useful. Everything fell out of the center console when we flipped. Everything including pens, napkins, insurance cards, and Jordy’s cell phone.
I grab the phone with my right hand. The screen is shattered. It won’t turn on. “Shit.” I look around for my purse, but it’s nowhere to be found. I refuse to panic. There has to be something. A black strap in the periphery of my vision catches my eye. Of course. Jordy’s emergency kit. I can’t reach it with my right hand, and my left arm refuses to bend like it should. I end up craning my neck and grabbing the strap with my teeth. Gagging, I pull the black bag into the front seat.
With shaking fingers, I unzip it and find the emergency phone. I flip open the cover with my thumb. The screen comes to life. “Oh thank God.” With my left arm braced against my body for support, I call 911 and say we’ve been in an accident.
“What is your location?” the dispatcher asks.
“I—I’m not sure. I can’t think of the name of the highway.” I’m not sure whether it’s panic or if I have a head injury, but the number refuses to come to me. “North of San Diego, heading toward San Luis Obispo.”
“It’s all right. We can GPS you,” she assures me.
“Should I try to get out of the car?”
“Stay put unless you smell gasoline or there’s a fire,” she advises. “Try not to move at all. I’m going to stay on the line with you until help arrives.”
“My friend was driving,” I rasp. “He won’t wake up. I’m not sure if he’s okay.”
> “Help is coming,” the dispatcher says. “What’s your name?”
“Maguire.”
“Maguire. Is your friend still in the car with you?”
“Yeah, he’s still in his seat belt, but his head is bleeding.”
“Can you tell if he’s breathing? Maybe put a hand on his chest?”
I reach across my body and press my right hand against Jordy’s chest. I’m relieved to feel movement.
“He is.”
“Okay, Maguire. Then put gentle pressure on his head wound if it’s bleeding a lot. But don’t try to move him, okay? And try to keep his neck stable.”
“Okay.” I put the phone on speaker and set it next to me. Then I press my right hand gently to Jordy’s forehead.
His eyes flick open for a moment. “What. Happened,” he chokes out.
“There was a deer. We went off the road. Help is on the way.”
Jordy lifts a hand to his ribcage. “It hurts to breathe.”
“Just hang on,” I say.
“You know . . . this . . . not your fault . . . right?” Each bit takes him an entire breath to expel.
Tears flood my eyes, hot, desperate to fall. I’m not sure whether it’s relief that Jordy is awake or the fact that he’s injured and bleeding and the first words out of his mouth are meant to comfort me. “Yeah,” I tell him, not because I believe him but because it’s what he needs to hear. “I blame the deer.”
A sharp laugh erupts from his lips, followed by a grunt of pain. “You . . . okay?”
“Yes. Now stop trying to talk.”
Jordy makes a movement with his head that I think is supposed to be a nod. Then he swears under his breath. “My side . . . it hurts so bad.”
“Maguire?” The tinny voice of the dispatcher is barely audible through the phone’s speaker.
“Yes?”
“Help should be arriving momentarily,” she says.
“Okay.” Sirens sing in the distance. “I hear them coming. And my friend woke up.”
“Good. I’m going to disconnect then. Just sit tight. The first responders will get you out of the car safely.”
“Okay,” I say again. After a couple of seconds I add, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the dispatcher says. The screen goes dark as she ends the call.
The sirens grow louder. An ambulance bleats a shrill horn as it screeches to a stop. Blue-and-red lights reflect off the inside of the car. Jordy seems to have lost consciousness again. A door slams. There are shouts. Then a medic bends down to look through the windshield. “Miss,” he says. “We’re going to get you out, okay?”
“Him first.” I gesture at Jordy. The medic looks ready to argue, so I quickly add, “He’s bleeding. He said it hurts to breathe.”
“Okay. Hang tight.”
A group of firefighters approach the car dressed in their hats and heavy coats. They break the windshield glass and secure a big plastic collar around Jordy’s neck. Then they stabilize his body and cut him free of his seat belt, working as a team to move him from the car to a stretcher.
All I can do is watch. Helpless. No control.
No one is going to die.
I hope.
Paramedics load the stretcher into the back of an ambulance.
I’m next. Everything starts to fade out as my body is quickly and safely removed from the car and placed onto a stretcher. As the medics wheel me toward a second ambulance, my eyes skim over the carnage, the streaks of black rubber on the road, and the dense foliage that lines it. Somewhere back in the trees, I swear I see the soft dark eyes of a deer looking out at me.
CHAPTER 37
I end up in a hospital in Santa Barbara where a doctor tells me it looks like I have a broken arm but he can’t treat me without permission from my mother. It takes me a couple of minutes to calm down enough to remember her phone number.
My arm is throbbing by the time a nurse pops in my room to tell me my mom is on the way. She has a soft Spanish accent, and her hair is dark and curly like mine—just not quite as long, or as “big,” as Jordy would say. My eyes water when I think of him. I lean over. The nurse’s name tag blurs as I blink back tears. “Pilar?” I say.
“Yes.” She corrects my pronunciation with a grin, rolling the R-sound at the end. “But you can call me Pili if you like.”
“Do you know if my friend is okay? The guy I came in with?”
“I’m not sure. But I’ll see what I can find out.” She inserts an IV, injects me with pain medicine, and takes me to radiology for an X-ray.
After the X-ray, Nurse Pili brings me back to my room in the ER, where I’m left alone for about an hour. At some point during that time, the shock of everything starts to wear off, and the horrible reality comes crashing down on me. I might have saved Jordy and myself by finding the phone and calling 911, but I failed my therapy challenge massively.
I was so close to feeling normal again. I think about how far I came—the driving, the team bus, the party, even the roller coaster. And now what? How can I do anything but go back to my old life after this? I don’t want to hurt Jordy again. I don’t want to hurt Jade, or anyone from the team. I don’t want to risk the lives of a bunch of strangers on an international flight.
All Jordy wanted to do was turn pro, and who knows if his injuries will keep him from doing that? Who knows if he’s even okay? Well, that’s not all he wanted to do . . . Fine, whatever. He wanted to be my boyfriend, too. And now I’ve screwed up both of those things.
Nurse Pili pops her head in the room. “Hey, sweetie, it looks like you have an ulnar fracture—that’s the smaller bone in your forearm. An ortho doc is looking at your films, and your mom said she’s about twenty minutes away . . .” She trails off, approaching the bed with a concerned look. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She touches the fabric of my pillow.
It’s wet. I didn’t even know I was crying. “I’ve ruined everything,” I say. “This is all my fault.”
She bends down so we’re at the same level. Her brown eyes are full of concern. “What is all your fault?”
“The accident,” I whisper. “Can you please, please find out if Jordy is okay? What if I killed him?”
“What?” She blinks rapidly and then leans in closer like she thinks maybe she heard me wrong. “Were you the one driving?”
I shake my head. I hold my breath to keep from sobbing.
“Then how could you have killed him?”
My only answer is a steady stream of quietly dripping tears. I imagine explaining it all to her, the person I’ve been for the past few years, what it feels like to hurt anyone you get close to. Exhaling deeply, I collapse back on my pillow. “Can I have more pain medicine?” My arm feels like it’s on fire, but that’s nothing compared to the crushing sadness in my chest.
She grabs a box of tissues from the counter and sets it on the bedside table. “How would you rate your pain on a scale of zero to ten?”
“Seven?” I choke out. “A million? I don’t know.”
“Sorry. Everyone hates that question, but we need it for our charting. Let me check with the doctor.” Nurse Pili leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with a small syringe. “He said another half dose would be okay. He also said your friend got transferred to a hospital in San Diego. I can’t give you details, but we don’t transfer patients unless they’re stable, so try not to worry too much.”
I nod. “Thank you for checking.”
She smiles. “Clearly he means a great deal to you. I’m sure the doctors are taking excellent care of him.” She wipes the valve of my IV with an alcohol swab and flushes the medicine into my system. Warmth rushes up my arm, followed by a dullness that spreads throughout my body. Another half-dose is more than okay—it’s perfect. A dark, dreamless sleep steals me away.
When I wake up, my mother is sitting in a chair next to my bed, my luck notebook balanced on her lap. Uh-oh. I roll over to face her and a dull ache spreads throughout my arm. A blue and gray fibe
rglass cast runs from my hand to just below my elbow. I peer down at the cast suspiciously.
“Maguire!” My mom pulls her chair close to the bed. “Oh thank goodness you’re okay.” I’m still staring at the cast, so she adds, “They did some sort of external fix where they reset your bones without having to do surgery. Cool, huh? I asked for your school colors. You slept through the whole thing.”
I lick my lips. “I don’t even remember a doctor coming in.”
“The nurse said you had extra morphine, and then you got a sedative for the procedure. I guess it kept you pretty knocked out.”
Without lifting my head from the pillow, I nod. “Jordy?” I ask. “Do you know if he’s okay?”
“His sister called your phone about twenty minutes ago.” She holds up my purse. It’s battered and the strap is bloody, but otherwise it’s mostly whole. “They stabilized him here, and then his parents had him airlifted back to San Diego. Apparently he has a collapsed lung and a lot of minor cuts and scrapes, but Penn says he’s going to be fine.”
I weep with relief. I curl onto my side and pull my legs up to my chest.
Mom bends low and strokes my hair. “Are you hurting? Do you need more morphine?”
I cry even harder. If only medicine could fix this. Mom doesn’t say anything else. She just rubs my back repeatedly until I calm down. Then I roll over, wipe my eyes with my good hand, and take three deep breaths. “He asked me to be his girlfriend. We were going to make things official after we got home tonight.”
“Home from?”
“SLO. The accident site.”
“Ah,” my mom says. “Another one of your therapy challenges?”
“I should’ve told you,” I say. I don’t know if it’s the pain medicine or if the secrets have just grown too big for me to hold inside, but I tell her everything—my curse, my rituals, my five-second checks. I’m expecting her to be surprised, but then I remember my luck notebook perched on her lap. She must have found it in my purse when she went to answer my phone.