This Is How It Happened

by Paula Stokes

  “Fine.” Dallas tucked his phone in his pocket and reclined his seat back, shrugging out of the shoulder strap.

  Trying not to think about Annika Lux, I exited from 170 to 70 and started the long journey west to Lake St. Louis. The dashboard clock read 12:20. It’d be after one a.m. by the time we got home. On cue, drops of rain plinked hard against the windshield. It took me three tries to find the windshield wipers. I slowed down to be able to better navigate Dallas’s car on the slippery roads.

  I knew I should pull over and text Shannon, tell her I’d just come over tomorrow. But pulling over meant getting off the highway, and that was another skill I wasn’t all that good at. I mean, sure, I knew how to take an exit ramp, but finding my way back onto the road in the right direction could be tricky. I decided to just text her when I got home. She was probably asleep already anyway.

  I yawned just thinking about sleep. I had shut the windows when the rain started and the car was kind of stuffy. I reached down and fumbled for the air-conditioning, but Dallas stirred as I turned on the fan and I didn’t want to disturb him again.

  I fought the urge to fall asleep for the next thirty miles. You’re almost there, I kept telling myself. St. Charles. O’Fallon. When the exit for Lake St. Louis popped into view I could hardly believe it. And then I remembered that I had to bring Dallas home.

  I pushed onward to Wentzville, taking the exit for Highway Z. I navigated the wet road carefully, squinting to see in front of me since I didn’t know how to turn on his bright lights. I yawned again. Just a few more miles, I told myself. Just three more neighborhoods and you’ll be there. I bit my lip to focus. From around a curve, I saw the soft glow of approaching headlights.

  I yawned again.

  I blinked hard.

  Just one more subdiv—

  A horn honked. Someone screamed. My eyes snapped open.

  “Genna, what are you doing?” Dallas shouted.

  A pair of headlights were coming directly at me. I had drifted over into the left lane. I lunged for the steering wheel, but it was too late.

  There was a shriek of brakes and a sickening crunch of metal on metal.

  And then, after that, there was nothing.

  CHAPTER 19

  I can’t believe I fell asleep driving. I’ve seen stories about that online, and I even know one girl at school whose dad fell asleep on the way home from a hockey game and rear-ended their neighbor’s car. But when it happens, it’s always some older person who’s been working or partying all night. It’s never anyone I know. It’s definitely never a teen. I don’t even remember if we covered the danger of falling asleep driving in Driver’s Ed class. Texting and driving? Yes. Talking on the phone? Changing the radio station? Applying makeup? Eating or drinking? Yes, yes, yes, yes. But falling asleep? Even though I struggled to stay awake that entire drive, it never occurred to me that I would really fall asleep.

  Until it happened.

  My stomach lurches and I nearly throw up all over the pavement outside the ladies’ room. Struggling to my feet, I lean my head over the trash can for a few minutes until my nausea subsides. I remember how I felt sitting there in Dallas’s car waiting for him, listening to his satellite music, watching the clock on the dashboard tick off minute after minute. At one point I was positive he was being slow just to punish me for wanting to leave. If only I hadn’t been so angry. If only I had stayed home in the first place. If only we’d spent the night at Tyrell’s like Dallas wanted. If only I had pulled over when I started to get tired, Dallas might still be alive today. I screwed up so many times that night.

  I killed my boyfriend.

  I can’t even be bothered to try to stop the tears. There are too many—whole weeks’ worth of tears. Tears for Dallas, for a life cut short. Tears for myself, because I did something stupid and someone ended up dead. Tears for Brad Freeman because he’s being blamed for something he didn’t do.

  Just when I think today can’t possibly get any worse, I see a guy in an NPS uniform striding toward the men’s room. Elliott.

  It’s too late for me to run away or hide in the bathroom. He’s definitely seen me. I wipe hurriedly at my eyes and suck in a big gulp of air. I grab my foot and fold it back behind me, pretending to be stretching my quadriceps.

  “Jen?” he says as he approaches. “What’s wrong?”

  Everything. “Nothing.”

  It’s such an obvious lie that for a moment Elliott just stares at me, like he can’t even believe his ears. Then he shrugs. “Ooookay.”

  “What are you doing here?” I switch legs and stretch my other quad.

  “Um, what most people do here?” He glances up at the sign that reads Restrooms.

  “No, I mean, I thought you went home at five.”

  “I work longer shifts sometimes,” he says. “I was helping one of the rangers out with a project, but I’m getting ready to leave.” He strokes the black cord around his neck as he gives me a long look. “Are you sick or something?”

  I shake my head.

  “You look like you’re about to pass out. Do you want me to call Rachael for you?”

  I shake my head again. “I’ll be all right.”

  “You don’t look all right.” Elliott’s dark eyes take in my tearstained face. “Whatever it is, do you want to talk about it?”

  “Why would you even offer?” I ask, half wondering if maybe he’s figured out who I am and is hoping for a scoop to sell to the media. “You hardly know me.”

  “True, but you remind me of someone I used to know.” He looks past me, off into the distance. Sadness flickers in his brown eyes.

  “Who?”

  He returns his gaze to mine. “Someone I wish I’d listened to.”

  A moment of silence passes between us, and suddenly it hits me that I’m not the only one with a secret that’s eating away at me. Maybe Elliott wants to listen because he also wants to talk.

  I try to imagine spilling everything that’s happened—everything that I did—to this boy I barely know. “I can’t,” I say. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  “Okay.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Can I give you a ride home?”

  “No. I think I’m going to run. It might help clear my head.”

  “All right,” he says dubiously. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. And Jen? I hope you feel better.”

  “Thank you.”

  Elliott looks like he wants to say more, but then he jams his hands in his pockets and ducks into the bathroom. I dust off my T-shirt and shorts and turn toward the park’s exit. Normally this would be one of those supremely humiliating experiences, but it’s hard to feel embarrassed that a random guy caught me crying when I just found out I killed my boyfriend.

  By the time I make it back home, it’s after eight and Dad is in his study working on the computer while Rachael putters around the kitchen. I manage to choke down about three bites of manicotti, just so I can say I ate.

  Rachael sets a white envelope with red and green lettering on it next to my plate. “Your mom forwarded some stuff from Wash U. I think it’s a letter from your academic advisor or something.”

  I look at the envelope and frown. “Did you open it?”

  “No. I think maybe your mom did that.”

  “Figures.”

  “She probably just wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything requiring an immediate response.”

  I look up at Rachael. “Why do you stick up for her? She’d never stick up for you like that.”

  “Because I know I hurt her,” Rachael says. “I’ve got a lot to make up for.”

  “I don’t think giving her the benefit of the doubt over a piece of mail is going to do much to make up for stealing her husband.”

  Rachael winces. “I guess not, huh?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” I take my plate to the sink and rinse it off. Then I escape to the safety of my bedroom.

  When I close the door, my
laptop calls out to me. I know I shouldn’t look, but I can’t help it. I can still search Twitter, even without an account, so I type in the hashtag #BradFreeman and read down the column.

  Tyrell James @RealTyrellJames • 3m

  As a man who has been falsely accused of a crime, I beg you to reserve judgment and wait for the facts in the #BradFreeman case.

  Kimmy Crook @kcrook1218 • 10m

  #BradFreeman’s mom took to her FB page to proclaim his innocence. She should’ve gotten an unlisted number first. Call her at 636-555-2245.

  Reale News Now @RealeNewsNow • 11m

  Pls think before you take justice into your own hands. Campaigning to get #BradFreeman fired has the potential to hurt more than just him.

  Tyrell James @RealTyrellJames • 16m

  We are allowed to demand answers. But please remember #DallasKade’s friends & family when you are tweeting and commenting about #BradFreeman

  Hate is Great @hateisgreat418 • 17m

  Kill #BradFreeman.

  Monkey Man @boxxofmonkees • 21m

  Join the Fire #BradFreeman FB page. Boycott the New Melle Eight Ball Bar and Grill until they can his ass. bit.ly/1RkXpaS

  Izzy Rocks @izrockin • 24m

  #BradFreeman needs to go die already. This is how I know there’s no God, because dirtbags like him are allowed to live.

  Just A Troll @troll_lo_lo_lol • 26m

  What’s the max penalty for manslaughter? They oughta chop this #BradFreeman mofo up and send little pieces of him to all the Kadets.

  Just A Troll @troll_lo_lo_lol • 26m

  I want a necklace made out of this #BradFreeman’s dude’s teeth.

  X Marks the Spot @xxspotxx • 26m

  @troll_lo_lo_lol You are one sick bastard, but I like your style! #BradFreeman #KadetKorps

  I can’t believe some of the horrible stuff people tweet. And who starts a Facebook page just to get someone else fired? What is wrong with people? What is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be online sifting through tweets about Brad Freeman. I should be on the phone to Detective Blake telling her I’m the one who caused the accident.

  I reach for my phone. There’s a text message from my mother:

  Mom: If you haven’t seen the latest news articles, just stay offline, please. This man and his lawyer are trying to manipulate you. Call me if you need to.

  I swear under my breath. I could call her and tell her the whole truth, but I know it wouldn’t change anything in her mind. Even if he wasn’t wasted, Freeman was still drinking and driving. I wasn’t. Freeman is a repeat offender. I’m her almost-perfect daughter. She would never want me to ruin my life to clear the name of some stranger.

  But you don’t have to listen to her. You’re more than her almost-perfect daughter. You can make your own choices.

  Once again, I imagine how the internet would respond if they found out I was the one who killed Dallas Kade. #Careless, #Negligent, #Guilty—the hashtags pile up on top of #ControlFreak and #JealousBitch. So many horrible labels I never would’ve applied to myself. So many horrible labels that I suddenly feel like I deserve.

  A bolt of lightning flashes outside my bedroom window and one more hashtag flits through my head: #Murderer. With shaking fingers, I Google the motor vehicle laws in Missouri and find out that it’s not a crime to fall asleep while driving. I’m not a murderer. It’s not even manslaughter.

  But is that how everyone else will see it?

  Is that how I see it?

  Thunder rumbles overhead, followed by the tapping sound of rain falling against the roof. Streams of water run down the window panes.

  I minimize my browser so I’m looking at the picture of Dallas and me again. “I did it,” I tell him. “I killed you by being stupid, and I will never forgive myself. And no one else is going to forgive me either.” Tears leak out of my eyes, almost hot enough to scald my skin. “I bet you don’t forgive me either, do you?”

  It was an accident, Genna. There’s nothing to forgive.

  “That’s not true. I could’ve done so many things differently that night. I knew I was tired. I could’ve stopped. I should’ve stopped.” My voice is racing now. “Everyone will blame me. They should blame me. I blame me. I am so, so sorry.” I think of how quickly the world jumped on Brad Freeman, how they took what felt like it should be true and made it real, even though it wasn’t real at all. I have to fix it, somehow. I have to tell the truth.

  But then I think of the Fire Brad Freeman Facebook page. What would a bunch of angry strangers do to try to hurt me? If they knew I was volunteering at Zion, would they pressure the National Park Service to fire me? My eyes flick to the envelope from Wash U. What about college? If enough people complained to the university, would they give away my spot?

  Or would the angry masses go after my parents—maybe tell people to boycott their offices until I’m properly punished? My mom gets so upset if she receives anything less than a five-star rating from a patient. And my dad’s clients could decide to drive to Las Vegas or Salt Lake City for nonurgent procedures.

  And what about my own future as a doctor? Would med schools be less likely to accept me after they Googled my name and found out my poor judgment killed someone? Once the truth gets out online, it’ll be there permanently. It could haunt me forever. It could ruin my entire life.

  The way it’s ruining Brad Freeman’s life?

  I think back to the conversation I had with my mom: He’s the criminal, not you.

  But what if Freeman’s telling the truth, that he didn’t drink that much, that the blood test was wrong somehow? I know enough about medical stuff to know that’s possible.

  I need more information. I flip through all the recent articles, looking for new facts, but I don’t find anything. I scan the comments looking for more by Brad Freeman, but there’s nothing except for that single article, and the comments where he begs to keep his job.

  Shutting my laptop again, I crawl into bed, even though it’s only eight-thirty and I’m still sweaty from jogging home. I can’t bring myself to shower or brush my teeth, to do anything where I might have to face my dad or Rachael in the hallway. I don’t even want to look in the mirror right now. Above my head, the rain continues, rat-a-tat-tatting, a million tiny gunshots all aimed at me.

  I have always believed in telling the truth. I got mad at my dad because he lied about his affair with Rachael. I stayed with Dallas because he told me the truth about cheating on me. I can’t think of anything important in my whole life that I’ve ever lied about. And yet when I think about picking up that phone, about calling the police and confessing, I would almost rather die.

  But when I think about not saying anything, about staying quiet and letting someone else take the blame for something I did, my whole body ignites with shame. #Hypocrite, #Coward. I add to my pile of hashtags. I have to figure out something, or I will never be able to face anyone ever again. There has to be some way I can help Brad Freeman without destroying my entire life.

  CHAPTER 20

  The next day, Rachael and I arrive at Zion Lodge a few minutes before seven a.m.

  “Elliott is going to take care of you today. Just keep working on clearing the area for the trail,” she tells me. “How are you doing after yesterday? Feeling sore?”

  “You could say that.” I woke up with a stiffness across my shoulders and entire back. Even my hands ache a little from gripping the Pulaski so tightly. “But it’s okay. I kind of like it. Working hard clears my mind.” Right now I want it to be as empty as possible. The hashtags are still tormenting me, burning themselves into my brain like digital scarlet letters. #TerriblePerson, I add to the pile. #Criminal. Maybe falling asleep driving isn’t a crime, but staying quiet about my part in Dallas’s death surely is. Every moment I don’t tell the truth makes me more #Guilty.

  “Well, according to Elliott, you excel at it, so I’m delighted to have you help out, but just don’t overdo it, okay? Take breaks and stay hydrated. Your dad would never for
give me if anything happened to you.”

  “I’ll be fine, I promise.” #Liar, I balance on the top. I will never be fine again.

  Elliott hops out of his truck when he sees me arrive, but Halley is nowhere to be found. Rachael drives off in a cloud of red dust.

  I look around. “Where’s Halley?”

  “She doesn’t work on Sundays.”

  “Ah,” I say. “Church thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “So I guess you’re not a Mormon?”

  Elliott snorts. “No. Most definitely not.”

  I sense there’s a story there, but I’m not one to push people, especially not today. I take the Pulaski from Elliott’s outstretched hand and get to work. The dirt is soft from last night’s rainstorm and I make quick and steady progress. There’s just something about repeatedly punching the crap out of the world with a badass tool. After about thirty strikes I almost feel like someone else—someone who is strong and capable. Someone who is not a #TerriblePerson.

  Elliott’s walkie-talkie crackles with static and I pause, mid-swing, to watch him answer it.

  “What are they doing up there this early?” he asks to the person on the other end. I can’t make out the response. “They must have started before sunrise. Fine, I’ll check it out.” He slips the walkie into the side pocket of his pants and turns to me. “Have you been up Angels Landing yet?”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t done much hiking here,” I hedge. Or anywhere.

  “It’s the best trail in the park. You want to see it?”

  “Uh . . . sure, I guess.”

  “Are you afraid of heights?”

  “No.” I don’t think so, anyway. St. Louis is pretty flat. I haven’t exactly tested this fear.

  “And you’ve got water?”

  I hold up a blue water bottle that Rachael gave me.

  “All right. Come on.”

  I follow Elliott across the grassy area in front of Zion Lodge and over to the parking lot. I set my Pulaski in the back of his truck and hop into the passenger seat. Elliott turns out of the lodge parking lot and onto Zion Park Boulevard. Small hills of red dirt dotted with green vegetation rise up on the left side of the road. Behind them are the towering red rock cliffs that Zion is famous for. On my side, cottonwood trees provide the occasional slice of shade and the Virgin River twists and flows around pockets of high grass and sagebrush. It’s still early, and there’s no activity in sight.