“Sold.” He jogged ahead to open the door of a sleek 1990 Ford Bronco. “Dealer’s choice.” He took my hand and helped me up into the passenger seat.
The idea of Erich walking in later and finding us together took center stage in my mind. I didn’t think about how much Thomas had already been drinking—until he spun the tires leaving the parking lot.
We hadn’t made it halfway down the road before it clicked.
I was in a car with a drunk driver.
This time, with someone I barely knew.
We swerved, drifting across the road. Neither of us could find the center line, but he didn’t slow down. It felt like waking from a dream, clawing my way through the haze as my body tried to catch up to what was happening.
It sobered me faster than sleep ever could.
I hinted at it—once, twice—but Thomas brushed it off, insisting he was fine. I didn’t want to push. Didn’t want to seem difficult. I’d just met him. Maybe he was always a bad driver.
He was my ride home.
Then it happened.
Thomas was mid-story about his dog when he jerked the wheel to avoid a deer. My scream tore out of me as the car veered off the road and slammed into a tree.
After that—sound. A sickening thunk. A crack.
Later, I’d realize it was him going through the windshield. No seatbelt.
Smoke curled from the hood. Blood smeared across the glass and steering wheel. My hands moved before my brain caught up—I stripped off his jacket, tossed it into the backseat, turned down the music, and fumbled with the door.
I forgot I was wearing a seatbelt and nearly choked myself trying to get out before I realized.
I think I knew he was dead.
But I still had to look.
I wasn’t ready for what I saw.
The boy from the bar—the one I’d planned to bring back to the motel—was gone. What remained didn’t seem human. His body was twisted, broken, wrong. His face—gone to something unrecognizable.
If he’d lived even a second longer, he would’ve begged for death.
All I could think was:shit, shit, shit—
The slam of the passenger door echoed into the empty night. I doubled over, vomiting onto my shoes before collapsing to the ground, fingers clawing into the dirt like I could pull myself out of it. My face was wet—I thought it was tears until my hand brushed glass embedded in my skin.
It stung. Everything stung.
But none of it mattered.
I needed Erich.
I wiped my mouth and turned—leaving the wreck, leaving Thomas—running back toward the bar. Alone, on a dark highway, looking like I’d been mauled by a small animal.
I would’ve been an easy target for anyone.
It was a good fifteen-minute walk. My sniffling, blubbering self didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what I’d do once I got to the bar, but at least it was a straight walk back. I couldn’t go inside after something like that. Someone would ask questions about how I looked or connect me to the boy I left with.
My only saving grace was his brother and friends weren’t around when we left for him to take me to his car. Someone would know what happened or assume the worst. The cops would be called. The highly unlikely scenario—being put on trial for murder or manslaughter, the right lawyers twistingeverything—under a microscope in front of a judge, raced through my panicked mind. My whole life would be dragged back as the judge pieced together who I was… I didn’t want that. I wanted to forget it, even if it was wrong to disconnect myself from the accident for the sake of my own safety.
His death could’ve been in my hands, just because I was with him when it happened.
