Darius answers immediately. “Crunchie. It’s the superior of all chocolate bars.”
“You’re kidding, right? I don’t think we can be friends anymore. Everyone knows that Dairy Milk is the superior chocolate bar.”
Darius wrinkles his nose, a sure sign he doesnotagree with me.
“You’re cute when you’re wrong. Now, stop holding my Crunchie hostage.”
The foil crinkles as I tear it open before handing it to him. I watch his jaw work as he chews on the chocolate, then turn my attention to the remaining bar in my hand.
God, when did I last eat chocolate? I know the answer and I hate it. Another thing stolen from me by someone I once trusted.
Such a good boy, Oliver, you deserve a treat.
I reach for the energy drink I have stored in the side of the car door, and take a sip, the sweetness coating my tongue as bile rises in my throat, my stomach making waves with the fries andapple I ate at the services earlier. I shove the chocolate back in the bag and dump the entire thing at my feet.
“You don’t want one?” Darius asks, dusting Crunchie remnants from his shirt before returning his hand to the wheel.
“I’m good. Not hungry.”
“You sure? You hardly ate earlier and there’s other –”
“I said I’m fine, D!” I don’t mean to snap, instantly regretting it. The playfulness from moments ago gets sucked out of the car, leaving us with a stilted, uncomfortable silence.
Darius nods, “Okay.” He turns up the volume on his playlist and we drive on without speaking, the words ‘I’m sorry’ sitting heavy on my tongue, but not passing my lips.
How many times will he accept my apologies before he’s done with me?
We turn off the motorway, passing through small town after small town before arriving on a winding road that leads to the place I spent twenty-one years of my life.
Home. Only the word no longer fits. It hasn’t in a very long time.
Trees flank us on each side, thick and dense to the left and thinner, with a patchy view of the town below on the other. It’s a picturesque route down to the coast, the kind you’d see on a postcard – a winding road with an orange and pink sunset peeking through the trees. I can’t see it as beautiful, not anymore.
“Has Caiden ever told you how his brother died?” I ask, looking straight ahead.
Darius turns the music down, his voice quiet when he answers. “Yes. It took him a while, but I know.”
“That was on this road.”
“Fuck.” Darius swallows thickly, his throat bobbing with the action. I lean back in the seat, looking down at my nails. “Caiden told me they were leaving a party when it happened.”
“I was meant to be there with him,” I confess, closing my eyes and replaying that night. Caiden messaging me for a hookup. Me saying I’d meet him at the party, and then getting distracted by a weed dealer with big tits and an eager mouth. “Caiden and I had made plans to meet up, but I was running late. Someone said they’d got into a fight and left early. I often wonder if I had got there on time, if their outcome would have been different. Like if I was with Caiden as planned, they wouldn’t have left when they did, and then their paths would never have crossed with that truck.”
Darius shakes his head. His face in profile is tense, his jaw ticking, frown tight.
“You couldn’t have known what would happen at that party or after, Ollie. It’s tragic what happened to the Carrington family, but it was an accident. It’s not on you.”
A breath puffs from my pursed lips. “Yeah. I know.” Darius is right. Of course he is, and I never really blamed myself. I only wished I had made a different choice that night. But like I told Darius before, you can never go back.
Not even if it would give you the chance to fix mistakes, take a different path, or ask for help before it’s too late.
By the time we leave the winding road in the rearview mirror, the sky is a hazy purple; the sun sitting low on the horizon. Darius navigates the car down a narrow country lane, lined by tall hedges and barely any space to pass oncoming traffic. My parents’ place is ten minutes from here and as each minute on the dashboard screen counts down, my heart rate increases, sweat beading on the back of my neck.
Nine minutes. Eight minutes. Seven minutes.
I can’t do this.
“We need to stop. Please D, please stop. I need…fuck. Stop the car.” My eyes sting and I think I’m going to be sick.
