Hold it together until you get to the damn truck. Then you can yell, cry, punch something—but don’t let anyone see. You’re better than that.
It felt like forever until my fingers closed around the handle and yanked. I threw myself onto the seat with the grace of a fucking foal, slammed the door, clicked the locks, and pressed my forehead to the cool leather of the steering wheel. My eyes squeezed shut so hard, I thought my eyelids might fuse into one and never open again. But even shutting out the world didn’t stop the images ofGarrett’s truck wrapped around a tree from flashing in my mind.
The skid marks on the pavement. The lone branch that had fallen, but the tree was still standing. I’d cursed the bird that dropped a seed in that very spot for being the reason that damn tree grew. For being the reason my friend died.
I had attributed his death to the other driver on the road. To the weather. The wind. The goddamn universe.
There were so many people and things to blame.
His mom for inviting him home. His cousin for calling and delaying his departure by five minutes. The gas station pump that hadn’t worked, causing him to drive to the one in front of it. And I only knew that because we were such good fucking friends that he’d updated me before I got on the bronc that night.
Garrett: My luck ran out on diesel tonight, brother. Pulled up to the one damn pump that doesn’t work
Me: Your luck ran out years ago when I stayed onAss Pulverizerlonger than you
Garrett: That’s not his real name
Me: Should’ve been. Drive safe, G. Text me when you get there. Tell your mom I said hi
Garrett: If you love her so much, tell her yourself
And I did. At the same fucking time we told her son goodbye.
My fist slammed into the wheel as a bead of sweat dripped down my temple despite the cold temperature of the cab.
My breath came in short pants, my heart threateningto burst out of my chest as my fingers dug into my clammy palms.
Think of three things, my therapist used to tell me.
It wasn’t fucking helpful. Three things could be anything, and when I was panicking, my mind always reverted to the worst.
I stopped going to therapy after that.
I tried counting to regulate my breathing—in through the nose and out through the mouth for however many fucking seconds—but that didn’t shut my mind off. Drinking had, temporarily, but my brother Reed had given me a wake-up call on that, so I quit overindulging in alcohol.
Now I just overindulged in overthinking.
I needed to text Lennon, my oldest brother, and clear my head before I lost myself to the grief.
I lifted my head from the steering wheel, prying my eyes open to take in the trunk of the car in front of me. I forced every ounce of control I had into regulating my breathing. Then I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket and clicked my text thread with Lennon. My fingers were shaking as I typed.
Me: That motel in town still have no heat?
My gaze stayed fixed to the spot where that little bubble would pop up if he was typing. I sent up a silent thanks when it did.
Lennon: Hasn’t for a few weeks, I think. Why?
Me: All I needed to know. Thanks
Lennon: Don’t go playing pretend HVAC repairman, Beck. I can give you a job
Me: Busy
Lennon: Of course you are. Let me know how being electrocuted feels
Oh, I knew how it felt. Seeing Parker today was like nothing short of electricity coursing through every nerve in my body. But seeing Parker tonight? Well, that might be the death of me. So long as I could get myself under control enough not to be on the brink of another fucking panic attack in her presence.
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