“Come on, man!”
“Move!”
“Let’s go!”
I try to will myself to push on the gas, but it’s no use. Whenever this happens, I just have to wait it out—to let it pass.
My grip tightens on the wheel as the flashbacks start.
A blood-splattered windshield.
Shards of glass embedded in my arms.
The stink of warm beer.
Rain.
So much fucking rain.
I can still feel it. Still see the red and blue lights bouncing across the road. The EMTs. My dad’s voice screaming my name in the ER like he actually gave a shit.
Cole, please. Please be okay.
Then the courtroom. The judge. His forced smile.
“Don’t worry, we won’t let this affect your father’s legacy. We’ll erase it after a few years…”
As awful as the night of the DUI was—and as brutal as juvie turned out to be—that line is what stuck.
Affect your father’s legacy.
That was always the priority. Not the truth. Not me.
I don’t hide what happened because I’m ashamed.
I hide it because none of it had to happen.
Because if people knew what really went down that night?—
If they knew who else was in that car?—
Everything would change.
I pop open the glovebox and pull out the prescription bottle I never use unless I have to. It’s supposed to help with anxiety, but the side effects kill my creative focus. And most of the time, I convince myself I don’t need it.
Tonight, I do.
I swallow a dose dry, shut my eyes, and wait for the red light to cycle again.
It flashes green.
A second chance.
And still, the memories won’t let go.
This time, I see myself in the back of a cop car, hands cuffed behind me. Hear the buzz of the tattoo gun I ran on scrap paper in juvie. Smell the bleach in the cellblock showers.
I grip the steering wheel tighter.
