His gloating turns to aharrumph. His grin, to a glower. “You’re just trying to hurt my feelings cos I tipped out your coffee.”
As we approach town and traffic grows a little thicker—as in, four cars in sight—he brings the truck to a rumbling stop at a set of lights so those going the other way can cross.
One car.
Two.
And since he has time, he peeks across and tries on his ‘I’m cranky and disappointed’ glare. “I’ve been the knight guarding your door our whole lives, Nova. Even in high school.” His lips quirk up at the side. “Even though it was messing with my social life.”
“Oh, please. One of us was cool. The other was you.”
“See!? Hurtful.” When our light turns green, he accelerates and brings us forward. “We could call our friends, if you want. Ask them to vote for the most popular Nichols again.”
“We graduated an entire decade ago,” I drawl. “It’s kinda sad that you peaked in high school and this is all you’ve got going for you now.”
I catch the movement of traffic on Ryan’s left as we amble through the intersection, the shiny glint of a black SUV, not faded even a little, unlike mine. I guess I expect to see it stopped. It’s what my brain assumes will happen. Instead, the heavy vehicle shoots through his red light without so much as a flutter of hesitation.
My brain, still working onwhat is supposed to beinstead ofwhat is,doesn’t fully register the danger. But Ryan is faster. More observant.
“Oh, shit!” He swings his gaze my way, throwing his armacross in front of me and pinning me to my seat, and at the same time, he stomps on the gas pedal and revs the engine.
But my truck is too old. Unaccustomed to drag-race treatment.
“Hold on!” His words are a distant echo in the back of my mind. His panic, like gunshots in my ears. The SUV slams against our truck, the screech of metal like a piercing scream, and the folding of steel, a groan that will visit me in my dreams.
Ryan’s sunglasses fly toward the windshield, shattering and showering the thin brown lenses over our laps. His body bounces from the direct impact of the other car, yet his restraining arm remains entirely controlled. He becomes a second seatbelt for me, stopping me from hitting the dash. But he can do nothing about the way I rocket to the side, my skull cracking against the window in the same moment it blows out, glass shattering into the cab.
A scream of terror escapes my lips, clawing along my throat and out to compete with the roar of our truck spinning across the intersection, then tilting on its wheels until we’re flipping and flying.
My father’s smile, back in the day, assured me all was well with the world.
Ryan’s eyes, today, say the opposite.
The momentum of the truck has me hitting my head a second time, harder than the first. Darkness fills my vision, and hot, sticky blood coats the side of my neck.
“Ryan?” I cling to his arm as dizziness makes way for nausea, and adrenaline makes it all so much worse. The world outside of us spins and jumps and twirls, and with every revolution, glass and metal cut my flesh.
A mere second feels like a lifetime, and a dozen rolls feel like a million.
Blood trickles behind my ear and down the side of my neck, sliding into my shirt so the fabric sticks to my skin and draws my mental focus. Which is so strange, really. That I dial in on those details, even as the smell of burning rubber hits my nose, and the distinct tang of gas floats in the air. It’s so odd that I would focus on the warm, tacky feeling on my skin while flames burst to life in the engine bay.
We spin and flip and fly for what feels like forever. Until we don’t. Then we crash down with a deafening boom, landing on Ryan’s side as the scream of old metal scraping against the tar road pierces the air.
Blood on my neck. Staining my shirt.Such odd details to think about.Until Ryan’s restricting arm falls away and I slip along the bench seat, bouncing my forehead off the steering wheel until stars burst in my eyes and the things thatshouldbe loud become nothing more than background noise.
And then we stop. The truck. The world. The noise and stench and heat and reality.
Dizzy, I search for my brother amidst the chaos. Nausea creeps along my throat and up to burn my esophagus. My hands shake, and my lips tremble. Shadows dance in my peripherals until finally, I find him. His eyes on mine. Staring, but unseeing. He’s here. But he’s not.
“Ryan?” Oxygen clogs in my throat and robs me of the ability to pull more in. Or push a little out. My lungs spasm as people outside the truck shout, and footsteps thunder closer.
“Ryan?” My voice breaks. Aching. My hands tingle, half-numb as I attempt to free myself from the seatbelt. Jamming mythumb against the catch and releasing the material, I toss it aside on a cry and crawl toward my brother. “Ryan?” Tears sting my eyes, tracking along my cheeks and tickling the edge of my jaw. “Hey?” I grab his tattooed arm, the compass by his biceps giving me something to focus on. Something concrete and hopeful and real, as thick veins bulge in his muscle. “Ryan?!”
“Ma’am?” Someone tears my door open, the screech of misshapen metal like a knife to the side of my brain. “Ma’am! We gotta go. Your truck is on fire.”
“Ryan?” I jerk his arm, as rough as my waning strength allows. “Wake up, Ry!”
Hands wrap around my hips and yank me back.
