She’s broken open, her insides streaming from her like tears.
No; she’s fine. She’s whole.
We’re at a party in Southampton. She’s wearing a short pleated skirt, a ribbed white tank top. I’m running my fingers along the space just above her waistband, feeling her skin, cool and dry despite the summer humidity.
God, she was always so cool. Instead of sweating, she’d kind ofglow. She was peach sherbet; she was a cold glass of milk; she was crunching ice cubes between my teeth.
I feel sweat along my hairline, gathering at the back of my neck, between my fingers and toes. I reek. I’ve been at the party too long. The drink in my hand is lukewarm, but I take a swig nonetheless.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Harper doesn’t pretend she’s not concerned. She doesn’t care if she embarrasses me. She doesn’t keep up appearances.
I pull her close and kiss her. She tastes like strawberry ice cream.
No; my mouth is empty. She’s not here. I’m not there.
I’m in bed, in this terrible place, and Dr. Rush thinks I did good work today.
She was going to break up with me. She told me that night.
No; we were going to get married. We were going to backpack across Europe and disappear into the Black Forest like creatures out of the Grimm brothers’ fairy tales.
No; we were simply getting into the car.
I’d rented a sports car for the summer. Convertible, top down, leather seats. Harper was angry at me for using the family’s money.
“I won’t marry you unless you stop accepting their money.”
“They’re controlling you from miles away.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’d never let you marry me.”
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Let me drive.”
I can’t see the cottage, can’t see the wall of glass leading to the terrace, the enormous barn door that opens into the hall. I can’t feel the too-soft Hastens mattress beneath my back or the goose-down comforter over my body.
I’m playing with the radio, my eyes on the controls instead of the road.
The car was manual. I loved shifting gears as we pulled onto the highway.
I can’t feel the pedals beneath my feet. I hold my hands out, but it’s like the steering wheel isn’t there, there’s only air.
I’m not in control.
I hear the sound of tires screeching, metal crumbling.
The whole world is shaking, humming.
No; my phone is ringing, vibrating against the mattress. My hands fumble as I try to silence it.
“Hello?”
Harper’s screaming. The terror in her voice makes me shake.
Instead of cool winter air, I feel a hot summer night.
I feel the weight of Harper’s body in my arms.
