Page 88 of In Your Wake

“I’m not sure how I feel.” He stares ahead, his sharp green eyes piercing through the windshield. “But at one point, I did hate you. For a long time. So long, it killed me to even think of you. To hear anything that resembled your voice, your name. I saw you everywhere. Even in my dreams. And I hated every single bit of it.”

I knew he held a grudge. I figured he’d still resent me for lying to him. But I also know his words are carefully guarded, considered. So, if those are the words he chose to use, then he truly means them. They aren’t just spoken out of anger. And that makes them ten-times sharper. More hurtful.

A knot of frustration fills my stomach as I replay what I went searching for last night. I still haven’t been able to wrap my brain around how I feel or why I did it.

He puffs out a loud breath, gripping the steering wheel. The leather squeaks, and his knuckles whiten.

I wonder if he’s picturing gripping and squeezing me that way? A sharp flame ignites in my body, wondering what it would be like if his hands were to hold me like that, so tight they hurt me.

Would it make all of this better? Is that what last night was about? A sudden rush of anger, trying to push through us and help us get over this and move on?

I blink the strange thoughts away. Now isn’t the time to let my dangerous notions wander.

“And now, when I’m around you,” he adds. “All of it comes barreling back and I’m worried I might lose my mind.”

I bite my lip, nodding, my eyes burning with tears. “So, your answer is yes, you do hate me. Cool. No need to say more.” I open the car door, but Mitch grabs my arm, jerking me back with such force that our lips nearly crash together.

“I wasn’t done.” His warm breath tickles my face as it did last night, making my heart claw through my chest. “Yes, sometimes I hate you, but only as much as I—” He stops, his eyes searching mine.

A rush of adrenaline spikes my blood, making my heartbeat thump loudly in my ears. After a soft brush of his lips against mine, Mitch sucks my lip into his mouth as I did to him in the woods. The gentle nip doesn’t hurt, but it sends liquid lust through my veins.

When he draws back, I see a blend of loathing and fiery heat coloring his gaze. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” he says so quietly, like an afterthought he’s uttered to himself.

Desperate to have his mouth back on mine, to taste the hurt, my tingling lips beg for more, but he releases my arm and runs a hand down his face. The sound of his deep exhale fills the car, as strong and dramatic as a storm. “Things between us have never made sense. We were best friends, but I always thought that maybe we shouldn’t be. All I know is part of me misses you. Misses our friendship. A lot.”

The stone-like weight in my chest returns with a vengeance. “And what about the other part of you?”

“I’m not sure.” He squeezes his thigh, repeatedly, only this time, and despite my compulsion to, I don’t stop him. “There’s a lot I’m not sure about these days.”

I want to shake him and scream that he belongs here. But I’m the reason he left in the first place, and that all too familiar guilt returns. “Mitch, you need to know that—”

I’m interrupted by the sharp wail of a siren. We look toward the sound and a moment later an ambulance speeds by and Mitch’s phone rings.

He digs it out of his pocket. “Hey—” The color drains from his face. “I’m on my way.”

He turns the ignition, puts the car in drive and speeds away without telling me what’s happening, not that he needs to. We race behind the ambulance, breaking the speed limits, my heart lodged in my throat.

When we get to his house, Mitch hurriedly parks the car on the street and jumps out, running inside behind the paramedics. I’m only a few steps behind him, but my legs are stiff like I’m trudging through mud.

“Mom? Mom!” His voice booms around the house.

Robyn’s in the living room, holding Bill’s hands in hers, tears streaming down her face. Bill is sitting in his recliner, his eyes shut, his body motionless. The paramedics rush to his side, one of them helping Robyn out of the way and into her son’s arms, but I don’t move beyond the threshold. All I can do is reach out and hold Mitch’s hand.

“Is he… okay?” Mitch asks no one in particular. A voice that’s usually deep and gruff comes out small, like a child’s.

“His pulse is weak, but he’s still with us.” The paramedics busy themselves covering Bill’s face with an oxygen mask and getting him onto a gurney. They’re moving so fast. Words leave their mouths in a series of codes and numbers. One attaches little round pads to Bill’s pasty white chest while the other speaks into a walkie-talkie shouting times and instructions that make no sense to me.

I focus on what does make sense.

The warmth of Mitch’s hand in mine.

The solid strength of his arm that I cling to.

How he leans down and whispers something in my ear. I don’t grasp his words, but they somehow calm and remind me that I’m not alone.

Then, he releases my hand and wraps his arms around his mother, moving her out of the way as the paramedics roll the gurney out, the sound of whining metal making me squeeze my eyes shut.

Mitch walks his mother outside. I’m behind them, but I don’t feel myself walking.