Page 141 of Sparks Fly

The world tipped and blurred as I skidded across the asphalt. Time didn’t slow down. That was a lie people told. It sped up.

The sound came first. Metal scraping against pavement. A violent crack that punched through my bones as the bike slammed down somewhere behind me.

The air left my lungs.

Sparks flashed at the edges of my vision, and adrenaline flooded my body, my mouth tasted metallic and sharp.

Someone shouted nearby.

I tried to move. Tried to breathe. Tried to figure out which parts of my body still worked.

Everything above me dissolved into lights and voices. Then it all narrowed to one thought.

Addison.

My hand fumbled toward my pocket. I needed my phone.

I needed her.

Shadows moved over me as voices rose around the intersection.

“Don’t move,” someone said urgently. “Please, don’t move.”

I blinked hard, trying to focus. Trying to drag air back into my lungs.

Then everything went dark.

* * *

40

Addison

Tuesday was stupid.

I went to work the next day because I didn’t know what else to do. That was the honest answer. If I stopped moving, if I sat still long enough to think about what had happened last night, I was almost certain I would fall apart in a way I couldn’t put back together.

So, I showed up. I logged on. I answered emails. I sat through meetings with my camera on and my voice steady, nodding at the right moments and saying, “That makes sense,” or “I’ll follow up on that,” as if my world hadn’t quietly split open sometime after midnight.

I was a mess. My mascara smudged before noon because I kept forgetting not to rub my eyes. I drank cup after cup of coffee and tasted none of it. My leg bounced under the desk in a constant, frantic rhythm I couldn’t stop. Every few minutes, my eyes flicked toward my phone, waiting for the screen to light up.

Nothing.

No text. No call. By mid-afternoon my hands were shaking.

I told myself it was adrenaline. Residual stress from the fight the night before. I told myself Sawyer needed space, that this was what space looked like, that everything was probably fine and I was spiraling because spiraling was something I was very, very good at.

I told myself a lot of things.

At 5:28 p.m., my phone rang.

Benji.

The sight of his name on the screen sent a cold, violent drop through my stomach, like my body had suddenly forgotten how to stand upright.

I answered on the first ring.

“Benji?” I said quickly.