PROLOGUE
It’s said by those who survive that time slows when you think you’re going to die.
That’s only partly true.
As our tires squeal and the metal frame of the car crunches in a deafening roar, I processeverything.
Each second feels like thirty as pieces of glass fly around my head like glittering, lethal diamonds. I’m thrown back into my seat, all too aware of the searing agony of the bones in my nose snapping beneath the airbag. The sharp bite of pain when my seat belt catches, cutting into my skin as it tightens across my chest and collarbone.
My stomach lurches, and suddenly we're upside down, then upright again, then upside down. Rolling and rolling, orange and yellow sparks exploding in my periphery, brighter than fireworks on New Year’s Eve.
The smell of gasoline and burning rubber makes my head swim, and the metallic tang of blood dripping from my nose into my mouth almost makes me vomit.
My whole life flashes before my eyes. My parents’ disappointment. Molly’s grief. Birthdays and graduations and late nights writing poetry beneath my covers. The sloping lines of the words gifted to me—the ones I’ve kept tucked close to my heart.
Harrison’s poems.
Bobby’s lyrics.
Someone cries out my name—a deep, desperate prayer.
An anguished, broken plea.
I’m aware of every miniscule detail as time slows to near stagnancy. And yet, I don’t even have time to scream as my head smashes into the side window, and the world goes dark.
NOW
August 2024
Roses are red, writing poems takes a while
But for you, I will try it, to see your bright smile
I want to spend time learning all of your traits
Will you join me this Friday for dinner at eight?
—An attempt at poetry by Harrison Rouchester, requesting a first date with Beth Winters
I glare at the stairs, certain if I try to go up and down them again, I’m going to break my neck. On cue, my ankles wobble, and I mentally curse myself for buying these absurdly tall heels. When I handed over my credit card in exchange for the gorgeous Jimmy Choo platforms, I did so with the expectation that, based on the price tag, they included some sort of technology that would keep me from teetering like a skyscraper in a storm.
"Harrison! Have you seen my bracelet?" My voice bounces down the marble steps like a rubber ball, pinging from wall to wall until it fades away. There’s no answer, and I sigh, a pang of annoyance settling in my stomach. Even though we’re due to leave for our engagement party in five minutes, I’d bet good money my fiancé is in his study answering emails or taking calls instead of getting ready.
“Harrison! Can you hear me?” I yell louder, leaning over the banister.
Nothing.
I start to head back to the bedroom, but my body turns back without permission.
“I want to go back to reporting!” I shout, the words escaping before I can stop them. My heart slams violently against my ribcage, and I suck in a sharp breath, my fingernails digging into my palms as I brace myself for the slam of a door or footsteps thundering up the stairs.
But they never come, and the silence is all the confirmation I need to know that Harrison is, in fact, in his study where he can’t hear me.
Unclenching my fists, I force myself to exhale. It’s the first time I’ve said those words out loud, and as the echo of my confession tapers away along with my moment of impulsive—or maybe reckless—bravery, I feel a confusing mixture of disappointment and relief pulsing behind my sternum.
While Ihavebeen wanting to get this particular conversation with Harrison over with, shouting the news from the top of the stairs certainly wouldn’t be the best way to do it.
Out of habit, I reach to fidget with my bracelet—thirty-seven interlocking infinity signs—the gold tarnished from years of worrying at the delicate chain. For nearly half my adult life, it’s been a permanent fixture on my wrist, but when my fingers touch my skin where the metal should be, it’s bare.
