“No,” I whisper. Without warning my knees give out on me, and Tyler is at my side holding me up. “No,” I repeat fiercely. “No.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tyler says, voice breaking. When I turn my head to look at him, I see tears running down his face.
“That son of a bitch,” I growl, whipping around to face the other driver–the drunk who ended my friend’s life and gets to walk away with minor cuts and bruising. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Hey,” Tyler shouts, wrapping his hand around my bicep in a death grip. “Don’t be stupid. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
“He killed Aaron,” I snarl, attempting to wrench from his grip. But his hands are like iron, refusing to let me budge. “He killed my friend.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry,” he says, pulling me in and wrapping his arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, man,” I say, clearing my throat. “Sorry, I spaced out. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” he presses. “Because I sure as hell wouldn’t be.”
I nod, a lump forming in my throat.
No. No, I am not okay. I don’t think I ever will be again.
“It was tough,” I admit. “But I’ll be okay. Had to rip the bandaid off eventually. I’m just glad no one was seriously hurt.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Me, too.”
I lock myself in my office for the rest of the shift, filling out the accident report in much greater detail than I usually do, fighting to keep thoughts of Aaron at bay.
When I finally wrap up, I sit in my car for a full ten minutes before I can work up the courage to head home.
Not home. Aaron and Abby’s house.
Even though it’s been nearly five months since the accident, flashbacks like that make it feel like it was only yesterday. I drive home with the same pit in my stomach that was there when I had to make this drive on that God awful night.
By the time I get to the house, I’ve settled into numbness, operating on muscle memory as I open the front door and grab the first pieces of clothing out of my duffel bag I put my hands on. I head to the bathroom in a daze, showering and shaving and brushing my teeth without really noticing what I’m doing.
Sliding into the sheets on the couch, I stare at the small wedge of light shining on the ceiling from the street light outside. I stare for what feels like hours before falling into a fitful sleep.
I stand like a statue for a few moments before my whole body sags, and I hold onto Tyler while sobs rip through my body. When I finally catch my breath, releasing him and stepping backward, a second wave of horror hits me.
“Has anyone called Abby?”
“Not yet,” he says in a strained voice. “I was going to head over and tell her in person.”
“I’ll do it,” I say, wiping my face and squaring my shoulders. “I need to do it.”
“Is that a good idea?” His eyes are full of uncertainty as he shifts nervously on his feet. “I just mean, are you sure you’re up for that?”
“No,” I say honestly. “But I have to be. It should be me.”
“Here, clean your hands off,” he says, handing me a rag and running water from a bottle over my skin. When I look down at them, I nearly retch–they’re covered in Aaron’s blood from when I was doing CPR.
I don’t think my hands will ever feel clean again.
After checking in with the other guys assisting the paramedics and police officers, I begin the slow, agonizing walk back to my car. When I pass by the driver of the truck, hatred rises in my throat like bile. Before I can even think of doing something, the officer places cuffs on his wrists and follows him into the back of the ambulance.
Inhaling a shaky gasp, I wrench open the door and turn my keys violently in the ignition. I follow the route to Aaron and Abby’s house on autopilot–a drive I’ve done a thousand times. A drive that will never feel the same again.
I walk what feels like the green mile up to the door, steeling myself as I rap my knuckles loudly on the yellow painted wood. Through the door, I hear Abby’s voice yelling.
“I don’t understand how you remember your car key but not your house key. Why don’t you just keep them on the same key ring?”
