by Stacey Lynn
I squeeze my eyes closed and see the truck. I watch it flip through the air. I watch blood splatter the driver's side windows.
"I kill you!" I shout at the top of my lungs. He's asked for this. I feel something snap inside of me as my body begins trembling uncontrollably.
Lynx's hand rests on my shoulder. I feel him pull me to him, but I scamper away from him, pulling my knees to my chest again and wrapping my hands around my calves.
"I'm right here, honey."
I see him, but I see blood dripping down the side of his face. I see a slack jaw and blank eyes that don't heat or soften or melt when he looks at me.
My head shakes violently back and forth. "Go."
He reaches out to touch me, crouching down in front of me.
"Go!" I scream until the sound rings in my ear. "Just go and get the hell out of here."
"I don't want to. Not till you're okay."
"I'll never be okay!" I shout back. Fire scorches through my throat. "Never never never!"
His chest heaves with a controlled breath. I squeeze my eyes closed to erase the images burned inside my brain.
Instead all I see is Lynx. Strong and powerful. Confident and sexy.
And I'm losing him.
I have to.
It's better now.
"Just go." I sob, dropping my forehead to my knees. "Just go, Lynx. I can't do this. Not now."
I hear him sigh but he doesn't move.
He doesn't touch me and he doesn't speak.
And I stay like this, curled into myself, until I finally feel him move away.
I barely hear the shuffling of him finding his clothes, and then I hear the door to my bedroom quietly click as he walks away from me.
Then I let the tears flow. The sound of my own sobbing fills the room.
When I know I’m alone, my heart shatters into a thousand jagged pieces as I realize that I'll never be able to get over my past.
I'll never be able to run from it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LYNX
"THANKS FOR COMING," I say to Kennedy when I open the door.
She quickly rushes in and flings off her jacket, her eyes roaming Sarah's living room. "Where is she?"
I nod my head down the hall. "She's still in her room. I've checked on her, but she hasn't moved."
Fuck. Fuck! Her earlier screams sounded like they were being wretched from her throat like a tortured animal.
For the last hour, since I left her room and called Grayson, demanding for Kennedy to get her ass here, the only thing I've wanted to do is rush back into Sarah's room and hold her.
I want to take away her pain, because I know exactly how she fucking feels.
Yet I can't stop seeing the way her eyes went feral as she screamed at me at the top of her lungs. She didn't stop screaming until I stopped moving, and when she did, her cheeks had flushed, her eyes glistened.
It burns deep in my fucking chest that I did this to her.
Not intentionally. But being near me has hurt her all the same.
There's not a damn thing I can do about it now.
So I called Kennedy and I've been pacing the small living area in Sarah's apartment ever since, waiting...just fucking waiting.
"What happened?" Kennedy asks, even though I've already explained it.
"You ever see her like this?" I ask, ignoring her question.
"No. I've wondered how she could heal and seem so well when I knew the accident was always still on her mind, though." She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "You should go, Lynx. I can call you, but I'm not sure what she's going to be like, or if she's going to want me here."
It's the last thing I want to do.
I can't.
Not until I know she's okay.
Or that she will be.
"Not leaving, Kennedy. Not until you speak to her, at least," I add when her lips press together.
She nods once. "Okay."
She kicks off her shoes and I keep my eyes on her as she walks to Sarah's bedroom, from which I haven't heard a single damn sound in the last hour.
Last time I checked on her, she was still curled into a ball, head on the tops of her knees, shoulders shaking.
I curl my hands into fists and try to breathe. Try to beat back the urge to fling my fists through drywall.
I kill you!
A shiver rolls through my shoulders as I stare out her small living room window.
For an entire week, I’ve fooled myself into thinking we had this shit beat. Whatever had wanted to make her run from me before had seemed to vanish that first morning where she woke up in my arms. I should have known better.
I should have known that with Sarah, I still need to move gently. Slowly.
My nostrils flare as I breathe out, maintaining an outward calm I don't feel and that could quickly be replaced with the rage I do feel.
I've only had a few meetings with Dr. Martin, and even though last night's meeting went long and was hard, I can tell his crazy methods are working.
I leave his office, and even on a hard night, a long appointment, I still feel relief at finally being able to talk about the shit that clouds my head and weighs me down at night.
Sarah doesn't have that. It wasn't until she was shaking like a leaf in my arms or trying to claw her way out of them that I finally realized what it is that makes her eyes go dark and stormy when she thinks I'm not looking.
I stare out the window, watching the city come to life, and know that at some point Sarah's either going to have to call into work or start getting ready.
But I can't stop the primal urge that bubbles and grows inside my chest.
The need that screams at me to keep her safe.
To protect her.
To finally become the kind of man I've always wanted to be, in order to have what I've always wanted.
"Lynx?"
Kennedy's soft voice startles me and I spin on my heels, already knowing what she's going to say.
"How is she?"
Kennedy shrugs. I watch as she wipes her fingers across her lips and her chin begins to tremble. "I've always wondered, always been curious how she seems so put together, so healed from everything she's seen and experienced. I guess I wasn't paying attention."
"Don't take that on yourself. It's not your fault."
"I know. But it doesn't mean I wish I hadn't seen more."
I close my eyes and step toward her, irritation instantly sparking in me when I see her shoulders tighten. "She, um, doesn't want to see you. I told her you called me and that you were waiting to see her. She's okay," she says, placating me with hands raised, palms out. "But I promised her I'd keep that from happening."
My lip curls. "I know what she's feeling, Kennedy. Of all people, I'm probably the only one who can help her."
"That might be," she says, her voice softening to this irritating tone. "But right now I want to help her, and when I told her that you would leave, she said she had to get ready to shower."
In the background, I hear the faint hum of water turning on and my scowl deepens.
"You can't make me leave."
Great. I sound like a petulant kid.
But I unleash my fiercest glare on Kennedy and she only throws her head back and laughs. "C'mon, Lynx. I've known you long enough that that look doesn't scare me. And besides, I can call Grayson for backup."
My nostrils flare with the fury I feel bubbling inside my chest.
She's right. I know she is.
I also know that when I'm freaking out, when I'm in the midst of horrific flashbacks, I don't want anyone around to see me like that.
But, fuck. I get it. I get her fear.
"Lynx."
My eyes snap back to Kennedy, from where I was trying to drill holes through the bedroom door with only my glare. "What?"
"Go home." She steps toward me and rests her hand on my forearm. "She said she's going to stay home and rest today, but I need to get to work. Please, leave, so I can d
o what I need to do here to make sure she'll be okay after I leave."
Emotion clogs my throat.
I nod anyway and step back from Kennedy's soft and annoying touch.
Fuck it.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I take another step back and reach for the jacket I'd flung over a chair last night when I’d shown up.
"Call me before you leave." It's a demand, not a request, and Kennedy must see the seriousness in my eyes because she nods quickly.
"Will do. I promise."
I flick my gaze back toward the door, fighting against every instinct I have to rush through it, hold Sarah in my arms, and refuse to let her go or handle this alone.
Instead, I do the one thing I just promised myself I would do.
Anything to keep Sarah safe and feeling protected—even if for the moment, she thinks she needs to be away from me.
***
"I really hope we didn't scare her off last weekend," my mom says as she slides her chair toward the table.
I close my eyes so she doesn't see me roll them toward the ceiling.
"Back off, Ma," Landon says, stepping into the kitchen.
For once, I didn't avoid my mom as soon as we showed up for Sunday dinner. I chose to walk straight into the house with Landon, leaving my dad working on his perfectly well-running car all on his own.
About two minutes after getting inside the house, I was looking for an escape.
She hasn't let up about Sarah, even going so far as to look over my shoulder when I stepped into the house to see if she was with me.
She didn't hide her frown when she didn't see the pipsqueak blonde hiding at my back.
She quickly hid it, tilted her head, and put her pretty blue eyes on me and asked, "Where's Sarah? We figured she'd come now that she's part of the family."
I had groaned.
Landon had slapped me on the back and pushed me further inside the house, probably knowing that what I really wanted to do was run.
And for the last three hours, all I've heard is “Sarah this” and “Sarah that.” I've been bombarded with questions constantly while my mom cooked her roast and made a salad and baked some buns.
While Landon headed into the living room off the dining room and sat down and started watching football, his head bent in a way where I knew one eye was on his phone and one eye was on the television, I took all the questions I could from my mom.
Dr. Martin continues to tell me that being present and in the moment, not hiding from even the smallest things that bother me or make me tense, will help.
Now, I'm wishing I hadn’t called the prick. Not because his shit isn't working.
Because it means I have to endure the seventh ring of hell from my mom.
Despite my repeated attempts to call Sarah and text her, and even the thirty minutes spent outside her apartment building, she’s still not speaking to me.
She's completely iced me out, and even when I got desperate on day two and called Kennedy, she simply assured me that Sarah is fine, just dealing with shit and doesn't want to speak to me.
She clearly isn't going to help me.
And I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth throwing in the towel.
I know the way she looks at me. I know she feels something for me.
But I can't be the only one fighting for something.
Banging my head against a cement wall has never been my idea of fun, and every day that goes on, I feel that wall growing thicker and thicker.
"I'm just worried," my mom mutters, pulling me back to the present and to the dinner we’ve just sat down to eat.
"There's no need," I try to assure her. "She's just busy."
Avoiding me.
I hide my scowl and reach for the mashed potatoes.
"Who the hell are you texting?" I ask, griping in Landon's direction to get the attention off me.
He's been keeping one hand on his silverware and one hand on his phone in his lap.
The guy's had his head up his ass all damn day.
He pierces me with a scowl and my mom gasps.
"Landon. No cells at the table. I swear, you kids and technology," she says, shaking her head.
"We're not kids," Landon says, his brow furrowed as he tosses me his middle finger and goes back to eating. "Thirty-year-olds can do whatever the fuck we want."
"Language," Mom scolds.
"Boys...Candace," Dad says.
"Well, who is it?" Mom asks, reminding me of a puppy picking up a new bone to chew on. Her eyes light up with interest as soon as she gets over the shock of someone breaking her no-cellphone rule.
"Just a girl." Landon shrugs and shoves a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. "Told you I had a date go well a few weeks ago."
"And?"
I press my lips together, avoiding the glint in Mom's voice.
Landon rolls his eyes. Then, in an unusual move, he leans forward, resting both of his forearms next to his plate and he grins at Mom.
"Her name is Karly. She works at a bank near the gym and we went out a month ago. I'm seeing her. It's casual, it might become serious, and no, you're not meeting her."
"But—”
"No, Ma," he says, cutting her off. "And if you show up at my place some Sunday morning, I can guarantee you I won't be wearing pants, you'll embarrass the hell out of Karly, and she's not someone I want to scare off yet."
"Well," Mom huffs and pats her lips with her napkin. "There's no need to threaten me."
I chuckle at her annoyance.
"Seriously, Ma. When I want you to meet her, you will."
"You said ‘when,’ not ‘if.’" I grin as his eyes slide to mine and narrow.
"And you've become an asshole."
"Takes one to know one," I taunt.
"Boys!" my dad shouts. Both Landon and I roll our lips together to hide our laughter. "Jesus Christ," he mutters. "I want one damn meal without you two acting like little assholes. Can't we do that?"
Landon points his fork at me. "He started it."
I choke on a carrot I've just shoved into my mouth.
Mom rolls her eyes and mumbles something about being kept from her boys’ girls.
Then I dig into my meal with a newfound gusto, smiling because all talk of Sarah has been forgotten. My dad talks about work he's doing at his shop on a new 1965 Chevelle convertible he's started restoring. Mom talks about a three-carat diamond ring she just sold at her jewelry store, which has earned her a nice, hefty commission.
Landon's hand goes back to his lap, where he continues texting.
By the time the meal is done and Landon and I are on our way home, all brotherly bullshit has been forgotten, along with any more mention of Mom worrying about me.
I call it a success.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SARAH
THERE ARE MOMENTS in your life when you know you've broken something, damaged something so irreparably, that you know there's no point in even attempting to fix it.
That was how I felt after I caused the accident seven years ago.
Even with all of my attempts at absolution, I know they've been in vain.
I don't know if the teenagers that sign pledges when I give speeches at their schools actually follow their promise to not text and drive. Those pledges are simply for themselves and their own consciences. I'm not naïve enough to know that sometimes they're signed because of the pull on their emotions after hearing my story and what I've done.
Best guess? Eighty-five percent of teenagers admit to driving while distracted.
That means that essentially I've done nothing to help anyone.
I've done nothing to help myself truly get over my guilt from what I've done.
I have continually made things worse.
Lynx is the prime example.
I stare at his name on my phone and his most recent text.
Had dinner with Ma. She missed you. Says to tell you hello.
My thumb shakes over the reply button.
All I h
ave to do is type out a response.
I'm sorry.
I miss you.
I want you.
I think I love you.
I can't be with you until I fix myself.
The last one is the most terrifying.
It's also the most honest.
If anything, I've learned that for some crazy reason, Lynx deems me special enough, desirable enough, for him to pull his shit together in order to be with me. At least overnight.
I haven't been able to bring myself to do the same, and until I do, nothing will change—not with Lynx or any other person who waltzes into my life and demands to have a place in it.
"Think it's time you talk to him yet?"
I peel my eyes off my phone to see Kennedy sitting across from me, her head tilted slightly to the side.
She's been with me every night for the last week, and I know she's sacrificed her time with Grayson for me, although she's never once complained. She simply comes over after work, overnight bag in tow, and stays the night, keeping me company.
It's a complete switch of our roles—her taking care of me, when I've always felt the need to take care of her.
I set the phone down on the table and flip it over so I don’t have to see the screen. "I don't know what to say to him."
"That you're sorry and that you love him."
Love.
I must give Kennedy a panicked look because she laughs softly and reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
"He's not mad at you, he's worried. And I hate to see you throwing away something that can be so good for you. Based on what I know about Lynx, he's not going to run because you're afraid or have issues. He has his own."
"Yeah." I pull my hand out from hers and run it through my hair. "That's the problem. He's handling his. And I'm not."
"I don't think that's true." She tilts her head to the side again. "I think you've always done what you felt you needed to do. It might not have always been the best, and sure, you've spent your time running, but I don't think anyone can tell you the right thing to do when you've experienced what you have."
And that's the problem: no one's ever been able to help. Even when I wanted it.
I shake my head and push away from the table. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I have a busy day tomorrow and I still haven't prepared fully."