Just Like Fate

by Cat Patrick

  I laugh. “I think I can see the Big Dipper,” I say, touching my finger to the glass, “and Orion. But now that it’s snowing, it’s all fading into white.”

  “I love the snow,” Chris says, dreamlike.

  “Me too,” I say, matching his tone. I look from the sky to the road and realize that it’s snowing a little harder now as we start to climb the mountain toward Clinton. The headlights spotlight the flakes as they fly in diagonally from left to right. Chris passes a semi with its hazards flashing.

  My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and look to see who it’s from. Joel. I delete it without reading the message. Chris goes around another couple of semitrucks, glancing over.

  “Your boyfriend?” he asks, nodding to the phone.

  “No,” I answer automatically. Then, because it’s not exactly the truth, I look over at him. “At least not anymore.”

  Chris grins. “Well, I am incredibly glad to hear that.”

  “Me too.” We settle into a comfortable silence before Chris gets fidgety and begins to tap his thumbs on the steering wheel—to “Sweet Caroline.”

  “You doing anything exciting for Thanksgiving?” he asks, changing lanes to go around a car with its hazard lights on.

  “No,” I say. “Not really. I’m supposed to go to my mother’s, but I don’t know. I might hang at my dad’s instead. I haven’t spent a holiday with him in like five years.” I stop, surprised I’m telling this to a stranger, but Chris just nods along like he doesn’t find it even the least bit odd.

  “My parents are on a cruise,” he says with a laugh. “They invited me, but hanging out on deck chairs while my mother sips gin and tonics just doesn’t feel festive to me. A few friends and I are going to hit up Denny’s or something.” He looks over. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Uh, Denny’s is gross. Do you want to …” I pause, my cheeks reddening. “Do you want to meet my dad?” I ask, laughing to myself as I do. He widens his eyes.

  “First I’m trying to get you back to my room, and now you want me to meet your dad? Maybe we should be looking at engagement rings, Caroline.”

  I melt a little at the way he says my name. “Okay, but make sure the rock is huge,” I tell him. “I want everyone to know just how shallow we are.”

  “Of course.” Chris’s brow furrows as we get stuck behind yet another eighteen wheeler with its hazards on. “Guess Friday night is hot for hauling,” Chris says, nodding to the truck in front of us. “What do you think that tri-axle’s got in the wagon, buddy?”

  “You speak Trucker?” I ask, laughing.

  “I’ve played trucker video games,” he says, “so yes, that makes me fluent.” Then, glancing in the rearview mirror, “There’s a tanker yanker in our back door coming in hot.”

  I turn to see what he’s talking about. “Tanker yanker. Is that a truck that hauls tanks, by any chance?”

  “I have no idea,” Chris admits. “I was just trying to impress you with my mad trucking skills.”

  I cup my hand, pretending it’s a CB, and talk into it. “What’s your handle, boss man?” I’ve played the video game in question with Teddy before. I drive a mean triple trailer.

  Chris takes a hand off the wheel and cups it over his mouth. He makes a crackling sound into it, then answers me. “Ten four. Handle’s Big Daddy; same back atcha. Over.”

  I roll my eyes at his ridiculous trucker nickname and rack my brain for something cooler. But apparently Chris thinks I’m taking too long because he radios in again. “Don’t spend our whole flip-flop trying to one-up me. Over.”

  I’m about to tell him to get out of the granny lane when I glance up ahead and see, through what’s become much heavier snowfall, a long string of brake lights. It strikes me as odd because I know this road and there’s no reason to slow down up there: It’s where the hill flattens out and runs straight for a few miles before it drops down into the valley where Clinton’s nestled. We’re coming up on the lights fast, and Chris hits the brakes, but we skid a little on the snow, so he eases off and begins to pump them. Never for one second am I afraid that he’ll lose control. I’m calm.

  He’s calming.

  “Wonder what’s going on,” he mutters as he coaxes the car down to forty instead of sixty. The whole line of lights is in the right lane; he moves into the left so we can go around.

  “Mud Flap Madge,” I exclaim as we start to pass one of the vehicles stopped on the right, proud of myself.

  “Good one,” Chris says, squinting a little at the road ahead.

  “I totally bested your handle,” I say, laughing.

  “Roger that,” he says with a nod and a quick smile before his eyes are back on the road.

  I roll my head to the right, watching the stopped cars and trucks go by, then I reach to turn on the radio. An Electric Freakshow song starts playing, and when I hear the song, sadness wraps around me—reminding me that it was never really gone.

  No right answer; perfect marks … It’s no big deal; it’s just your heart … Falling stars and lightning sparks … This will only sting a bit …

  “God, I hate this song,” Chris says absently, still focused on the road.

  “It used to be one of my favorites,” I say, thinking that Joel may have ruined EF for me forever. I click off the radio, earning a quick look from Chris. What was fun and carefree is suddenly heavy and suffocating. It’s like a shift in not just mood but … everything. I glance once more at the moon, feeling unsettled, and then lean forward to watch the road intently.

  And then just as we crest the hill and start down into the valley, I suck in all the air in the car—all the air in the world.

  Perfectly obscured by Mother Nature and its sideways positioning is a jackknifed tractor trailer blocking the entire two left lanes of the highway. There’s no doubt in my mind: We’re going to hit the truck.

  Instinctively, I know we have to turn.

  I reach over to grab the wheel, hoping it’ll be enough.

  NINETEEN

  GO

  I climb out of Chris’s car in the visitors’ parking lot—the student parking was full—and he looks me over with a serious expression as he gets his crutches from the backseat. When I start to apologize again for breaking up with him, he shakes his head.

  “Not that,” he says, coming to a stop right in front of me. He reaches to zip my Clinton hoodie up to my neck. “I can’t believe you own one of their T-shirts.”

  I laugh, unzipping it a little so that I can breathe. “You’re such a hater,” I say. “What is your deal with them, anyway?”

  “Electric Freakshow is mediocre,” he says. “And you are better than mediocre. Even if I’m still a little pissed at you.” He doesn’t smile because he means it; he doesn’t smile, and I miss that part of him so much that I lean forward and put my forehead on his chest, my arms around his waist, and whisper again that I’m sorry.

  Chris puts his warm hand on the back of my neck protectively, running his thumb gently over my skin. “I know you are. And I can love you and be pissed at the same time. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

  I straighten and his hand falls away. I think about that statement, that he can love me and be angry, and I realize that I never thought of it that way. All the time I spent feeling like my family hated me, was disappointed in me—they still loved me. I was too stubborn—scared—to see it. I’ve wasted so much time.

  “I’m going to stay at my dad’s,” I tell Chris. “At least until I go to college. I like it there.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be close. Easier for me to stalk you that way.” He leans down on his crutch to give me a soft peck, reminding me of the first time he kissed me over orange chicken. We start walking, commenting on the bright white snow that’s started to fall. I nearly slip once on a patch of ice.

  “Be careful,” he says, reaching out to steady me. “Both of us on crutches would just be too pathetic.” We stop at the crosswalk, and I push the button for the walking man to tell u
s when to go.

  “By the way.” I turn to him. “I can’t believe you set my brother up with Maria.” I feel a small pinch of jealousy, but I decide this time to trust him—to let myself be vulnerable so that I don’t lose him.

  “They’re good for each other,” Chris says, rubbing his hands over my arms to warm me up. “I’ll set up your sister too, if you want. Ed needs a new—”

  “Gross,” I say with a laugh. “Ed is done licking my friends.” Apparently Simone and Ed met up after dealing with Teddy that day. Her retelling—charades style—was cringe inducing. Just then the light changes, and Chris and I start to cross the street.

  “Are we still on for Thanksgiving at my mom’s?” I ask. “I neglected to tell her about our breakup.”

  He glances over. “Is it because you were secretly hoping we’d get back together?”

  I shake my head but then smile. “Actually, yeah. I probably was. Either way, I’m sure she’ll find you adorably obnoxious.”

  “Tell me again how crazy you are about me,” Chris says, his eyes narrowed in a way that makes me think our fighting has come to an end.

  My stomach flutters, and I stop to turn to him. “Christopher Drake,” I call out dramatically, loudly so that other people can hear me. Embarrassment will make it count more. “I’m totally crazy in love with you—”

  I notice the light slide across his face, setting off the bright blue of his eyes. I furrow my brow, not sure where it’s coming from, when Chris’s expression falls. He’s about to shout as he reaches for my arm, and I turn to look over my shoulder. A car is gliding in our direction—fishtailing on a patch of ice as it tries to brake for the light.

  Chris pulls me to the side, but it’s not soon enough. He’s standing still, but I’m flying: first onto the metal of the hood and then, when the brakes finally work, into the air. My limbs fling out in zero gravity; my arm connects with concrete, the pain sharp and blinding. Then my head hits, sending me into darkness.

  TWENTY

  STAY

  “What are you, pain intolerant?” Chris jokes as the nurse sews another stitch into my forehead. The spot is numbed from painkillers, but still, I’m sure it looks nasty. I don’t move my head, but I let my gaze fall on Chris’s face, and when I do, I see in his blue eyes concern so true it’s painful.

  “It could’ve been so much worse,” I say. He’s on crutches—he dislocated his knee when the car impacted with the mile marker right outside his door—and he shifts to lean on the left. Finally his eyes find mine again.

  “I’m sorry for trying to kill you,” he says, looking sheepish.

  “Was it because I like Electric Freakshow?”

  “Yes, you got me,” he says, laughing a little. “I am trying to off their fans, one member at a time, until the band is forced to stop touring. It’s my evil plan, but I’ve been thwarted.”

  “I’m an excellent thwarter.” The nurse laughs quietly at us. We stop talking for a moment.

  “If I promise not to try to kill you again, will you go out on a real date with me?” Chris asks. He looks adorably pathetic.

  I open my mouth to respond when my parents—both of them, together—rush in.

  “Oh my God, Caroline,” my mom says, seeing the blood on my shirt. Chris crutches away a few steps so they can get close to me—they’re too focused on me to notice him at all.

  “It’s just a scratch,” I say. “Head wounds bleed a lot, even if they’re nothing, right?” I look at the nurse expectantly.

  “That’s right,” she says, smiling. “She only needed ten stitches.” Then, repeating what I said to Chris, she adds, “It could’ve been much worse.”

  “I should have checked the weather,” my dad says. “I should have gotten a hotel room for you and your sister in the city so you wouldn’t have been out on the roads.”

  “Dad, come on,” I say. “It’s just a scratch.”

  “But what if …” His voice cracks and his words trail off. I watch as my parents look at each other—really look at each other—both of them probably envisioning losing a child.

  I glance over at Chris as he hobbles to the window. “Oh!” my mom says, seeing him for the first time. “Who’s this?”

  In the moment I realize that I don’t know his last name, Chris steps in. He makes his way over and, when he seems stable, offers my parents a hand in turn. “Chris Drake,” he says. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “You look familiar,” my mom says, smiling. “Have we met before?”

  “It’s possible,” Chris says, darting a playful look at me. “Caroline and I go way back.”

  Maybe way back to another life—maybe that’s why I’m so comfortable with you, I think.

  My parents pump Chris for information about his life—his major, where he grew up, his hobbies—and I listen, taking mental notes for later. After a while, a friend comes to get him and we’re forced to say good-bye—in front of his friend and my parents.

  He comes over for a hug.

  “Our meeting tonight, it feels a little like fate, doesn’t it?” he whispers into my ear.

  “Well, you did say you stalked me,” I say. “So maybe it feels more like … perseverance? And of course, there was the attempted murder.”

  He chuckles, pulling back so the hug doesn’t linger into the inappropriate-in-front-of-parents zone. “Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad we met.”

  “Me too,” I say, meaning it. And when Chris crutches away, I realize that I wish he didn’t have to. I wish he’d stay.

  Late at night, I’m in bed at Mom’s when my cell buzzes. I wasn’t asleep—the painkillers have worn off and my head is throbbing. I reach over and read Joel’s text in the dark.

  WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?

  For some reason, the question makes me laugh. I think back on the last six weeks of my life and really, what didn’t happen to me? I stare at the screen, thumbs ready to type, feeling like I’m experiencing a moment—one of those moments when the decision you make really matters. I type: CAN YOU TALK?

  Joel doesn’t reply, but my phone rings a few minutes later. It’s middle-of-the-night hushed on his end except for the whispered lyrics to “Flannel” playing in the background. Like I’ve been through war and somehow come out unscathed, I’m numb to its power. All it is right now is the absence of silence.

  “Hi,” I say quietly. “Thanks for calling.”

  “No problem,” he says, matching my low tone. He waits, and then, “This is it, right, Caroline?”

  “Yes.” We listen to the part in the song about forever love.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and I wonder for which part. Then I realize that none of this was his fault. At no point in our relationship was Joel anything other than himself.

  At lots of points, though, I was.

  “I’m sorry too.”

  “This didn’t turn out how I thought it would,” he admits.

  “Me either,” I say, but I’m not sure if it’s the truth or just a statement meant to make him feel better. “Well …”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, Joel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?” he asks. I hear him shift in his bed. In the bed that changed me.

  “Thank you for sharing a little bit of your life with me.”

  He laughs once, quietly, then, “That’s a cool thing to say, Caroline. You’re a cool girl. And … you’re welcome. Thank you for doing the same.”

  We say good-bye and when I hang up, I feel lifted for having had the conversation. It would’ve been easy to float on as Joel’s girlfriend for a while longer—to enjoy the win—and just as easy to end it with a text. But he let me in. He showed me his insides. He shared things that were difficult for him to share—he opened up. And for that, I owed him the courtesy of my voice. I owed him a proper ending.

  Afterward, my head doesn’t hurt as much.

  My heart doesn’t hurt as much.

  I inch down deep unde
r the comforter and exhale, watching through the break in the curtains as huge flakes fall outside. For the first time in a long time, I don’t think of what’s happened—only what’s to come. And with hope and possibility whispering me a lullaby, I sleep.

  TWENTY

  GO

  The sound of a guitar filters into my ears, tender and slow and all for me. “Sweet Caroline,” he sings softly, only it’s not the Neil Diamond version. It’s mine. “Blindsided by you … I never really knew how good it could be … my sweet, sweet Caroline. …”

  “Stop being cute,” I murmur as I wake up. I turn to see Chris next to me in the hospital chair, the same place he’s sat for close to a week. “It’s Thanksgiving,” I tell him. “You should be with your family.” I try to sit up, tangling myself in the tubes attached to my hand.

  “First of all,” he says, setting his guitar aside, “I wasn’t going to leave you after surgery. Secondly, I have no interest in going to the Bahamas with my parents right now. My mom said she hopes you’re feeling better, by the way.”

  Chris’s eyes meet mine, still guilt-ridden as if it’s his fault I got hit by a car on an icy road. As I hold his gaze, he reaches to run his fingers down my arm until they touch the cast just below my elbow, then back up again. The bones in my left arm were shattered, and so once my vitals stabilized, they operated—putting my arm back together with pins and metal rods. Teddy’s been calling me RoboCop.

  “Those goddamn crutches,” Chris mutters. “I couldn’t get traction when I tried to grab you. I—” His face breaks like he might cry, and I take him by the collar of his T-shirt and pull him to me.

  “It’s not your fault,” I whisper near his ear. “So stop blaming yourself.” I think about how I felt after Gram died, how I wished I could have done it differently. But you can’t live with guilt. You can’t let it take everything that’s you.

  My mother walks in, and Chris straightens out of my arms, sniffling hard. Mom is holding a stack of Tupperware, a bag dangling from her wrist as Juju totters in behind her. My father and brother have already left, promising to come back later, so this is my official Thanksgiving dinner with my mom. In a hospital room.