The color of her irises is a familiar brown—warm, comforting, like a sunlit forest in the middle of autumn, bathed in persimmon shafts of light that weave through a dense canopy, soaking the detritus-riddled floor in tones of sepia.
She’s too discombobulated to pull away from me. “Youhit me? With your car?”
“I’m so sorry. The paramedics are on their way,” I inform her, instinctively bringing our interlinked hands to my chest.
She stares at me strangely, then glances down at thecrimson carnage staining her fingers. “I’m barely bleeding. You shouldn’t have called 911. I can’t afford a hospital bill.”
“Are you serious? You could’ve died!”
Betrayal flickers across her expression. “Yeah, thanks to you.”
She has a point.
Not right now, Inner Me.
“You need medical attention. Don’t worry about the hospital bill, okay? Just work with me here,” I beg, long-brewing fear burrowing into my bone marrow like a starving parasite looking for sustenance to siphon.
I don’t know anything about this girl, but as the dunce-cap-wearing fool that I am, I have a feeling that begging for her forgiveness won’t be an easy feat.
Suddenly, she yanks her hand back. “Work with you? That’s a mighty high ask for someone who plowed me down a few minutes ago,” she growls, all animalistic vitriol and flashy incisors.
I can’t stave off the heat encroaching my body. “I…”
Don’t incriminate yourself, Knox. Don’t make things worse.
“In my defense, I was on the phone. I didn’t see you.”
Dude, why would you admit that?!
“Oh, great. Negligent driving to go along with the fact that you’re a fucking idiot.”
Take it back. TAKE IT BACK.
I have no idea how to make any of this better. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get sued. My dad will kill me. He already hates that I don’t have a summer internship lined up on top of everything. He definitely won’t take kindly to having to clean up my mess.
“I deserve that. God, I’m so sorry. Tell me what I can do to fix this. I’ll do anything.”
A little bit of color loads back into her cheeks, and although she’s grumbling expletives at my expense, it’s comforting to know that she’s lucid enough to hate me at her full capacity. “Ooh, how about you kindly fuck off and find a drainage grate to shove your dick in?”
Dear God.
The high-pitched screeching of sirens loudens, and the ambulance pulls haphazardly into the parking lot to deploy its first responders, who push me out of the way. It’s a whirlwind of black uniforms, first aid, and hospital jargon that I can’t understand.
I stagger to a stance, sidelined, left to watch the broken shards of my mistake be picked up by those who aren’t responsible. A common theme, I’ve come to notice. It’s like I’m always looking for something—orsomeone—else to take accountability.
She’s hoisted onto a stretcher, hooked up to various machines that look invasive, and swept into the back of the ambulance in record time.
When I round my car to tail after them, my forfeited exam is the last thing on my mind.
2
YOU CAN SHOVE YOUR APOLOGY RIGHT UP YOUR…
STATEN
When I brainstormed ways to get free tuition and considered the possibility of an insurance windfall, I envisioned myself jumping in front of a comically large bus shuttle—notrolling over the flashy hood of some douchebag’s expensive car. Money is tight these days. Joking about almost offing myself is, ironically, the only way I cling to any last morsel of my sanity.
The ambulance ride is a blur. One second, I’m lying on the cold, hard asphalt in front of a dozen of my peers, and the next, I’m lying in a hospital bed surrounded by some pitiful student doctors. Needless to say, embarrassment is a common denominator in the fucked-up equation of my life.
