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“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay. Please, can I call you tomorrow?”
For the first time I feel her desperation—to get away from me.
I hold my breath, and then murmur, “Okay. Call me whenever you’re ready.”
And she hangs up. It’s so abrupt, now I’m more confused than I was before the call.
I shake my head. Deep down I pray that this isn’t more of the relationship bullshit that I swore to avoid.
Northwest of Santa Barbara, traffic starts to slow down, but my car has other ideas.
I can’t brake.
“Fuck!” I swerve to avoid a collision with the car in front of me, and then another, and another. But I can’t keep doing this! Soon I’ll run out of lanes, out of gaps.
I keep putting my foot on the brake, but still nothing.
The ditch along this stretch of the highway is my only escape. I have to do something before I’m surrounded by people and shops. I sharply steer my Aston Martin sideways.
My car jumps, heading straight into the bottom of the ditch. When the world around me spins, all I see is the face of Graeme Hartley. He’s crying. He’s calling my name. I wonder if I’m dead, and God has just given me a chance to reconcile with my father.
The car has stopped rolling and now rests on its side. The left side of my body is pinned between the door and my own weight.
Jesus!
My shoulder hurts like hell when I attempt to free myself from the seatbelt. I try to swallow air, but a stab in my side forces me to stop midway.
This doesn’t make sense! How could the brakes fail?
People start gathering around me.
“You alright, man?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone call 911!” the guy says to another bystander.
“I’ve got it,” the other says.
I stay silent, taking quick breaths to stifle my pain. I reach out my free arm, grappling for my phone.
“Clay…” I sigh.
“Rob?” Just hearing my voice, he knows I’m in trouble.
“I crashed my car.”
“What the hell happened?”
“The car… I don’t know, man.”
“Jesus, are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You called the ambulance?” Clay says.
