Just Look Up

by Courtney Walsh

  “Then what are you doing snooping around it?”

  Ryan locked eyes with his dad, who glared at him, hands lifelessly hanging at his sides. “Where were you last Sunday?”

  Martin looked away for a split second, then back at Ryan. “How am I supposed to remember last Sunday?”

  “It’s not a hard question, Dad.”

  “I don’t know. Here, I guess?”

  Ryan walked around the truck and there it was, above the license plate, just off to the right: a torn white bumper sticker with red lettering.

  He stared at it for several long seconds, reliving the memory of the accident and its aftermath. The way Nate’s bike sounded as it skidded across the pavement. The way Ryan lost control of his own bike and narrowly missed colliding with his friend. The sound of the machines that now breathed for Nate in a steady pattern of fabricated inhale and exhale.

  His own father had been responsible for all of this, and a part of Ryan must have known the whole time. If it weren’t for this man—this incompetent, miserable excuse for a human being—that terrible night never would’ve happened and the Kelley family wouldn’t be perched on seats throughout Harbor Pointe Hospital praying their son would wake up from his coma.

  “Do you know what you’ve done?” Ryan glared at his father. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Son.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Ryan shot out from behind the truck and grabbed his father by the shirt. Martin stumbled backward until they were edged up against the side of the trailer. “Don’t you ever call me ‘Son.’”

  “What do you want me to call you then? Hero?”

  The way he said the word—it reeked of disdain as if Ryan were the one who had something to be embarrassed about and not the other way around.

  “Don’t call me anything,” Ryan said through clenched teeth.

  Martin laughed like a bully in a schoolyard. “Kid, you’re no better than me. Look at ya, ready to rip my throat out.” He leaned closer. “You’ve got a temper just like your old man.”

  “I’m nothing like you.”

  Martin laughed and Ryan could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Son.”

  Ryan gripped harder, slamming his dad into the trailer. “You put someone in the hospital. Someone I care about. And you almost killed me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t pretend you can’t remember running us off the road.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Last Sunday at dusk.”

  No response.

  “I saw your truck. I was lying on the highway next to my bloody friend and you drove off.”

  Martin’s face fell, eyes searching off in the distance until they landed on Ryan’s bike. “Two motorcycles . . .”

  Was he only now remembering? How drunk had he been?

  “Two motorcycles. It was so dark.” He pulled away from Ryan’s grip and staggered toward the bike. “So dark.”

  Ryan studied the older Brooks for a few seconds, but he averted his eyes as the man processed the memory of what he’d done. It was too painful. He didn’t have it in him to relive it one more time.

  Martin turned back and faced Ryan, eyes glassy, forehead creased. “That was you?”

  Ryan looked away.

  “Are you going to turn me in? Is that why you’re here?” Martin asked after a long pause.

  “I should’ve turned you in a long time ago.” The words sounded sharp on his own tongue.

  “I promise I’ll get help.” Martin walked toward him. He’d been a hulk of a man when Ryan was a kid, but now he seemed smaller, thinner, a shell of who he’d once been.

  And Ryan realized in that moment he wasn’t scared of him at all.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

  “I mean it. I’ve saved some of that money you left in the mailbox. I can check myself in somewhere. Go to meetings. I’ll get better—I swear.”

  Ryan didn’t look at him. “How did you know it was me who left the money?”

  Martin’s chin quivered. “No one else cares if I live or die, Son.”

  “I don’t want you to starve to death,” Ryan said. “That doesn’t mean I care about you.”

  Martin wavered as if his knees were buckling underneath him. By instinct, Ryan reached out and caught him just as the older man collapsed. Ryan dragged him, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke, toward the front of the trailer, then pulled him inside.

  “I made a mess of everything, Ryan,” Martin said, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “I’ll give you a week to come clean. And if you don’t step up and say something, then I will.”

  Ryan couldn’t bring himself to console this man—not after all he’d done. And yet, standing there, looking down on him, he could sense something deep inside him telling him not to leave.

  He knew that still, small voice. He’d learned to pay attention to it; he lived his life by it. But even so, in that moment, he did the only thing he could do.

  He turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER

  22

  LANE STOOD IN the conference room at JB Sweet, trying not to remember the last time she’d been there.

  Miles was standing at the front of the room next to a large-screen television, where whatever new images he and the team had come up with would be displayed.

  He sauntered over to her as she set her things down on the glass-topped table.

  “No hard feelings, Lane, right?” He wore a stupid grin on his face.

  “Of course not, Miles. You’ve been pushing your own ideas since we started this campaign.” The fact that Marshall had warmed up to them, making her question her own work, was what really irritated her.

  “Gotta fight for my ideas.” His eyes darted to Chloe. “Anyway, good luck today.”

  Lane gave a nod and he walked off.

  Marshall, Ashton, and the rest of the Solar team filed in. They chatted about some tech project they were working on as they sat down, most carrying coffee cups like the one Lane had thrown away on her way through the door.

  Miles had returned to his seat in front of the big screen, wearing his slick salesman smile.

  Once everyone was situated, Marshall stood and explained that they had a unique situation on their hands—two different pitches from two of JB Sweet’s brightest and best. He glanced at Miles, who was still wearing the same pasted-on smile, and motioned for him to begin.

  “Thank you, Marshall.” Miles had competed on the speech team in college. He was very polished. A little too canned for Lane’s taste, but nobody else seemed to mind.

  “And thanks to the Solar team for allowing us to reconvene today after our unfortunate mishap last week.” Miles glanced at Lane. “It’s given our team time to go back and reevaluate our designs and really strengthen what we have for you.”

  He clicked a button on his laptop and an image appeared on the screen behind him. The mood board Lane had created for their original presentation.

  Chloe grabbed her hand and squeezed. Lane swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

  “As you can see, my team has taken a very trendy, very upscale approach, one that says, ‘We don’t take ourselves too seriously, but we take your business very seriously.’” Miles glanced at Lane. She’d coined that line during one of their earliest team meetings.

  He’d stolen her presentation.

  She looked at Marshall, who sat stoic, nodding along with Miles’s pitch.

  Miles had stolen everything right out from under her—her images, her words, her plans. She could go with the updated version she’d put together last night, but looking at her original pitch on the screen in front of her, it was clear which one was the winner.

  As Miles finished speaking, Lane turned to Chloe, a Now what? expression on her face. Lane’s thoughts whirled as she searched for some s
olution neither of them could find.

  “We love your take, man,” Ashton said. “Looks like the extra week did you guys some good.”

  The extra week? Miles had changed nothing. He’d probably spent the whole week staying out late and sleeping in. Lane thought Solar wanted changes—had they seen any of the original designs? Maybe Marshall shut down the meeting before they even had a chance to get a preview.

  So why did he tell her to change everything? Did he want Miles to be able to claim these ideas as his own? Did he, for some reason, not want Lane to become creative director? Did he know what he’d put her through?

  Stay in control.

  She would. She always did.

  “The floor is all yours, Lane.” She recognized Marshall’s voice, but when she looked up to meet his eyes, a sharp pain ripped through her temples as if her brain were suddenly too big for her skull. The pressure in her head was so great it made her sick to her stomach.

  She stood, unsteady on her feet, aware that Miles was wearing a smug grin, watching her struggle to get her bearings. She reached the front of the room, the idle chatter of transition slowly coming to an end.

  She glanced down at her tablet, where her identical-to-Miles’s presentation waited for her.

  For a moment, the words stopped being words as the letters jumped off the tablet like a shark in a newly mastered 3-D movie, only less vibrant and a little fuzzy around the edges. She told herself to focus, to zero in on the speech she’d practically memorized, but a darkness began to cloud her vision at the edges and the pain in her temples blossomed into a brain-breaking headache.

  The door of the conference room swung open and a stout man with a bushy white mustache walked in.

  “JB.” Marshall stood. Lane’s head spun, her eyes unable to focus. Not JB. Not today.

  “We didn’t expect you today, sir.” It was still Marshall.

  The pressure in Lane’s head pulsed. Her stomach rolled.

  “Thought I’d check out our rising stars before I head down to Mexico for a few days.”

  Lane stared at the table, where her tablet and notebook began to blend together, barely listening as Marshall and JB discussed Miles’s stolen pitch.

  “We’re about to hear from Lane Kelley.” Marshall stopped talking, and in the pause, Lane lifted her head, knowing all eyes were on her. She thought her head might explode, the pain only increasing.

  Just breathe.

  Lane forced a smile, but as she did, she noticed her mouth felt strange—numb. She touched her cheek but couldn’t feel her fingers on her skin. What was going on? Why was her face tingling? She looked at her fingers, turning her hand over in front of her, clenching and unclenching a fist she couldn’t feel.

  Why was her hand tingling now?

  “Lane?” There was worry in Chloe’s voice. “Lane? Are you okay?”

  Her hand involuntarily covered her eyes, her forehead, as she applied pressure to where it hurt, which seemed to be everywhere. Nausea rolled through her like a child tumbling down a steep hill in the middle of summer, only without any of the laughter or joy.

  “Lane?” The voices sounded hollow. They asked if she was all right. Did she need water? The right side of her face tingled. What did that mean? It wasn’t good. Tingling numbness. Was she having a stroke?

  “My face is numb,” she heard herself say with a voice that didn’t sound like her own. She tried again. “My face is numb.” Was she slurring?

  The tingling spread to the fingers of her right hand.

  My hand is numb. I can’t feel my face or my hand.

  But she couldn’t say the words. Was she going to be sick? Why was she so dizzy? Her legs turned noodle-like, loose and gelatinous underneath her. They could not be trusted. She reached for the chair and Marshall was at her side in an instant to steady her.

  Marshall. She’d cared for him once. Hadn’t she?

  She couldn’t remember, but she was thankful for his help getting her to a chair.

  “I think you should call 911,” someone said.

  She shook her head, feeling like the victim of a wisdom tooth extraction someone forgot to tell her about. Had she been drugged? Sabotaged?

  She touched her cheek. Still nothing. She felt nothing. Was it drooping? Was she going to turn into one of those people with a droopy face?

  Her entire body seemed to be floating above itself in a perpetual, circular, dizzying motion that had her wishing she’d foregone that last cup of coffee.

  What felt like seconds later, there was a man standing over her. He wore a black polyester jacket and a serious expression. He met her eyes and she told herself to concentrate. He was handsome-ish. His eyes were crazy green and reminded her of Brooks’s.

  Brooks. Why had he come to her mind?

  “Lane, how are you feeling?” Mr. Green Eyes’s entire face turned warm then, as though he knew it had the ability to calm her with a single smile. At least he was using his powers of charm and seduction for something good.

  She thought of Jasper, whose powers of charm and seduction had broken her heart.

  Someone must’ve told him her name was Lane. Marshall probably. Or Chloe. Her head turned ever so slightly and she was practically touching Chloe’s strappy-heeled sandals. She recognized them because she’d admired them so much Chloe had bought her a pair.

  “I think they’ll make your feet look thin,” Chloe had said when she handed them over. “They do to mine.”

  Wait. Why was she so close to Chloe’s shoes? Was she on the floor? Had she fallen on the floor? Did anyone cover her up? She was wearing a skirt, after all. What if she accidentally flashed JB or the hipster executive from . . . What was that business’s name again?

  “Lane?”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  He stared into her eyes, unromantically. “I think you’d better come with us to the hospital. We need to check you out.” His tone reassured. That was nice of him, to make her feel better about being on the floor in the conference room when she was supposed to be upright and delivering a career-making presentation. Very thoughtful. “How’s the numbness? Can you feel your face?”

  With her left hand, she pushed against her right cheek.

  Nothing. She shook her head. No. No, she could not feel her face.

  “Is she having a stroke?” It was Chloe’s voice that asked Lane’s question.

  “We want to rule it out,” Mr. Green Eyes said. “Could be any number of things.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” Chloe’s tone sounded slightly frantic, matching the way Lane felt about the scene unfolding before her.

  She was twenty-nine. People her age didn’t have strokes.

  There was commotion then, off to the side, and Lane closed her eyes—only for a second, because Green Eyes was back. He shook her shoulder. “We’re going to put a brace around your neck, just to keep everything as still as possible.”

  He slid something underneath her neck, then fastened it on the side, making it impossible for her to move her head.

  Was this really necessary? She was fine. She just had a momentary . . . a passing . . . “I think I’m going to—” Just like that, the entire contents of her stomach were now on his pants.

  “Sorry.” Her voice still didn’t sound like it belonged in her body. The darkness seeped further into her peripheral vision, invading her eyesight like an unwelcome intruder. She tried not to panic, head throbbing, face numb.

  And the world went black.

  CHAPTER

  23

  RYAN RODE BACK to Harbor Pointe from Newman, still needing to blow off steam. Had his dad really had the nerve to make more empty promises? After everything he’d put them through?

  That man didn’t deserve his sympathy and he hadn’t earned a second chance. If Nate didn’t pull through this, Ryan’s father could be tried for vehicular manslaughter. Or worse.

  And he should be. He should be locked away—should’ve been locked away years ago. It was a wonder he’d stayed out of jail
this long.

  Ryan made the turn to Harbor Pointe. He should pull over and call Walker right away. Now that he knew what he’d feared was true.

  But he’d created a nice life for himself here, stayed under the radar enough that nobody really knew where he’d come from or what he was destined to become. And how would Noah and the rest of Nate’s family react when they learned the truth?

  What if the Kelley family somehow blamed him for his father’s actions? What if they thought he’d known all along? What if a part of him had known all along? Would it change how they felt about him? Would his safe world crumble at the admission?

  It didn’t matter and he knew it. He believed in justice, and his father had broken the law, caused a life-threatening accident, and driven away.

  Of course he’d call the cops. As much as he hated it, he’d just have to deal with the fallout. He’d give his dad time to come forward on his own. And if he didn’t, Ryan would have to step in.

  Ryan parked his bike next to the model cottage at Cedar Grove and took out his phone. He wanted to focus on something else. And while he couldn’t exactly confide in Lane about what he was going through, he wanted to hear her voice, to remember there was something good in the world, even if she didn’t belong to him.

  He’d just call to say hi, check on how her presentation went. Talking about her presentation would be a welcome distraction.

  The phone rang and he considered hanging up. But he’d never been one to worry about looking too eager. He liked her. He didn’t care if she knew.

  Besides, once the truth came out about the accident, who knew if Lane would even take his calls anymore?

  “Lane Kelley’s phone.”

  “Lane?”

  “No, this is her assistant, Chloe. Can I help you?”

  “Can I speak to Lane?”

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry. Who’s this?”

  “Ryan Brooks. I’m a friend of Lane’s from home—”

  “Oh no. Did something happen with Nate?”

  Ryan paced into the backyard and stared out across the lake. “No, no change yet.”