I silence the call and throw the phone into the backseat.
It buzzes a couple more times.
Yeah, not today, buddy.
Gripping the wheel tighter, I think about all the times he insisted we were just friends. What did I do to deserve the fate of the friendzone, anyway? I’m prettyish. Nice enough—though I’m working on my quick temper. I’m a good-ish person.
Saying all that, I know the real reason. Unlike my golden child of a brother, Jamie, I have nothing going for me. I’m twenty-six years old, I live with my grandmother, I work a dead-end job, and I have no real talents or interesting qualities to speak of. I’m not athletic like Jamie, nor am I book-smart like Brandon. You’d think that would at least make me artistically inclined, but I don’t have the talent nor the patience to pursue my love for drawing or writing. Nor can I carry a tune or play an instrument to save my life. I am your typical plain Jane in every respect, down to my average build and boring brown eyes and hair.
No wonder Brandon doesn’t want me.
His taste in women is far more . . . refined. Elite. He dates lawyers. Therapists. A cardiologist once. These highbrow women usually come from money and are, more often than not, tall and blonde and athletic and smart and . . . well, nothing like me.
Brandon has a type, and I’m not it.
It isn’t like a woman’s pedigree matters, though. Brandon dates these women, sure, but never for very long. His relationships are always short-lived—if he even dates his conquest at all. Brandon loves and leaves women just because he can. His confidence, charm, and good looks reel in unsuspecting women from both far and wide, but his altruistic career as a psychiatrist, knack for flirtatious banter, and inherently playful nature are what seal their terrible fates.
Once Brandon’s sunk his teeth into a woman, he’ll have his fun then ghost her to chase after the next best thing. I used to glow green with jealousy over any woman who managed to capture his attention for longer than a second, but I only pity those women now.
I know their fate. Iamtheir fate.
I don’t know why what happened still bothers me so much, but it continues to burn like a hot stone in my stomach. It was just sex. I’m not one of those people who believe a woman loses something especially precious when she has sex for the first time. That’s ridiculous. But maybe there’s more of a spiritual aspect to sex than I once believed—because it feels like I gave a piece of my soul to that man, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get it back.
I am thoroughly haunted by the experience.
Am I struggling to forgive him because I have had a crush on him all my life? Or is it because I have a hard time reconciling what he did with who he is as a person? He is kind, patient, benevolent. Gracious, empathetic, compassionate. Happy, genuine, sweet.
But he’s also egocentric, arrogant, and selfish.
So, maybe I haven’t moved on because I’m irate with myself for being so foolish as to believe that Brandon Wright might change his ways for the likes of little old me.
Spoiler alert: he didn’t.
He led me on. Made me believe I was the exception.
I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I don’t notice the car in front of me until it’s too late. I panic, realizing I’m going way too fast, and those taillights arewaytoo close for comfort. Swerving the wheel as hard as I can, my front bumper narrowly misses the SUV—but now I’m careening toward the ditch. Frantic now, I pump the brakes, but it’s useless. My tires have lost traction.
My front wheels drop. The car dips.
And then I’m upside down, slamming against the force of my seatbelt, my fragile back taking the brunt of the impact. Agony rips up my spine like the slice of a blade. A bloodcurdling scream pierces my ears.
My car flips more than once, and during that time, I pray. For the first time since I was a child, I cry out to Jesus Christ for help, begging Him to let me make it out of this car alive and in one piece.
With a horrific metal-grating-against-ice sound, my overturned car skids to an abrupt stop. It rocks on its hood one final time before going completely still.
Shell-shocked and whimpering, I simply hang there, feeling like a limp, lifeless rag doll that just took a tumble in the washing machine. The seat belt cuts intomy neck as I gaze out my cracked windshield, panting as I try to control the inclination to panic. A bitter chill creeps through my busted window.
It’s over now.
“Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper, grateful to be alive. And unharmed.
I think.
Tentatively, I reach out and touch the fabric roof of my car. The motion sends an abrupt jolt of pain twisting down my spine, like someone’s given it a violent tug. I scream in response. It feels like a pickaxe is stuck in my back. Searing hot pain seeps down the back of my legs.
“Evie!”
I freeze. Did that man know my name?
