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RIVER: Low? You there?
The tears stinging my eyes slip down my cheeks as something both comforting and painful fills my chest.
ME: Yes. Still here. A man stopped to see if I was okay, and he’s checking.
A half-second later, the old man in question ducks his head again to peer into the car. “This is Monroe Avenue. The street you were just on was Wilson.”
ME: Corner of Monroe and Wilson.
RIVER: I’m coming to get you.
The painful feeling squeezes my heart again, and I shake my head, tapping quickly with both thumbs.
ME: You can’t. I have your car.
RIVER: I’ll take my dad’s.
I chew on my lip. That’s not a good idea, for so many reasons.
River Bettencourt doesn’t usually drive. His hearing impairment makes it dangerous for him to get behind the wheel, since he can’t pick up on the sounds of horns or sirens or other indicators of traffic emergencies.
And River already has a strained relationship with his dad. Taking his father’s car out on a snowy Christmas afternoon because the girl he’s sharing with three other boys wrecked River’s own vehicle would only give his dad one more reason to resent him.
But I have no doubt he’d jump into any car he could find right now and drive as recklessly through the snow as it takes to get to me.
Without thought.
Without hesitation.
But I can’t let him do that.
ME: No. I’ll be okay.
RIVER: Like hell. I’m on my way.
ME: River, no. Please. No.
I don’t list my reasons why, but I’m sure he knows them. His answer is slower to come this time, and when the new text appears on the screen, I swear I can feel the pain and frustration that comes with it.
RIVER: Goddammit.
RIVER: Fine. I’m sending Dax and Chase, they’re closest to you. Are you safe?
I don’t know how to answer that without mentioning Judge Hollowell’s name, so I tell him the only thing I can without lying.
ME: I’m not hurt. I banged my head, but it’s not that bad. Your car is messed up though. I’m so sorry.
RIVER: I don’t give a fuck about that, Low.
There’s a brief pause, then another message comes through.
RIVER: Dax and Chase are on their way.
I can almost hear his low voice in my head as I read the text, can almost smell his comforting oak moss scent and see the entrancing gray color of his eyes. I clutch my phone like a lifeline, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve stopped shaking.
As I texted with River, the adrenaline and nerves buzzing through my system faded a little, leaving me feeling weak and nauseated but more clearheaded. He has that effect on me, even from a distance.
ME: Thank you.
