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“Airway’s clear,” the other woman said.
“Blood pressure’s low,” the first said. “Pulse is rapid.”
“Let’s get her on the backboard,” the man said. One of the women held Jemma’s head, ensuring it was aligned with her body as they tilted her to the right. The man pressed the board against her back, and then the group rolled the board and girl flat against the dirt.
“Is she going to be okay?” Teen Jamie murmured.
“We’re going to get her to the hospital,” the man said. “You can ride with us.”
The three paramedics lifted Jemma up, and one of the women took the lead, guiding the team through the trail and toward the rocky path they’d come.
But Teen Jamie simply sat in place as they rushed away—the team too preoccupied to notice they’d gone on without the kid.
As the paramedics moved across the stones, I regarded the teen they’d unintentionally left behind.
That kid back there? The one I used to be?
Of all the shit to ever happen to me, this was the one thing that would fuck with me for the rest of my short life.
I would forever blame myself.
Chapter One
Fifteen Years Later
JEMMA
“Ocean Breathes Salty” played on the radio, above the noise of my cell phone ringing on the bedside table next to it.
I groaned, shifting from my right shoulder and onto my stomach, a pillow smack against my face. My eyelids stuck together as I reached out my arm, clasping the phone. A sharp pain moved down the right side of my back, primarily the shoulder blade area.
Fuck getting old.
“Hello?” I croaked into the phone, trying to ignore the song. Jamie, my ex, popped into my head enough. I didn’t need a song reminding me of him, too.
As my eyes slowly opened, I blinked back the sharp light that spilled in from half-open blinds above the bed frame. On further inspection, I noticed the icicles clinging to the windows had melted away. Leftover from the freak February snow storm we’d had on my “favorite” holiday of all, Valentine’s Day (said me,never). Nothing but damp residual dripped on the outside now.
“Jemma, honey, it’s your mother.” Mom’s upbeat, yet subtextually judgmental tone blasted into my eardrums.
Fuck me.
I pressed the cell against my cheek and rolled onto my back.
“Oh, uh, morning, Ma.” I sounded froggy as hell.
“What’s wrong with your voice?” Mom asked. “Were you still sleeping at this hour?”
The clock on the wall read 9:30 am.
“Uh, yeah, I guess I overslept.” I shrugged. Not that oversleeping was even a thing for me at this point. I never had anywhere to be other than my therapy appointments once a week in the late afternoon.
“Again?” Mom clicked her tongue in disapproval, and I could feel her shaking her head from the other end of that receiver. “Is it your anxiety keeping you up at night? I should call Paul. Maybe he can up the Xanax dosage.”
Paul. Or, as I usually called him, Doctor Wiig. Somehow Mom ended up on a first name basis with most of my therapists, though, so I was used to her talking about these doctors like they’d been friends for years.
“No, Ma, I’m fine. Really. Just up late… binging a Netflix show, that’s all.”
She didn’t need to know the truth.
