“What?” Andrea shrieks. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I fling my backpack into the passenger seat, slide behind the wheel and start the engine.
“I don’t know yet, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be highly illegal if what I’m thinking is true.”
Her strangled whine blasts through the truck’s speakers as soon as my phone connects to the Bluetooth. “No, this can’t be happening,” she whimpers, more to herself than me. “That can’t— He—”
The tires chirp as I peel out of the garage, the roar of the exhaust booming off the cement walls. As I merge onto the main road, a group of students dashes across the street in the direction of flashing blue and red lights. I swerve around them and fly through a yellow light. (It might’ve been red.)
Focus, dipshit.
“Sorry, Drea. I gotta go. I’ll text you soon.”
She sniffles. “Ok, ok, just please be careful… and Rem?”
“Yeah?”
“Hug him extra long for me?”
It’s not a lump in my throat— it’s a boulder of throbbing agony, restricting my oxygen. Gripping the wheel for dear life, I croak, “I will,” and disconnect.
If he doesn’t disappear on me again…
49
Remy
Six Years Ago
Brakes squeal as the bus comes to a stop in Kingsbury’s parking lot. I’ve been wearing a layer of sweat under my track uniform since three this afternoon. The sports drink I chugged earlier threatens to make a reappearance.
I feel fucking awful.
Not to mention I performed terribly. Coach Dennis pulled me aside for a “check-in.” I made some dumbass excuse of having a fever. He cares. They all do. But their concern only puts me on the defensive. Lately, I can’t do anything right. They act like I’m dying or something. I don’t make a big deal when someone else is having a tough time. Just because I don’t have a smile plastered on my face, there’s something wrong with me. I constantly have to stop myself from snapping, “I seem down? Well maybe I am. It’s not my fault you’re uncomfortable with the fact I’m not hiding how I feel.” But that would open the door for them to ask why.
And I don’t have an answer.
Hoisting my bag from beneath the seat, I dart past groggy teammates into the damp night. Humidity smacks me in the face; it’s been storming off and on all day. Swatting off a cloud of mosquitos, I rush toward my jeep at the far end of the parking lot, sneakers kicking muddy water onto the backs of my legs.
The drive back from districts felt way longer than two hours. Maybe because Win hasn’t responded to any of my texts. It’s not like him to ignore me. Is he mad at me? I’m desperate to see him and make sure we’re good. My mind cycles through every word, every look, every breath but I find nothing that could've upset him.
I’m unlocking Jeanie when something tucked under the windshield wiper catches my eye.
A piece of paper.
Nausea sweeps through me. Dread solidifies my lungs into useless steel sculptures. With trembling fingers, I lift the wiper and gently tug it free.
It’s barely damp.
My hands are shaking so badly, that the note almost slips from my fingers as I carefully unfold it. The handwriting is unmistakably Win’s.
I can't keep our promise. You’re too sick to be what I need.
Thewords blur.
But… he promised.One day, we're gonna escape this place together.
He didn’t write this. He couldn’t have written this. He’d never write this.
