Page 2 of Three Months Yesterday

Mark’s not wrong. I should have something to say, but there’s a tightness in my chest moving up my throat, and I can’t make the words come out.

All I can focus on is the relief that coursed through me when he said he wanted to break up and now the guilt building in my chest at the realization I don’t care about ending this.

I’ve been with this man since I was eighteen years old. I’ve lived through so many ups and downs with him, and yet, all I have is relief that it’s ending.

I let my eyes wander out the window one more time. It’s a beautiful summer day and while I’d rather be out in the gardens like I planned, I know this is where I need to be.

Taking a deep breath, I move away from the sink and take a seat across from Mark, prepared to give him my full attention, but know the end of us is inevitable.

Movies and TV often show moments like these as chaotic. There’s ringing in the ear and movement all around. People rushing to help. Lights flashing. Metal crunching. And maybe sometimes that’s exactly what happens, but for me it’s silent, dark, and terrifyingly cold.

It’s impossible to breathe, and I know it’s the panic setting in. My heart hammers and my chest tightens. Then, all at once—as if someone hit the volume button on a remote, unmuting the scene—I hear everything.

“Beckett!” I almost can’t recognize the voice as my mother’s, but who else could it be? No other woman was in the car…what the hell happened?

“Beckett, please,” she begs, her voice hoarse and broken.

I don’t have to see her to know tears are falling down her cheeks.

“Mom.” The word forms on my lips but no sound comes out. I swallow and try again, but it’s like my vocal cords are just as frozen as the ice pouring in from the smashed windshield.

Ice. Right. We crashed.

“Keith.” The word is released on a sob, and I can’t fathom how the sound that follows comes from any human, let alone my mother.

It’s a plea for my father, one he doesn’t answer, and I hope he’s either just as frozen as I am or he’s passed out.

I try desperately to form words, anything to let my mother know I’m here, but I can’t. No sound escapes and something has me pinned to the steering wheel.

I can’t move.

I’m trapped, listening to the sound of my mother’s world shattering around her, unable to let her know at least one person with her in this vehicle is alive.

There’s nothing to explain what wakes me. No sound. No movement. Just one minute I’m asleep, and the next my eyes are open.

The clock on my night stand grabs my attention instantly, there to tell me it’s just before four in the morning. Far too early to be awake when I only went to bed three hours ago.

I roll to my back, letting my mind wander from the nightmare, one I’ve grown used to having. It’s a nightmare I know to expect but refuse to acknowledge, especially today.

Knowing there’s no chance in hell I’ll get back to sleep, I throw the blanket off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, pausing to let my body adjust to the movement. The cool air prickles my exposed skin, irrationally frustrating me. I’m the one who went to bed in only a pair of boxer briefs with the ceiling fan on—knowing I didn’t need it. But that doesn’t stop me from glaring into the darkness.

It’s not summer anymore and hasn’t been for over a month. We’re officially entering prime fall foliage here in the Big Apple, and the idea of being in the city for the influx of people quickens my pulse.

The New York City tourist season isn’t really a season but year-round, and while the city isn’t the prime location to see this part of the world’s beautiful fall foliage, that doesn’t stop tourists from stopping here on their way farther north, and I can’t say I blame them.

Not that the city’s tourism matters at four o’clock in the morning—or ever.

Forcing myself up from the bed, I make my way to the bathroom, flipping on the light and moving to the toilet. Letting my mind wander as far from my nightmare as it can may not be the healthiest thing to do, but I don’t fight it.

I wish I could blame what day it is for the cause of my restlessness, but I know it’s more than that. The stress of life has been piling on for months now and I’ve been diligently avoiding it, hoping it’ll all work itself out in the end, but I know that’s all denial.

Moving to the sink, I wash my hands and splash water on my face, but as I reach for the towel to dry off, my eyes land on the scar I got eighteen years ago today.

It’s not the only scar I received in that accident, but it’s the only physical scar I see on a daily basis and the only physical injury that threatened the life I planned for myself. Well…the only physical injury on my body.

It’s an old scar. One that doesn’t actually hurt and isn’t as noticeable as it could be, but now that I’ve laid eyes on it, my brain will play tricks on me.

The phantom pain starts the moment my fingers reach for my throat, and it instantly becomes hard to swallow.