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It doesn’t matter if she can promise or not; we both know I’d take her to the moon if she asked me to. “Fine,” I resign, “I’ll take you. My last class ends at 2:50. Think you can be here by 3:00?”
Christine hops off my desk with a smile that lights up the room. “I’d be here at 3:00amif that’s what it took.”
If we’re ever together at 3:00 am, it better be because I’m behind her thrusting, not because I’m behind the wheel of a car. Sex is the only good thing that happens after midnight.
Chapter 9
Christine
Six weeks ago, I saw my life flash before my eyes. It was a brief moment, but it felt like it lasted a lifetime. I watched all the forgotten moments of my life like a movie playing in slow motion—the moments that made me who I was.
I saw my mother’s smiling face, remembered the way her eyes twinkled when she laughed, and how she hugged me before I went to bed just to make sure I felt safe and sound.
I saw the carnival my father took me to when I was seven. The smell of freshly popped popcorn, the sound of laughter and joyous screams, the sensation of my feet flying high on the Ferris wheel.
I remembered my first kiss, the feeling of pure happiness I felt when I got my first car, the way my heart pounded as I walked across the stage when I graduated high school—and every small moment in between, each one so precious and unique.
In a single moment, I saw it all pass before my eyes, and I felt a deep appreciation for all that I had experienced and for my life itself. When I woke up in the hospital, I felt lucky to be alive.
Kaye and I had gone to the Boomtown USA fireworks display in Wamego. Thousands of people all over Kansas attended the event each year. Getting there and finding a parking place was bad enough, but leaving was a nightmare. It took us an hour and a half to drive fifteen miles back to town; the traffic was unbearable.
After I dropped Kaye off at her place, I drove around town looking for something to do. Almost everyone had gone home, and the streets of Manhattan felt like my own personal playground. I cruised around corners and through back alleys, the wind whistling through the windows cracked for fresh air.
I have broken memories of the accident. I’d made it to the outskirts of town, where turning north would take me back to the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, and turning south would lead me into the countryside. As I tried to decide what to do, I approached a 4-way intersection, and a green light ushered me forward.
I never saw the car that t-boned me barreling down the road. Niccolo told me later that one of its headlights was out, and the driver was drunk. I only remember being in the middle of an intersection when glass started shattering all around me, and my head slammed against the driver’s side window.
A witness said the car was going at least fifty miles per hour when it ran the red light. The driver was on his phone texting when he hit me on the passenger side. He emerged with cuts and bruises; they didn’t even take him to the hospital before the police carted him off the jail. I, on the other hand, was not as lucky.
The impact of the collision threw me against the driver’s side door, my head colliding with the glass and causing cracks tospiral outward. A sharp pain shot through my skull, and I could feel a warm trickle of blood drip down my neck. The twisted metal ridges of the car reached out to grab me while jagged shards of the windshield blanketed my lap. My car radio stopped, and I could hear the muffled screams of onlookers too far away to help.
My injuries weren’t severe. I was properly restrained, and my airbags successfully deployed. But I still walked away with a grade 3 concussion, two black eyes, a broken finger, and half a dozen bruised ribs. I was in the hospital for two days—long enough for the doctors to make sure I didn’t have brain damage and to bandage my injuries.
When I left the hospital, I was still in shock from the accident. It felt like a dream—the paper-thin stitches on my left temple, the dull ache in my hand from the broken finger, and the sensation of something being off in my brain. I couldn’t focus on anything for more than a few seconds before getting distracted by a thought or feeling. I felt like a stranger in my own body.
Though my car wasn’t a complete loss, it needed a lot of work. Niccolo recommended selling it for parts and using the money as a down payment for a new car, but I didn’t like that idea. My Toyota Camry kept me alive on the scariest night of my life; it deserved the same loyalty from me.
But I’ll admit, looking at it now, I’m scared to get back behind the wheel.
“You okay?” Niccolo asks gently. “If it’s too soon?—”
“No,” I cut him off, staring at the metallic blue vehicle that saved my life. “They color matched well, didn’t they?”
My stepfather reaches out to hold my hand. It’s an intimate gesture but far from the sensual touches of our night at Red Dawg. With a firm, reassuring grip, he reminds me why I stayed with him instead of moving to Kansas City with my uncles after my mother passed. “I can call one of my brothers if you want,” he offers. “They can drive your car back home, and you can wait until morning to drive it back to campus. Or, if you don’t feel ready, I can drive you back to campus tonight or tomorrow. Tell me what you need, Christine, and I’ll do it.”
I want to take him up on his offer. When we’re in Manhattan, surrounded by people who know our history, Niccolo is an entirely different person. His warmth and kindness are infectious; they take root in my chest and make a home. But if I let him comfort me now, who knows when I’ll summon the courage to get behind the wheel again?
“Thanks, Nic.” I squeeze his hand in response, showing my appreciation for his sweet gesture. “But I have to do this for myself.”
My fears are quite ordinary—spiders, roller coasters, and a paralyzing dread of failure. But I refuse to accept the idea that getting in an accident should add cars to that list. I am stronger than that.
As I take a step forward, Niccolo reluctantly releases my hand. “Call me when you get back to the dorm,” he demands. “Let me know you’re safe.”
My pulse gallops as I climb inside my newly refurbished Camry. Everything feels the same, but I have to reprogram the radio. It was damaged in the crash and had to be replaced. When I turn it on, I skip through the frequencies until an Ariana Grande songcomes on. She calms my nerves as I put the car into drive and inch out of the mechanic’s shop.
In my rearview mirror, Niccolo stands watching me. The intensity of his gaze never wavers; he never looks away. He watches me until I’m out of sight, and I know we breathe a sigh of relief at the same time.
We’ve gone through the same tragedies. We’ve lost the same people. Our shared grief binds us like a steel chain, and I find solace in knowing that we’ve been through the same aches and pains.
