Impact.
Metal shrieks as the world flips sideways. My head slams against thewindow. My breath rips from my lungs as gravity twists, tangles, rips me loose. Glass shatters. Pain erupts everywhere at once.
We hit something hard. Everything stops.
Silence.
I can’t move, can’t breathe. My head throbs, my vision swims. Smoke curls through the wreckage. A distant ringing fills my ears. I gasp, sucking in air, lungs burning. Dad.
I turn my head—pain lashes through me. My left side feels as if it’s on fire. My hand trembles as I reach out.
He’s slumped over the wheel, unmoving.
“Dad?” My voice is barely there.
No response.
A gasp leaves me, and I grab the counter hard, almost to the point of pain, to bring me out of the memory of the night I lost my father to the bottle, for good. My glance drops to the faded photographs of Jaxon and me, memories still clinging to the surface like desperate reminders of a past I can't fully escape.
There we are—smiling, carefree, a decade younger, and a world away from the guarded, broken person I am now. The images spark an internal battle: a part of me longs to let someone in, to believe that maybe I'm worthy of happiness and love, yet another part recoils in terror, convinced I could never truly have it.
I start pulling out an outfit for tonight's party, my hands touching one hanger after another. Nothing in my closet is speaking to me, so I settle on my trusty pair of skinny jeans and an oversized shirt I took some scissors to when I was bored one evening. It’s basic but sexy, showing off my body in all the right places but covering enough so I don’t feel self-conscious about my scars from the accident.
Since working out has been the most helpful thing for my mental health, I've been hyper fixated on it for the last couple of years. Now, I have the body high school me could only dream about.
As I finish getting ready, I hear a knock on my bedroom door. It's Lyla, right on time, as usual.
"Hey, girl. You ready?"she calls out.
"Just a sec!" I yell back, hastily applying some mascara and lip gloss.
I open the door to find Lyla looking stunning in a tight red dress and chunky combat boots. She gives me a once-over and grins. "Damn, bitch. You're gonna turn some heads tonight."
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, right. Let's just go and get this over with."
"Not with that attitude," she scolds, stepping into my room and closing the door behind her. "You look hot as hell, but you need to at least pretend you want to be there."
"I don't want to be there," I remind her. "I'm only going because I need a distraction, a good moment of disassociation."
Lyla snorts, leaning against my dresser. “I thought that’s what your book boyfriends were for?” I narrow my eyes, and she sighs, grabbing my favorite body mist before spritzing herself down. "Look, I get seeing Jaxon today threw you for a loop, but this could be a good thing, you know? Maybe it's time you actually deal with whatever happened between you two instead of burying it."
I shoot her a look. "I thought you were my friend, not my therapist."
"I'm both," she says, unphased. "Plus, I’m your buffer tonight, so be nice to me."
Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips. Lyla's always had a way of piercing through my defenses without making me feel exposed. It's why we've stayed roommates for so long—she pushes me when I need it, but she also knows when to back off.
"Fine," I concede. "But if he's there tonight, promise me you won't try to play matchmaker."
Lyla holds up her hand, three fingers raised in a mock salute. "Scout's honor."
"You were never a Scout."
"Semantics." She waves dismissively before linking her arm through mine. "Now, let's go get drunk so you forget about your newly complicated love life for a few hours."
If I hadn’t brought up the party in the first place, I'd be curled up on the couch in my sweats, binge-watching some comfort showfor the hundredth time. Maybe I’d be buried under a blanket with a book, pretending like my mind isn’t racing with thoughts I have no business thinking.
Thoughts about him.
