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Crunchy dirt gives way to cushiony grass as I drive through the field, taking it as deep as I can before I hit the tree line. Way back here, it’s all but impossible to spot my car from the road, especially this time of year, when I have the cover of flourishing trees and overgrown bushes boxing me in.
Shifting into park, I let the engine idle and I lower the volume on the music a couple notches.
Puffing to lige another hit from my joint, I reach for my phone in the mess of CD cases, empty Coke bottles, rumpled receipts, and Altoids containers that cover my passenger seat. The floor and backseat don’t fare much better. I keep my bedroom somewhat clean, but my car’s another fucking story.
Hitting the unlock button, everything in me stills when I see three missed calls from Waylon and one from Phoebe.
No…
Please, God, no.
The joint falls from my lips, and I quickly scramble for it, before tossing it out the window.
The music fades. My stomach is somewhere on the floor. And my face is doing that thing again, where it feels like it’s no longer connected to my skull.
Pulse racing, I scramble to hit Call on Waylon’s name.
Mason.
Mason, what did you do?
With trembling fingers, I turn the music down to a whisper. Drumming them on the steering wheel, I wait as the line rings.
It’s probably nothing.
He’s fine.
He has to be.
After what feels like an eternity, though it’s probably only seconds, the line clicks.
Waylon says, “Hey.”
And at that single, ragged word, my eyes fall shut.
“Where are you?”
Ignoring that, I say “What’s going on? Is it Mason? Is he okay?” My words stumble out of me faster than I can keep up with.
Because I know, I just know.
My words are met with silence.
No…
A ringing fills my ears. The car shrinks. Blackness edges along my vision, and I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.
All the anger and apathy and resentment I’ve nurtured and clung to these last few weeks…
It’s just gone.
Disintegrated.
And I am lost.
It’s so cold here…
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
