For a split second, I consider telling her everything I left out before. How he was the only guy I ever had real feelings for. How I applied to a college I didn’t even want to go to, just to tag along with my best friend. How I was humiliated when I got the lettersaying I hadn’t been accepted to Michigan State, so instead, I stayed in Bella Vista to attend community college before coming to PCU, breaking my own heart in the process.
But the words stick in my throat. Even now, years later, the memory of that night still stings, too vulnerable of a thought to share.
"Not really," I say instead. "But I could use a distraction. Carter invited me to a party at Sigma tonight. You in?"
Lyla's eyes light up. "Hell yes. I'm in, as long as you don’t bail—though I'm not sure a party with your ex-booty-call-turned-friend is really a 'distraction' from your problems."
I roll my eyes. "Carter isn't a problem. He's easy. Uncomplicated."
"If you say so," she says, clearly unconvinced. "But if we're going out, you need to shower. You smell like anxiety and desperation."
I flip her off, but there's a smile playing on my lips. This is what I need right now—Lyla's particular brand of brutal honesty mixed with genuine care. She might be the only person on campus who can pull me out of my own head.
I step out of the shower later that evening, the steam slowly dissipating as I wrap myself in a towel and head to my dresser. I catch my reflection in the mirror, my eyes instantly going to the scars around my left shoulder and collarbone, and suddenly, I’m no longer standing in my bathroom.
The stench of whiskey fills the car, thick and suffocating. It clings to my clothes, burns my nose, makes my stomach churn.
“Dad, slow down.” My voice is tight, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the tense air like a knife.
He ignores me, gripping the wheel too tight, knuckles white in the glow of the dashboard. The engine growls as he presses the gas harder, sending us flying down the winding back road.
I press myself against the passenger door, fingers digging into the armrest. I should’ve known better than to get in the car with him. I should’ve just let him scream at me from the driveway like all the other times.
“Selfish,” he mutters, slurring the word, his grip tightening. “You think you’re better than me? Just like your mother.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t engage. Don’t make it worse.
The tires screech as he swerves, barely correcting the wheel in time. My heart lurches into my throat. “Dad, please?—”
He slams a fist against the dashboard, making me jump. “You don’t tell me what to do, girl.”
The road blurs past us, dark and endless, the headlights barely cutting through the night. We shouldn’t be out here. Not like this. Not when he’s like this.
But he wouldn’t let me leave.
I told him I was going to Jaxon’s, that I wasn’t waiting around for him to start yelling at ghosts again.
He grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the car, saying if I wanted to leave so badly, fine. He’d drive.
I should’ve fought harder, should’ve run.
The speedometer creeps past 80.
“Dad, stop!” My voice cracks. I reach for the wheel, desperate, but he jerks it away.
“Get your hands off!” His words are thick, mangled. The car sways violently as he swats my arm away, his attention off the road for one second?—
One second too long.
The headlights catch movement. A sign—sharp curve ahead.
Everything slows.
He sees it too late.
The tires scream as he wrenches the wheel. The car skids, fishtails—my seatbelt locks against my chest.
I throw my hands up, bracing?—
