“I know you are.” I sigh, leaning my shoulder against the wall. “That’s not the point. I want to be there. We should be done in twenty minutes, and since it’s on this side of town, I should be able to meet you there before your appointment.”
“Okay,” she exhales, and I realize that she’s choosing peace over arguing. “Just don’t drive like a maniac to get there on time.”
I can’t help but smile. “No promises.”
“I love you,” she shares at the end of a soft laugh.
“I love you too, dreamer.”
Back in the studio, we finish in three clean takes. The second it’s done, I thank everyone, stow my guitar, and am halfway out the door while my producer is still talking about playback.
My fingers drum against the steering wheel, and I curse every slow driver I get stuck behind. When I manage to pull into the doctor’s office parking lot in time, relief washes over me.
Inside, the office smells faintly of antiseptic and fake lavender. A receptionist looks up with a polite smile as I approach. “Hi.” I smile back at her. “I’m here for an appointment with my wife, Rosie Shaw.”
She types on her keyboard and frowns slightly. “I’m sorry, but it looks like she hasn’t checked in yet.”
“She must still be on her way.”
“One of the other patients said there was a bad accident on 65,” the receptionist shares. “Maybe she’s just stuck in traffic.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I step back outside and scan the parking lot for Rosie’s car. When I don’t spot it, I pull my phone from mypocket and call her. It goes to voicemail. I hang up and call again. It rings twice before connecting.
“Hello?” The voice coming through the speaker is wrong.
“Where is Rosie?” I snip, skipping over pleasantries entirely. “And who are you?”
“Sir, this is Trooper Lawrence?—”
“Where is my wife?” My voice cracks through the words, panic instinctually clawing its way out of my chest. “And why do you have her phone?”
“Sir, where are you located? We can send a car to?—”
“I don’t need a car,” I snap, anxiously pacing the sidewalk. “I need to know where my wife is.”
There’s a pause. Long enough that the world seems to pull back, sound draining away until all I can hear is my breathing and my pulse thumping in my ears.
“Sir,” he says carefully, “there was an accident…”
“She’s gone because of you,” I berate the reflection before me.
If I had left the studio on time…If she wasn’t driving herself…
“Stupid,” I spit at my reflection. “You stupid, selfishson of a bitch.”
I was supposed to protect her. That was my job. That was what loving her meant. And I failed when I wasn’t there.
Anger twists in my gut, ugly and violent. I hate the road. I hate the drunk asshole who got behind the wheel. I hate how random it was, how meaningless. But most of all, I hatemyself.
I grab the picture frame from the dresser and trace my fingers along the curve of her cheek. “I should’ve been better,” I whisper to her smiling face. “I should’ve loved you louder. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve…”
I press it to my forehead, teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches as uncontrollable, hot tears stream down my face. “I’m sorry,” I choke. “So fucking sorry.”
April 28th
Dear Imperfect Nights,
If I judged this date by how it started, I would’ve written it—and Easton—off entirely.
