Luke takes a hard turn. The tires of the car screech on the asphalt and my body slightly rises from the seat. I have to grab the door to get my bearings. He straightens out with precision and my heart pounds.
That felt so fucking good.
With his hand on the gear he shifts with each sharp turn, losing ground over hills. The wooded confines become a blur in the black night. The fast passing gravel ahead is all I see.
The world around me starts to move. Fixing my eyes on the dash, I try to ground myself, but it’s not working. The wild movements make my head feel dizzy. My stomach rolls up and away from itself. I think I’m going to puke. We should stop.
We should . . .
The tires squeal. A loud bang comes from Luke’s side of the car, and the force of the impact slams me into my door.
Spinning.
We’re spinning.
Luke’s hands are grabbing violently at the steering wheel. He’s out of control.
It’s happening too fast.
My head smacks against the door and then toward the windshield. Like a rag doll, my body is shifted. I have to grab hold of something but I can’t reach anything.
The glass implodes. I raise my hands to cover my face from the shattering shards. My arms are shielding my eyes. I can’t see anything, but I feel the weightlessness of antigravity.
I start to pray but the words can’t get out of my mouth fast enough.
The car crashes hard onto the ground with a force so powerful . . . so fierce . . . so . . .
Silent.
chapter ONE
“How much further to the top?” Leah whines, clenching her roller suitcase. The casters make a thumping sound, banging against each step as she pulls it up the mountain of stairs.
“We could have taken the bus.” My voice is an I-told-you-so singsong, slightly wincing, as I try to tame the ache shooting up my left arm. It’s my less-dominant one and not made for lifting a suitcase vertically up a hill.
We’re both a little snippy from our long day of travel. It has been an episode of planes, trains, and automobiles to get us here. Yesterday morning, we woke up in Columbus and boarded a plane to New York, only to transfer to another flight to Dublin. After a serious layover and a few pints of Guinness, we boarded our third and final flight to Naples, Italy. With seventeen hours of travel behind us, we were elated to board a hydrofoil to take us to the island of Capri.
We are tired, we want showers, and a glass of Prosecco wouldn’t hurt either.
I raise my gaze to the incredible surroundings. When the boat pulled up to the Grande Marina of Capri, I had to blink to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. The sight so surreal, Schubert’s Ninth Symphony played in my head as a virtual theme song.
Capri is a massive rock, shooting out from the Tyrrhenian Sea. Rocky caves around the island can be made out as the water crashes at the base. Up top, a cloud hides the peak of the mountain, making it seem as if heaven is just beyond the fog. Cascading down the slope is fresh green, hugging the landscape like a blanket.
As you get closer to the island, the definition and vibrant colors of homes and hotels peering up from the greenery becomes clearer. Shades of gold, red, and orange reflect off the rooftops. At the foreground, vendors and shops are bustling with activity. Tourists are buying souvenirs or trying to get a glimpse of Mt. Vesuvius, while others are walking to the various restaurants that line the marina.
Stepping off the boat, Leah and I had rolled our suitcases along the stone path of the dock and over to where my map said we could hail a taxi or take a bus to our hotel. Leah being Leah, hell bent on living life to the fullest, decided we should walk to our hotel, taking the narrow stairway paths that cut through the island. She said it would be “exciting” and would help us “stretch our legs.” She had no idea how many hundreds of stairs we would have to climb.
“Buses are for tourists. We are here to enjoy this magnificent island, and the only way to do it is on foot!” Leah gives a loud huff at the end of her sentence, as she wraps two hands around the lever of her large suitcase and hoists it up.
“Switch bags with me,” I say. My bag is much smaller and easier to maneuver. I pack light. We’re spending a week in the exotic Mediterranean. How many pieces of clothing could you need?
Apparently for Leah, it’s a lot.
I extend my arm, then quickly pull it back, realizing the one I was offering wouldn’t be of any use.
“No, Emma, your hand.” She stops her progression and looks down at me. “You must be having enough trouble lifting your own. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t—”
“It’s fine.” I cut her off, stretching out my right hand, a constant reminder of the worst year of my life and all the dreams that faded in one awful weekend.
