I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve backed away, but I didn’t. I tasted her, and I knew right then—I could never have her, and that’s why I needed her to hate me. If she hated me, I could survive without her. So, I pushed. I mocked. I got with Sierra even though I felt nothing for her. It was comfortable, expected. We'd known each other for years, and she made her interest known. But it was always just surface-level. Platonic. No heat. No pull. Not like Brit.
Now? Now I’d give anything to take it all back.
The night of Coachella, Jasper, Sierra, and I were standing near the fire dancers, music thumping in the distance, flames spinning through the dark like ribbons of light. I was mid-conversation with a guy from a record label when it happened.
A crash.
Loud. Violent. Echoing through the night.
I turned instinctively, heart punching my chest. Jasper's head jerked up at the sound too. Our eyes met.
"Where's Brit?" Jasper asked, eyes wide.
I scanned the crowd. Nothing. Not her golden curls, not her wide eyes. Nothing.
"She was just here," Sierra said, frowning. "Wasn’t she?"
"No," I muttered, panic blooming in my chest. "I haven’t seen her in the last twenty minutes."
Jasper took off running toward the crash. I didn’t even hesitate. I bolted after him, adrenaline drowning out everything else. As we got closer, people were gathering, murmuring, filming with their phones.
"There’s a girl in the car," someone whispered.
"Mercedes Benz, newest model. Crashed straight into the tree."
Jasper skidded to a stop and screamed, "No. No. No."
I saw it too.
Her car.
Or rather... what was left of it.
Crushed into the tree like it had folded in on itself. Smoke curled into the air. Glass scattered like glitter on the grass.
Jasper ran to the driver’s side. "BRIT! BRIT! Please! Please answer me!"
I stood there, frozen. I couldn’t move. My hands were shaking. My lungs forgot how to work.
Brit.
My Brit.
911 had already been called. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder.
When the ambulance arrived, they pulled her out—bloodied, unconscious, limp like a doll. Jasper was yelling at the medics to be careful, begging her to hold on.
They loaded her in the back.
We drove behind the ambulance in Jasper's car. Sierra was crying in the backseat. Jasper was silent, hands gripping the wheel like he could crush it. I was in the passenger seat, staring ahead but seeing nothing.
At the hospital, they rushed her into emergency surgery.
We were left in a pale, too-bright waiting room that smelled like bleach and grief. A police officer approached us not long after.
"We believe it was a suicide attempt," he said, somberly. "The angle of impact, the speed... It wasn’t accidental. I’m sorry."
Jasper snapped.
