Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
The door doesn’t shut behind me. It never does. That’s one of my greatest fears: getting trapped in the world of my visions, unable to find my way back. As long as the door stays open, even if I can’t exit of my own accord, at least I’m not marooned. It’s a small comfort, but better than nothing.
Though his voice comes from far away, echoing as if down a long tunnel, I can hear Donovan talking to me, asking if I’m all right. But I can’t answer him. Until the premonition releases me from its grasp, I’m at its mercy. I wait for it to come, there in the red-tinged light on the wrong side of a door to nowhere.
I don’t have to wait long. A wave of crimson washes over me, obscuring everything. Then it recedes, leaving only the vision behind.
I am Donovan, my hands gripping the leather steering wheel, peering through the rain that lashes the windshield. I see through his wide blue eyes as a red Camaro crosses the double yellow line and swerves toward him, feel his heart pound with terror. He turns, and now I see my own face, wild-haired and wild-eyed and white with panic. A strange brew of emotions swirls through him at the sight: protectiveness, exasperation, disbelief, and a more complicated feeling I don’t have time to name. Tires shriek, and he jerks his head back around. Something is burning, the stench of it filling his lungs, stinging his eyes. The Camaro is getting closer and the squeal of tires is getting louder and although Donovan mashes the brake pedal as hard as he can, there’s no way he’s going to be able to stop in time ? —
I brace for impact. But it doesn’t come. As if a giant hand has grabbed hold of me, I’m snatched out of the premonition, sucked through the door, and dumped back into reality: wet clothes, pouring rain, obnoxious companion. I rest my face against the passenger-side window, relishing the sensation of the cool glass against my skin as the world settles. My head swims with dizziness, and my whole body trembles from the massive adrenaline dump.
My premonitions take a lot out of me, and I never even had breakfast this morning. Dear God, I could use something with a bunch of sugar in it right now. I doubt that Mr. Uptight has anything like that in his car, though. Knowing him, there’s probably a box of high-fiber bars stashed in his glovebox, which?—
Why am I thinking about Donovan’s fiber consumption? We’re going to wreck!
I jerk upright, my surroundings blurry, my eyes focused somewhere between the world in my premonition and this one. Donovan is still talking, but his voice is barely audible, like a radio that’s turned down too low. I concentrate and tune him in, then wish I hadn’t. “What’s the matter with you?” he’s saying. From the irritation in his voice, he’s been saying it for some time. Talk about a shitty bedside manner.
I need to pull myself together. This is bad. So very, very bad. But instead, I mutter, sounding as annoyed as I feel, “The Ice Man Cometh.”
“What? Do you need to go to the hospital? Should I call 911?”
I can’t tell if he’s actually concerned or if he’s just pissed off. “Not yet.” My vision has finally cleared, and I scan the road in front of us for any evidence of the oncoming red Camaro. Two premonitions in one day is draining, all right. But they are never, ever wrong.
Rain slicks the pavement. Donovan’s windshield wipers squeak. I crack the window and crane my head outside, boosting myself up to see as much as possible. No Camaro, but the car fills with the doughy, sugary scent of fresh beignets from Charlotte’s sister’s bakery, just around the corner. My mouth waters, and my stomach growls.
“What are you doing ?” Donovan demands. “Sit down. That’s not safe. And you’re getting soaked.”
At this, I start laughing and can’t stop. He sounds like a scolding mother hen. “I’m already soaked. And you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Sit down,” he says again, cranking up the heat and taking his eyes off the road to glare at me. It’s a good, solid glare, with the full force of his unpleasant personality behind it, and I oblige. In fact, I lean back against the seat and close my eyes, rehashing the vision in all of its complexity. Somewhere in it is a detail that could save us. Or at least allow me to hurl myself out of the car prior to impact.
But that would only mean saving myself. And as much as I can’t stand Donovan, I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to him.
Not to mention, we were both in the vision. I know from experience that if I try to subvert it somehow by taking myself out of the equation, something will go wrong: my seatbelt will jam, the car door won’t unlock. No, for better or worse, we’re in this together.
“Are you sleeping? Meditating? What?” Donovan demands.
I concentrate, seeing the rain-streaked street from my vision. The traffic lights buffeted by the wind. The limbs of the live oaks bending low, just like they do in the stretch of Orchard Street before it exits Sapphire Springs’ quaint downtown and becomes a commercial thoroughfare?—
My eyes snap open. “Pull over!” I scream.
He shoots me a startled look. “What?”
At this, I finally lose my temper. “Why do you keep saying ‘what’? Are you a parrot? Is your vocabulary as limited as your social skills? Pull the car over!”
“I absolutely will not! And did you just say—did you just call me?—”
He sounds so indignant, it might actually be cute, if a) he wasn’t him, and b) we weren’t about to die in a fiery wreck. “Will you just listen to me ? Pull the damned car over!”
I harbor a faint hope that, since I didn’t couch the demand in the context of a premonition, he’ll actually comply. But instead, he white-knuckles the wheel as if he thinks I’m going to lunge across the space between us and wrest it from his grasp. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, like the world’s most attractive—and infuriating—guppy.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he says finally, in a low, measured voice, “but if you take meds and you’ve gone off them or something…”
I narrow my eyes, prepared for him to say the most offensive thing possible. After all, it would be on-brand. But what comes out of his mouth instead surprises me. “I could pick them up for you,” he says. “If it’s an issue of money… I know medication is expensive. And the health care system in this country is terrible. I could take you to get them, and I could pay?—”
A hysterical giggle escapes me. Who would’ve ever thought that Donovan Frost, non-holder of elevator doors, insulter of well-planned outfits, and generally appalling human being, would turn out to be a prescription drug Samaritan?
Of course, that’s what he thinks, though. That the chemistry in my brain’s gone haywire, and poor little freelance graphic designer me can’t afford my medication. Hell, I can’t even afford a working car or shoes whose heels don’t snap off mid-stride. I don’t know whether to be offended at his assumption, impressed he’s offered to help, or pissed off that he’s still not listening to me. I’m busy trying to save our lives, and here he is, babbling about my imaginary meds. Meanwhile, we somehow need to find a way to collaborate on a project whose failure could cost me my job…if we survive this crash. The more I think about it, the harder I laugh. It’s either that, or start sobbing.
Donovan’s jaw tightens as we pull up to a stoplight, until I’m afraid he might crack a tooth. “It was just a thought,” he says. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
I squint, peering through the windshield for any hint of the Camaro, and wrack my brain for an excuse he’ll believe. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not on any meds. It’s just that it’s pouring so much,” I say, trying to sound pathetic. It’s not hard. “I really don’t like driving in storms. And I didn’t have breakfast today, because…well, this morning didn’t exactly go as planned. Could we maybe go get a bite to eat, just until the rain calms down? Peach Tree Grille’s right across the street, and they have the best milkshakes in Sapphire Springs.”
“Milkshakes for breakfast, huh?” His lips twitch.
“What’s wrong with milkshakes? They’re delicious.” And filled with sugar. “There’s a caramel-chocolate one that will change your life, I promise. I’ll even buy.”
His brows knit, as if I’ve proposed the unthinkable. And then the rock-hard line of his jaw softens, and I know I have him. “Sure,” he says, sounding nicer than he’s been all day. “You should’ve said you were hungry. I’ve probably got a protein bar in here somewhere, to tide you over.”
Of course he does. I repress another giggle as he reaches across me to open the glovebox—half at his predictability, half out of relief. Maybe we won’t die today, after all.
But then my laugh dies in my throat.
The light changes, and the red Camaro pulls out from the Peach Tree Grille parking lot. Donovan hands me a Clif bar and pulls into the intersection, babbling something about the significance of good nutrition and how breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
And then, three horrible things happen in quick succession.
Lightning strikes the oak tree directly across the street, which bursts into flame.
I scream, and Donovan takes his eyes off the road, grabbing my hand in instinctive horrified solidarity. Or maybe he’s just trying to shut me up by crushing my fingers.
And the Camaro swerves to avoid the oak’s splintered, smoking limbs, careening across the double yellow line and heading right for us.
Donovan lets go of my hand and hauls on the wheel, muttering a steady stream of obscenities. But the asphalt is wet and the car hydroplanes, going into a skid. He tries to turn into it, then tries to fight it, but across the road we go, snapshots looming up and then disappearing again: oak on fire, Peach Tree Grille’s cheerful coffee-cup sign, red Camaro, oak aflame again. I dig my nails into my palms so hard I’m sure I’m drawing blood as Donovan chants shitfuckchristonagoddamnpony with such intensity, it sounds like a prayer.
The last thing I see before the red Camaro consumes my field of vision is the horrified face of the police officer who arrested me this morning behind the wheel.
There is a bone-rattling impact and the thud of metal on metal.
And then, nothing.