by Amelia Wilde
I don’t know if she’ll want to have anything to do with me. Ever again.
She obviously sees me as a threat.
Maybe I am.
I push all of it out of my head. I don’t care what she says, or what she does. I only care that she’s safe. Because I love her. I love her so much that even if she tells me it’s really over, I’ll be satisfied.
My phone rings and I snatch it up, swiping across the screen without looking. If it’s her—
“Shit, man, this snow is a bitch.”
It’s Brett.
“What do you want, Miller?”
“Are you driving?”
“What do you want?”
“Where the hell are you going? I was calling about a job, but—”
“No time.”
“For the job, or—”
“I have to get somewhere. I’m going somewhere important.”
“Are you okay? The storm—”
“I’m on M-66 heading north toward Evergreen.”
“That’s really specific, dude. Why—”
“Lacey and I broke up.”
“Shit. When?”
“This morning.”
“Is this some kind of suicide mission? Because Cros, I have to tell you, you can always—”
Brett’s so damn sincere that it almost kills me. I wonder if he was always that way, but I don’t wonder for more than a split second because I’m trying to drive through the state’s worst snowstorm.
“No. I’m going after Lacey.”
“Where’s she?”
“She drove to the hospital.”
“Did she go off the road?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. I have to make sure.”
“Don’t let her get away, Cros.”
“I’m not.”
“Whatever you did, just—” I lose some of his words when the wind picks up, pushing against my truck so hard that the back end starts to fishtail. “—apologize and make her see—”
“This isn’t the time, man,” I shout into the phone. “I have to go.”
“Let me know when you get there. And—don’t let her get away. She’s the only one I’ve ever seen who—”
“I know. I know.”
I hang up the phone.
Brett’s fucking right, and as the words come out of his mouth his rightness strikes me like a hammer hitting a bell, over and over, echoing into the frigid wind. She’s the only one who’s ever done anything for me. She’s the only one who makes life seem colorful, seem worth living.
But that has to wait.
All of it has to wait because all of it is going to be worthless if I can’t get to her in time, if I let down another person, if, because of me, she’s out here alone and something happens to her.
The snow clears. For one second, it clears, and I see, with absolute horror, that Lacey isn’t in the ditch.
She’s on the side of the road, right by that concrete barrier.
My heart beats, and my eyes go left, down Evergreen. A black crossover is hurtling down that road, going way too fast, out of control, and it’s heading right for the little red Jeep.
I blink, and the snow is covering the scene. Blink again, and I get one more second of clarity. The crossover is even closer to Lacey, and with one more breath, it’s like time slows down and I can see everything. Her wheels spinning on ice that must be underneath the snow, unable to get purchase. Her shadow in the driver’s seat, right in the path of the crossover. The way the vehicle doesn’t seem to realize the road is ending, or can’t see, or can’t stop the car.
And me, in my truck.
I push down on the accelerator, and the truck responds. I’m in the perfect position. I’m going to make it. I’m going to get to the intersection.
I push down a little more and I keep my hands on the wheel, managing to stay on the road, even though the snow is grabbing at both front wheels with its icy hands. We’re all moving, the crossover, the Jeep, and me, we’re all converging on one point.
My heart beats.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Then my truck is sailing into the intersection, and as I come up to Lacey’s Jeep, I press down on the brakes, feather light, hardly a tap at all, and the truck starts to stop, and I’m between her and the crossover.
Impact.
There’s a deafening crumpling of metal, a searing pain in my left arm, the punch of the airbag breaking my nose.
Lacey—
Then black.
Chapter Forty-One
Lacey
I look up toward Evergreen, which is the only reason I know the headlights are coming, pointed straight towards me.
I don’t know why I’m looking up from the map I’ve pulled up on my phone to Evergreen, as if looking into a blinding snowstorm is the thing that’s going to confirm for me that the map is correct. Either it’s correct or it’s not, but I’ve got to get out of the car and get across the street and toward one of those buildings—one of them is a Subway sandwich shop—before—
But I’ve already missed the window of opportunity because the wind whips around in another direction and I see it. I see the headlights. I see the black outline of what seems like a small SUV, and I see that it’s coming toward me.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper under my breath. I wonder if I’m ever going to have a reason to say anything else ever again in my life, which might be shortened considerably by the metal machine that’s aiming at me right now.
It’s coming too fast.
Do they not know where they’re going? Is it someone from out of town? Is it a drunk driver?
I have no way of knowing, but what really matters—what really matters—among this deluge of speculation, is that I am trapped between the concrete barrier and their car, and I have nowhere to go.
I put my foot down on the gas and press, hard, but the wheels just spin underneath me.
“Oh, shit!” I shout, louder, like shouting it louder is going to give me a better chance at getting out of here. They’re coming, they’re coming, and I can’t do anything.
I turn toward the passenger side. Should I climb toward the passenger side? That will put me closer to the concrete, and if they hit the Jeep hard enough—
But if they hit the Jeep hard enough and I’m sitting in the driver’s seat—
Oh, my God, I’m going to die.
I’m going to die.
I push down on the gas again, my hands not even on the wheel, and I get nothing. I can’t move the car a single foot. Are they going to try to stop? Even if they try to stop, I think the roads are too icy. They’re going to hit me. They’re absolutely going to hit the Jeep that I’m sitting inside right now.
Do I get out and run? Do I get out—?
I look into the rearview mirror—another gust of wind—and there are headlights there, too. Oh, my God, I’m really trapped, I’m really trapped this time, and I’m not going to be able to get out. If I throw myself out of the car right now, the car coming up M-66 might hit me, and if I don’t, the SUV is going to hit me, and I freeze.
I freeze because I don’ know what to do.
I’ve spent four years in med school learning to take action. I’ve learned to assess the situation and make a decision based on the best of my abilities, but now, with my heart in my throat and tears in my eyes, I can’t decide.
I don’t know what to do.
What do I do?
My phone is in my hand, it’s clutched in my fist, and I swipe at it, open it, stab at the screen with my thumb. I want to call my mother. I want to call my mom and ask her what she would do. I’m a doctor, a grown woman, and I want to call her and tell her I’m sorry for getting myself into this situation, but could she please help me, please get me out of this.
And I want to call Crosby, and tell him that he was right, he was so right to try to get me to stay at home, that no job in the world is worth this, and the only thing in the world that matters to me more than my p
arents and my job is him. He’s always mattered to me that much. I’ve only ever belonged to him.
Instead, I dial 9-1-1.
The moment expands around me. I watch the SUV get closer, closer.
The dispatcher answers.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“I’m at M-66 and Evergreen, and I’m about to be hit by a car.”
“M-66 and Evergreen,” the woman on the other end of the line repeats back, like she’s taking down a recipe I’m giving her. “Is anyone hurt, ma’am.”
“I’m about to be hit by a car.”
“No accident has occurred yet?”
“Please send someone. It’s about to happen.” My voice is high, getting more frantic by the moment. “There’s a car coming at me, and I’m trapped against the concrete—”
It’s seconds away. Three, two—
My mouth opens in a scream that obliterates even the sound of the wind, and I try to relax my body because once my father told me that people who are sleeping are more likely to survive car crashes because they’re so relaxed, and the dispatcher is saying something into my ear but I can’t hear her, and something big and white flies between me and the SUV at the last second.
There’s a horrendous crushing of metal and the Jeep slams into the concrete, but not the front end, where I am. It’s the back end, crumpling, and the side airbags go off, but it’s not the front, it’s not the center. The back end of the truck has taken the brunt of the force from the car, distributing into the rear end of the Jeep. The side crumples in toward me and the impact knocks the wind out of me. My head whips to the right and then slams back into the driver’s side window.
I’m still screaming. Something just above my left knee aches. My ears are ringing. My head throbs.
“Ma’am,” the dispatcher says into my ear. “Can you hear me? Emergency personnel are on their way. Ma’am, are you able to answer me? What’s your name?”
“Lacey,” I scream at her, even though it’s over, I think it’s over, and I’m still alive, but then the full realization hits me, and I’m sobbing. “My boyfriend Crosby was in his truck. He blocked me with his truck.”
Which means that he’s the one who took the force of the blow. But his truck is trapping me in the Jeep, the door a mangled mess, and on the other side is concrete. I can’t get to him.
“I can’t get to him,” I howl at the dispatcher. “Please, hurry. Hurry!”
Chapter Forty-Two
Crosby
There’s a dull ringing in my ears, and something cuts into my side just above my right hip. The pain stings. I can’t open my eyes.
I’m late for school. The sound of my alarm rings and rings, incessantly. I wish someone would come in and turn it the fuck off. I wish my mom would get sick of listening to it and turn it off.
It’s so damn loud.
I try to raise my arms to cover my ears, but only my right arm obeys me. When I try to lift the left one, the pain is so sharp that I yell through gritted teeth to make it stop, make it stop.
I lose my grip.
I’m going to be late for school, and I have to get there before Lacey gets there. I like to be there first so that she’s never alone in the sea of people who don’t love her like I love her.
Lacey.
Lacey’s dark hair, the scent of her shampoo, the way her hips swing on the way to her locker. The way she’ll put her hand on my cheek, then turn her back and walk away like she has all the time in the world to come back.
I’m at the school, walking with Lacey, her fingers entwined with mine, holding hands.
“I love you,” she says. We’re heading out to my car. We’ll stop at home and say hi to her mom, and then I’ll take her to the Mexican place she loves. It’s Friday night. We’ll sit with our friends, but I’ll have my arm around her. She’ll be the most beautiful girl in the entire place. In the entire town. In the entire world.
I’m in the car with Lacey, late at night. Marci is eating at me again. I don’t know what set me off this time. Maybe it was the waves crashing against the shore. Maybe it was the jokes about drowning at dinner.
“What’s wrong, Crosby?” She looks at me with her eyes wide and dark, her hand on mine, resting on the center console.
“It’s nothing.” I don’t want to tell her that I’m wounded like this. I don’t want to tell her how it makes me want to follow her everywhere, to make sure she’s always all right, to make sure I’m never out of reach if something happens. But I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of psycho. I don’t want to admit that weakness.
“You can tell me.”
“Crosby.” Someone says it firmly to me, and there’s cold wind blowing, cutting through my coat, cutting through my pants. There’s something wet on my side, hot against the cold. They say something else, but their voice is garbled.
Someone jostles my arm and I scream. I can’t stop it, I can’t keep it in, I can’t pretend it’s not searing, breaking pain, and then it flickers back out again.
“Are you serious about this girl?” My mom asks me the question over breakfast, a rare breakfast. I’m with her at the diner instead of at football practice or at Lacey’s house.
“I’m dead serious.”
“You going to marry her?”
“Hell yes.”
“You’ve got to get into college first, you know.”
“You don’t have to get a degree to get married.”
“With a girl like Lacey O’Collins, you most certainly do. She’s going to be a shooting star.”
“She’s already a star.”
“Do right by her.”
Mom grins at me across the table, and I take another bite of my waffles. She looks good, she looks really good, she looks like cancer isn’t coming down the pike in a few years. She looks like she doesn’t blame me for what happened to Marci.
“I’m sorry about Marci,” I tell her, but we’re in dream territory now. I never forced those words out when she was alive, but she’s alive right now, she’s both alive and dead, all wrapped up in this endless moment.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Her eyes are absolutely sincere, clear, not a single tear.
“I didn’t get to her in time.”
“None of us did. It was an accident.”
“I should have been there.”
“You were eight years old, Crosby. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Then why did it happen?”
“Because she ran ahead. That old piling was rotted. It doesn’t take long to drown.”
“I could have run faster.”
“You were just a boy.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers. “It was not your fault. And I love you.”
“I love you.”
There’s a bright light, so bright that it sears through my closed eyelids. I turn my head away, but the act of turning my head sends a bolt of pain straight through my temples. The alarm is so loud.
The alarm—the sirens. The sirens are piercing.
“Turn it off.”
“Crosby, my name is Jason, and I’m going to help you. You’re in an ambulance—”
“Turn it off,” I shout, pain jumping through my arm, my head, my chest, my side, my leg, an ache I can’t shake off. “I’m up. I’m awake, I’ll be on time.”
“You were in a car accident, Crosby, and we’re taking you by ambulance to Lockton Community Hospital.” There’s a pinprick among the rest of the pain and it eases the rest of the pain a bit, but not by much, not enough.
My mind recoils from the light, starts to flicker out again. Lacey is holding my hand at the beach. She loves the beach. “I love watching you swim,” she tells me, a wide grin on her face. “I love watching you all wet. Go out one more time.” The water is rough on my skin, rough on my heart, but I go in again and again. Her smiles are a balm. Her happiness dulls the ache.
Marci is running ahead of me down the hill, but at the edge of the forest she pauses, her blonde hair shining in
the sun. “Come on, Crosby! I’ll race you!”
“I’ll beat you!” But I don’t beat her. I let her win, because even though I pretend not to like my little sister, she’s my favorite person in the entire world. I hang back, walk through the field, walk down the path, because I want her to think she really beat me, she really won this time. I’ll act like I’m out of breath when I get down to the lake.
When our parents catch up, then we’ll go swimming. Marci can’t swim yet, but she’s going to learn. Any day now, she’s going to learn.
“Crosby!”
Chapter Forty-Three
Lacey
“Lacey!”
My mom rushes into my room at the ER, my dad following closely behind her, and my stomach turns over with guilt that this is the first time I’ve seen them since I got back into town. It’s not exactly the reunion I was hoping for.
She’s at my bedside in an instant, folding me in her arms. “Are you all right?”
“I’m—mostly okay, yeah. The Jeep’s not.” I told her about how I had to extend the rental contract—no time for car shopping until my next Sunday off, if I even had time to do it then.
She steps back, appraises me. Her hair is swept back from her face in a low ponytail that looks surprisingly chic. She’s never dyed her hair, so it’s softly going gray, turning from the same dark shade mine is now.
“It’s just a car,” my dad says, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “Did you break anything?”
“Nope.” I hold both of my hands up in front of my face and wiggle my fingers.
Mom looks around, like looking around can summon one of the other doctors to my bedside. “What did they say?”
“A mild concussion is all. My neck is a little sore. But I’m being released in the next few hours. They just want to observe me for a little while longer.”
“I’m going to go get some coffee.” My dad pats my shoulder, then steps back out of the room. “I love you, Lacey.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
Hospitals give him the creeps. I’m not surprised that he doesn’t want to linger in the room and look at me lying here. Now that he’s confirmed that I’m alive, he’ll be wandering around elsewhere until Mom decides it’s time to leave.