Page 88 of All The Ways to Miss You

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Chaos. A flood of people rushes toward me. Their screams are uneven and filled with horror.

I dodge around the frantic people escaping the scene, fighting to move upstream, but everything passes in slow motion. Sharp shoulders jab into my side, forcing me to move back two steps when I just took three. I find a way through, pushing and shoving myself between the terrified people as I check their faces, desperate to find Cait.

I round the corner and the view opens from the shady canyon of the tall buildings to bright May sunlight. The large park at University Square is normally peaceful with students studying or sunning. Today, it’s the scene of nightmares.

As people take cover in the surrounding stores and building lobbies, gunshots continue. The echo effect makes their source impossible to pin down, sounding as though fired from every direction and from every building. Sirens wail. Several police officers run past with weapons drawn, waving away bystanders, shouting at us to take cover.

Ignoring their pleas, I run toward what seems to be the main target—the park. I have to find her. I have to protect her.

“Cait!” I’m not even breathing. I’m a machine programmed to do one thing.

When I step on the grass, the sunlight slaps my face, temporarily blinding me. Still, my gaze swings, scouring the area as it comes back into focus. It’s desolate, littered with abandoned items—twisted blankets, flipped coolers, discarded backpacks and books.

“Cait!” I’ve screamed her name so many times, my throat burns.

Adrenaline forces me forward. Panic-stricken, I’m doing the unthinkable and passing by the fallen laid out on the grass. I see in their mortal wounds and glassed-over eyes they’re already gone. If I could just help someone, anyone. As soon as I think it, that’s when I hear the low voice.

“Help.”

I halt and spin to find the weakened source. It’s one of the only voices that could cut through my crazed mind. My head whips around when I hear it again, and I rush to her side. When I reach her, she’s curled on her side, holding her chest.

Shocked, I drop to my knees. “Steph?” My voice breaks on her name.

I roll her over and find her eyes frightened and wide. Her face is pale. A blooming spot of blood darkens the fabric of her T-shirt near her chest.

I don’t think, I act, doing what I’ve seen in movies. I yank off my jacket and press the fabric to her wound. She cries out in pain and I grit my teeth, feeling it with her. But what I’m feeling is my own heart breaking for seeing her like this.

“Safe?”

I lean closer when her voice cracks with the question. I glance around, unsure. When I listen, the gunshots have stopped. Or someone has stopped the shooter.

I scoop her into my arms, cradling her to my chest, then rise to my feet and run. Steph’s legs and head bob with her laid out in my grasp. Behind the shelter of two cars on a nearby street, I settle her onto the blacktop.

“You’re going to be okay.” I hover over her uselessly, returning my attention to her wound, but the blood rapidly soaks through the fabric of the jacket. The slickness coats my gripped fingers.

“Don’t leave,” she says.

There are gurgles in her voice, and when she can’t clear them from her throat, she coughs blood. It leaks from the corner of her mouth, and I try not to react. I have to remain strong. Her face scrunches in pain and terror, and she reaches out to clench my sleeve.

“Help!” I throw my head back and yell, seeking anyone who can hear. When no one responds, I fold over and hold her, praying for her to live and willing Cait to be safe.

“Help us!” I scream again. My throat burns, raw and torn from screaming.

When paramedics arrive a few moments later, the blood coating my hands has become sticky, the splatters on my shirt already turned a deep brown. When I let Steph go, allowing the paramedics to take my place and work on her, I already know it’s too late. She stopped breathing seconds ago with me draped over her, praying for her to live.

Completely numb, I step back until I bump into a car. In a daze, I watch them administer chest compressions while her body remains lifeless.

In a haze of guilt and anger, I stumble away. I break past a barrier of police officers to scour the park for Cait. If she’s not here among the dead, she’s safe. She’s safe. She has to be safe. This is my mantra.

At the far north end of the park, where she usually hangs out, I find her things. The contents of her bag are strewn everywhere. Her phone’s buzzing on the ground, but her blanket’s covered in blood.

“Cait!” I snatch up the blanket and scream into the air as if she’ll hear me and come running. If she’s here, she will. We’re connected. She’ll know I’m waiting.

But she doesn’t. Instead, there’s only the red-and-white flashing lights, the sound of sirens, and the scurry of first responders in uniform. I drop to my knees with my hands covering my face and finally break down and weep.

“Sir?” A soft but firm voice calls to me.