The dark kept getting warmer.
That was how I knew I was in trouble. Pain sharpened when a man was meant to fight. Warmth invited him to quit.
I thought of Georgia’s ring again.
Thought of how proud her father had looked when he hugged me.
Thought of her sitting somewhere safe, not knowing I was bleeding my life out in a vehicle heading north toward a hospital full of cops and fluorescent lights.
I should have felt terror for her.
I did.
I should have felt love strong enough to pull me back.
I tried.
Destiny’s voice cut through instead.
Don’t call me that if you’re just going to walk away.
Santa Monica.
Her black dress.
Her mother’s diamonds.
The turquoise ring.
My cuff hidden under her sleeve like a secret she could have thrown away and hadn’t. Her eyes when she realized I knew about Dean’s List and Cupcake and matcha and Cal’s blue quilt. The hurt on her face when I walked away again because I had convinced myself hurting her cleanly was better than wanting her honestly.
Noble.
That word came back and tasted like blood.
I had called myself noble because chicken was harder to swallow.
The vehicle stopped.
The doors opened.
Light hit me.
Too bright.
Too loud.
The world became voices.
“GSW abdomen, unstable!”
“Second patient, chest and shoulder!”
“Move, move, move!”
Hands pulled. Wheels slammed. A ceiling rushed above me in white panels and streaking lights.
Hospital.
