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When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer in the smoke-filled car. I blinked a few times, trying to allow my brain to register where I was. It was dark. My chest felt damp under my tank top. I was sweating. I reached up to wipe my tear-stained cheeks. Finally, I was able to focus on neon green numbers on the cable box. I was in Shelly’s living room.
“Jesus, Merritt. That was worse than the last one.”
I jumped hearing Shelly’s voice right next to me.
I heard her sigh, but could not see the expression she was wearing on her face. “You had another nightmare. I heard you screaming like usual, but it was harder to wake you up this time.”
I relaxed back onto the recliner, trying to catch my breath. “I’m sorry. Go back to bed.”
“Was it the same, again?”
“Yep. Always is.”
“I really wish you would talk to someone. It might help.”
“Go back to bed. I’m sorry for waking you.”
She sighed again, and walked back down the hallway.
I glanced back at the cable box. Shelly had about three more hours until she had to be up for class. I felt beyond awful for waking her up each night, but I could not escape the terrors in my dreams. Every time I drifted off to sleep, the events from the night of my accident flashed through my mind like a scene from a movie: the streaming blood, the sound of glass shattering, and the smell of the fire engulfing me. Unlike reality, though, the person who pulled me out of my burning, mangled car that night never comes. So whenever I fall asleep, I end up being burned alive.
For the next few hours, I kept myself up reading one of Shelly’s love story novels. I secretly loved a good love story. I was a bitter sceptic trapped inside a hopeless romantic’s body – it was my curse. I knew it was ridiculous; there was no way these characters existed in real life. That’s why people wrote about them, after all. Love stories are like religion; people need something to believe in, something to cling to, even if they never actually find out whether it exists.
At eight, Shelly pranced past me into the kitchen. Her wet hair was wrapped in a towel as she poured a bowl of cereal and perched herself on top of the counter. “So…?”
“So, what?”
“So, how was lunch with Chase yesterday?”
“It was lunch.”
She dramatically slumped forward. “Merritt, please. I’m in a long-term relationship. I salivate at the thought of a first date with a guy. Work with me here!”
“It was not a date. It was lunch.”
“Just give me details!”
“Shit, okay.” I covered my ear. “Anything to stop the whining!”
She smiled triumphantly. “What was he wearing?”
“Dude, he was in work clothes. I told you, this wasn’t a date.”
“Does he get all covered in grease smudges at work? Does he wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand?” She acted it out dramatically.
“Yes, come to think of it, there was an eighty’s montage, too. He ripped off his shirt and started dancing all about the garage. It was very Kevin Bacon.”
She shot me her usual disapproving look, but continued on. “What did you talk about?”
“We talked about music, about his family – that Khloe is so cute.”
“She is. The whole Brooks family just has an awesome gene pool.”
I nodded in agreement. “Then I called him out on all the girls he sleeps with.”
Her eyes widened. “Mer, you did not! What did you say?”
“I let him know that I was not interested in being one of his groupies. He claims he doesn’t have sex with them.”
