How could I be so stupid? So careless? What the hell was I thinking?
The conversation from that night plays over and over again in my head. I keep wanting to change it. To not even mention the text. To ignore it and just talk about something else. But that's not what I did. And now she's dead.
I tried to save her and almost did. But then I let go. Why did I let go? How could I do that? She was my best friend. I loved her more than anything. How could I let her go?
They found her floating downstream. She was just past the bridge. They saw her body and fished her out. Maybe that's not the right term. I don't know. I didn't ask. Because what does it matter how they got her out? She was dead. It was too late. She was dead because I didn't save her. I let her go.
After that night, I dropped out of school. Recovering from my injuries took months and I would've missed too much class. But that wasn't the only reason I didn't go back. The real reason, the reason nobody wants to talk about, is that I can't go on without her. I don't know how to, not after what I did. If she had died some other way, I would've been devastated but I'd eventually move on. But this is different. I'm the one who told her to read that text. I'm the one who wasn't watching the road. I'm the one who killed her. How do I go on living my life knowing I'm the reason she no longer has one?
Last spring, I was supposed to go back to school but couldn't. So instead I lived at my aunt's house, in my old room, the room where Amy and I used to have slumber parties. The room we played in as kids.
God, I miss her. I miss her so much, it hurts.
My aunt blames me for what happened. She hasn't come out and said that but I know it's true. I can tell by the way she looks at me, or doesn't. She really doesn't look at me. She looks past me, like I don't exist. Like she doesn't see me. I know she didn't want me living at her house after the accident but I didn't have a choice. I had nowhere to go.
Aunt Nora cried for weeks after the funeral. I was recovering at home at the time and I'd hear her in her room, sobbing. But then when I'd see her, she was all smiles, like everything was fine. It was worse than if I'd seen her cry. I didn't understand it. How could she put on a fake smile after what happened? I said something to my uncle about it and he said it's her way of coping. That it's not up to me or anyone else to decide how she grieves and that I just need to accept it. I tried, but it still bothered me. Even now, she goes on as if everything's fine when it's not even close.
My uncle's been more open with his grieving. I've seen him cry, and even break down sobbing at the dinner table. When it happens, Aunt Nora gets up and leaves. She can't be around it. I don't want to be around it either but I stay because I don't want to leave him when he's suffering. I never say anything. I just sit there and wait for him to stop crying. One day he got up and pulled me into a hug, sobbing over the loss of his daughter. I felt his pain and it nearly killed me but I didn't let go. I held on and waited until he was done.
Uncle Ray and I have had many long talks the past few months. About the accident but also about Amy. Talking about her, remembering her, is hard, but it's better than pretending she never existed, which is what Aunt Nora seems to want to do. She almost never talks about Amy. She packed up Amy's room and now it sits empty, like no one ever lived there.
People told me I'd feel better as time went on but I didn't. If anything, I felt worse. Summer came and it was just another reminder that she was gone. Amy and I had planned to go on a road trip. We were going to be gone for two weeks with no idea where we'd end up. We'd been talking about it for years and were finally going to do it last summer. But she died before we could.
Uncle Ray knew about the trip and suggested he, Aunt Nora, and I take a weekend trip with no itinerary, a version of the trip Amy and I planned. It was nice of him to offer but I turned him down. I couldn't do that trip without Amy, and besides, I had a summer job and couldn't miss work. Aunt Nora got me the job and I know it's because she wanted me out of the house. I worked at the check-out desk at the library. It was easy and mindless and I could use the money I earned to pay back my aunt and uncle for at least some of the money they've spent me on me over the years. I put the money in an envelope and left it in their nightstand. They'll find it when I'm gone.
It'll come as a surprise to them that I did this. The past few months, I've pretended I'm better. That I'm over the shock and sadness of Amy's death and moving on. I even went back to school in September. Aunt Nora was so thrilled I was moving out she found me an apartment to live in and even decorated it for me. Knowing what was coming, I wanted to tell her not to do all that work but she insisted so I kept quiet. Plus, it seemed to make her really happy, which made me think maybe she was pretending it was Amy's apartment and that she was the one going back to school, not me. I asked Uncle Ray about it but he didn't really give me an answer.
Uncle Ray visits me every other weekend. He drives an hour—two hours round trip—to take me to dinner, then grocery shopping if I need it. And then he goes home. Aunt Nora never comes with, which is probably good. It's always awkward when she's around.
Uncle Ray's the only reason I've made it this long. If it weren't for him, I would've been here sooner. As soon as I could drive again.
I wanted to do it last summer but the bridge was under construction and I couldn't get to it. And it had to be done on the bridge. THIS bridge. Where it happened. When the bridge finally reopened a few weeks ago, I decided to wait and do it today. Exactly one year after that horrible night.
It should've been me that night. Now I'm correcting that mistake, and soon I'll be back with Amy. Her parents will be relieved when I'm gone, especially Aunt Nora. She'll no longer have to see the girl who killed her daughter. I'll no longer be a burden to her and Uncle Ray.
It's dark out now and a light mist is coming down. It's just like that night last year. I slow down as I reach the middle of the bridge. I pull off on the narrow shoulder and put the car in park, shutting off the engine.
I take a deep breath. This is it. It's time.
Getting out of the car, I walk over to the guardrail on the bridge and look down. All I see is darkness. I shudder as I'm brought back to the horror of that night. The feel of the car as it hit the guardrail, then careened over it and plunged into the river, the dark angry waves beating at its sides, pushing us deeper into the darkness.
If I wasn't such a coward, I'd do it the same way it happened that night. I'd drive the car over the rail and into the river and suffer a slow, terrifying death as water filled the vehicle until no air was left. That's what I deserve given what I did. But I can't do it. I need it to be quick with no chance for second thoughts or second guesses that might make me fight to save myself.
Looking down at the black water, the waves look more forceful than I remember. We had a big storm last night and it seems to have stirred up the river, making it seem even more menacing. I step up to the rail and lift my leg over it. My heart's beating out of my chest as one part of me is screaming not to do it while the other part is telling me I should.
This is for Amy, I say to myself as I go to touch the silver heart hanging from the chain around my neck. But it's not there. I feel all around my neck. It's not there! The necklace is gone! Where the hell is it?
Pulling my leg back over the rail, I crouch down and search the pavement for the necklace. It's Amy’s, but I have one just like it. She bought mine first, and loved it so much I bought her one too. It's just a simple silver chain with a silver heart hanging from it but it meant something. We always said that if a guy ever broke our hearts, we'd always be there for each other to put it back together. The necklace was a symbol of that promise. That we'd always be there for each other.
I need that necklace. I have to have it before I do this.
After searching the area where I was standing, I search the path I took from the car but I can't find it. It was around my neck when I left my apartment. I remember running my hand over it when I was sitting at a stoplight. It must've fell off in
the car.
Opening the driver side door, I flip on the overhead light and lean down to search the seat, then the floor mats. I search the center console and between the seats.
It's not there. How could it just be gone?
I don't have time to keep searching. I'll just have to jump without it. I get out of the car and shut the door.
"Hey, there!" a guy yells.
I look to where I heard the voice but through the misty fog, all I see is the outline of someone coming toward me.
"Need some help?" he yells as a beam of light blinds me. He's holding a really bright flashlight, aiming it at me.
"I'm fine!" I yell, shielding my eyes. "I don't need help!"
"You sure?" he lowers the flashlight as he gets closer.
"Yes! I'm fine!" I yell.
"Your car break down?" he asks, stopping a few feet away from me. I can see him now. He's tall with broad shoulders and dark hair that looks wet from the misty rain.
"My car's fine," I tell him.
Where did he come from? I didn't hear a car driving up. But it's windy and the river is loud so maybe that covered the noise. Plus I was in my car, not really paying attention.
"Doesn't look fine," he says, shining his flashlight under it. "You hit something?"
"No." I cross my arms over my chest, covering up my shirt, which is wet from the rain and sticking to my skin.
"You got a leak," he says, crouching down to look under the car. "You sure you didn't hit anything? Maybe a pipe or a sharp wire?"
"No, I didn't hit anything," I say, annoyed he won't leave me alone. Who stops on a bridge to help someone? Or maybe he's not trying to help me. Maybe this is all a ruse to rape me, or kill me.
He stands up. "You take it in for service recently?"
"No. Why?"
"How old are the brake pads?"
I sigh. "I don't know. It doesn't matter. It's fine."
"Actually, it's not." He points the flashlight at the ground. "See that brown liquid?"
I follow the light to a line of brown liquid coming from under the car near the wheel.
"Yeah? What about it?"
"That's brake fluid. It's leaking but I can't tell where from until I get the car back to the shop."
"The shop?"
"Stranski Automotive." He juts his hand at me. "Travis Stranski."
As I shake his hand I get a closer look at him. He's got that rugged look, like he belongs in the woods, cutting down trees. Or maybe it's his large stature and the red and black plaid shirt making me think that. His deep set eyes are a really dark brown and he's got a scruffy beard growing, like he hasn't shaved in a week. I'll admit he's hot but hot guys can be killers.
"So you're a mechanic?" I ask.
"You could say that." He smiles. "I also own the place. Took it over from my dad."
"Okay, well, thanks for letting me know. I'll take it in next week."
"You can't drive it."
"Why can't I drive it?" I ask, not that it matters. It's not like I'll be around to drive it.
"It's not safe. You can't drive a car leaking brake fluid. Other fluids? It might be okay, but not brake fluid. If the brakes go out you could be in a bad accident. Or worse."
I've already experienced the 'worse' and it wasn't due to bad brakes. I really need this guy to go away so I can finish what I came here to do.
He cocks his head. "What are you doing out here?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, why are you stopped on the bridge?"
My heart ticks up as I try to come up with an excuse. "I just wanted to look at the river. It's peaceful, you know? Seeing the current go by?" I let out a nervous laugh.
He stares at me. "It's dark. You can't even see it."
"You can see it," I insist. "The bridge lights are really bright."
"I don't buy it," he says, crossing his giant lumberjack arms over his chest. "Try again."
"What?" My heart races even more. I don't want this guy finding out the truth. It's none of his business. "I don't know what you mean."
"A pretty young girl doesn't come out to a bridge at night by herself just to look at the river, which you can't even see. Bridge lights or not, it all looks black when you look down."
"Fine." I glance to the side. "Don't believe me. I don't have to explain myself to you. I don't even know you. For all I know you stopped here to kill me."
He laughs. "Kill you? Really? Do I look like a killer?"
My eyes dart back to him, to his broad shoulders and torso, down to his long legs covered in dark jeans, and his big black boots.
"Yeah," I say. "You look like a killer."
"And why is that?" he asks with a smile.
"Well, for one, you're big so you could easily overpower someone my size."
"That's true for a lot of guys. You're not very big."
For the record, I'm five foot two and 110 pounds so what he's saying is true but he's way over six feet and looks like he carries a lot of muscle so he's better able to kill me than the average guy.
"The beard," I say, pointing to it. "A lot of killers have beards."
"And you have research to support this?"
"Kind of."
"Let's hear it," he says, standing up straighter, his arms still folded over his chest.
I take a breath, trying to remember back to freshman year. "It was in my psych class. The professor said criminals use beards to cover up their identity before they commit a crime. Or sometimes it's not a conscious choice but their subconscious using the beard to cover up the guilt and shame they feel about what they did."
He nods. "Psych class, huh? So you go to the university?"
"Yes," I say with a sigh, wishing he'd stop asking questions.
"What year?"
"Junior, maybe? I don't know. I've lost track."
His brow ticks up. "You don't know what year you are?"
"I took some time off so I'm not sure where my credits are, but let's go with junior."
"What are you studying?"
"I haven't decided. Listen, I don't want to keep standing out here getting wet so—"
"You're right. Let's go to my truck." He turns and walks away from me.
"Your truck? I'm not getting in your truck."
He stops and turns around. "You'd rather stay out here and get soaked?" He looks up at the sky. "It's only a mist now but in a minute or two, it's going to be a downpour. C'mon. Hurry up. I don't want to be doing this if we get lightning." He walks off.
I run to catch up with him. "Doing what?"
"Getting your car loaded on."
"Loaded on what? What are you talking about?"
He points to his truck, which I now see is a tow truck. "I'll tow you back to the shop, then take you back to your dorm. Or do you have an apartment?"
"Apartment, but I don't need a ride. Or a tow. Just go. I'll call my uncle. He'll take care of it."
"Where's your uncle live?"
"Like an hour from here but he'll leave right away if I call him."
"I'm not leaving you out here all alone in a storm with a car that doesn't work."
"It's not a storm. It's a light mist, and I'll wait in the car until he gets here."
Just then, the mist turns to rain. Big cold drops that sting my face and make me shiver.
"C'mon.” Travis grabs my hand and takes off running to his truck. He unlocks it with his remote and opens the driver’s side. "Get in."
I try to lift myself up but my foot slips and I land back on the ground. Strong hands go around my waist and lift me into the seat. "I'll be right back."
In the mirror, I see him go around back to the tow bed. He does something with some chains, then comes back to the truck.
"Scoot over," he says.
I'm just starting to move when he shoves into his seat, causing me to fall back in his lap.
"You trying to tell me something?" he says, kiddingly.
"No!" I scramble to get off him.
"Not t
hat I'm against it, but we just met so—"
"It was an accident." I plop down in my seat. "You didn't give me enough time to move."
He starts the truck. "I'm going to drive up ahead of your car and then back up and try to align it. Right now it's too close to the rail. I'll need your keys." He holds out his hand as he slowly drives forward.
"I thought you said it couldn't be driven."
"We're not driving it. We're moving it a few feet. If you want to be the one to move it, that's fine."
He drives past my car, then checks the mirror as he backs up the truck. He puts it in park. "Ready?"
"You can do it," I tell him. "The keys are on the seat."
He looks at me. "Why are they on the seat?"
I shrug. "I just forgot them, I guess."
The truth is I left them there because I no longer need them, or I didn't before the nosy tow truck guy showed up. Why is he doing this? Why won't he leave me alone?
He's in my car now, moving it into place. Then I watch as he hooks up the car to the chains, getting soaked as the rain pours down on him. While he's doing that, I open the glove compartment and pull out his registration to see if he really is who he claims to be.
Travis Stranski. So he didn't lie about his name. I put the registration back and pull out a business card. There's a whole pile of them in there, and a few on the floor. I turn on the overhead light and see it's a business card for Stranski Automotive. Under the name it says ‘Auto Repair, Maintenance, and Towing’. He didn't lie about that either so maybe he's not a killer. I didn't really think he was and I wish I hadn't told him that, but it's too late now.
When the car is hoisted up on the bed and secured, he gets back in the truck. He's soaking wet, dripping all over the seat.
"Here." He puts his hand out and I look down and see he's holding my phone. "Found it in the car."
"Oh. Thanks."
He reaches in his shirt pocket. "And here's your keys. They're a little wet."
"That's okay." I take them from him. "You really didn't have to do this."
"I don't leave a girl stranded. I wasn't raised that way."
"But I wasn't stranded. I was—" I stop before I tell him too much.
With Every Breath Page 3