Chapter 20
Jack
Twenty Weeks
“You okay?” Tyler asks, and I blink my eyes rapidly, regaining focus and looking away from the spot on the floor I’ve been staring at since we got back from the call.
It was the first car accident I’ve responded to since Aaron’s, and it was worse than I imagined.
I knew it would happen eventually, and that it would be hard, but the second we stepped out of the truck, I froze.
I wasn’t looking at the accident in front of us–all I could see was the accident that upended my entire life.
When I pull up to the roadmarker Tyler gave me, I know it’s going to be one of the worst I’ve ever dealt with. The scene of the accident is caged in on either side by emergency vehicles, and the flashing lights are blinding.
A pickup truck is halfway in the ditch, facing perpendicular to the two-lane road.
The entire front is mangled, like the driver didn’t even hit the brakes before the collision.
I rush toward an ambulance where a man is seated on the back bumper, holding a towel to a gash on his forehead while a paramedic shines a light in his eyes.
“I didn’t even see him, man,” he gasps, his breathing shallow from what I’m sure are several broken ribs. “I don’t know what happened, it’s like one second the road was empty and the next–”
The police officer taking his statement nods his head, shooting me a furtive glance when he notices I’m there. I know he thinks this guy is spewing bullshit, and I don’t blame him–I can smell the booze on him from six feet away.
I turn around, ready to assess the rest of the accident when my stomach clenches.
Down the road, fifty feet or so, a sedan rests on its side from where it clearly rolled several times, and I see a second set of paramedics performing CPR.
I sprint their way to help, but a hand catches me in the chest before I get too close.
“Jack,” Tyler says hoarsely. “I don’t…I don’t know if you should go over there.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“It’s…well, it’s–”
I don’t wait to hear who it is before breaking from his grip and sidestepping him to close the remaining distance. Before I can get a good look at the victim, something else stops me in my tracks–a sticker on the back windshield that says “Kiss the Chef.”
“No, no, no,” I moan, panic-stricken. I know that sticker. I’ve seen it a thousand times, pulling up behind it in the driveway before a night of shitty takeout and even shittier reality TV.
And I know the man bleeding out in the street on the other side of the car. One of my best friends, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother–Aaron Thompson.
Hurling myself around the front of the car, my vision tunnels when my fears are confirmed.
“C’mon man, stay with us,” Frank pleads, pumping a steady rhythm of chest compressions. “Don’t do this, you gotta fight.”
“Move,” I growl, shoving him out of the way and taking over for him. “Let me do it.”
“Jack,” he says calmly, with too much understanding in his voice. “You shouldn’t be here. You can’t do this, we’re not supposed to get involved when it’s someone we know.”
“Like fucking hell,” I say through gritted teeth, sweat gathering on my brow from the exertion of trying to keep his heart beating. “Like you wouldn’t do the exact same fucking thing if it was your best friend.”
He doesn’t argue, just grips my shoulder and gently, but firmly, pulls me away. “We’ve been at this for twenty minutes man, with no sign of a pulse. His skull is cracked, he’s lost too much blood. We have to call it.”
“No. We have to keep trying.”
“Jack, look at him. Really look at him.”
In spite of every cell in my body screaming not to, I force myself to look objectively at the scene–the obvious split in his skull, the pool of blood around him, the empty look in his glassy eyes.
“No,” I whisper. Without warning my knees give out on me, and Tyler is at my side holding me up. “No,” I repeat fiercely. “No.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tyler says, voice breaking. When I turn my head to look at him, I see tears running down his face.
“That son of a bitch,” I growl, whipping around to face the other driver–the drunk who ended my friend’s life and gets to walk away with minor cuts and bruising. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Hey,” Tyler shouts, wrapping his hand around my bicep in a death grip. “Don’t be stupid. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
“He killed Aaron,” I snarl, attempting to wrench from his grip. But his hands are like iron, refusing to let me budge. “He killed my friend.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry,” he says, pulling me in and wrapping his arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, man,” I say, clearing my throat. “Sorry, I spaced out. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” he presses. “Because I sure as hell wouldn’t be.”
I nod, a lump forming in my throat.
No. No, I am not okay. I don’t think I ever will be again.
“It was tough,” I admit. “But I’ll be okay. Had to rip the bandaid off eventually. I’m just glad no one was seriously hurt.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Me, too.”
I lock myself in my office for the rest of the shift, filling out the accident report in much greater detail than I usually do, fighting to keep thoughts of Aaron at bay.
When I finally wrap up, I sit in my car for a full ten minutes before I can work up the courage to head home.
Not home. Aaron and Abby’s house.
Even though it’s been nearly five months since the accident, flashbacks like that make it feel like it was only yesterday. I drive home with the same pit in my stomach that was there when I had to make this drive on that God awful night.
By the time I get to the house, I’ve settled into numbness, operating on muscle memory as I open the front door and grab the first pieces of clothing out of my duffel bag I put my hands on.
I head to the bathroom in a daze, showering and shaving and brushing my teeth without really noticing what I’m doing.
Sliding into the sheets on the couch, I stare at the small wedge of light shining on the ceiling from the street light outside. I stare for what feels like hours before falling into a fitful sleep.
I stand like a statue for a few moments before my whole body sags, and I hold onto Tyler while sobs rip through my body. When I finally catch my breath, releasing him and stepping backward, a second wave of horror hits me.
“Has anyone called Abby?”
“Not yet,” he says in a strained voice. “I was going to head over and tell her in person.”
“I’ll do it,” I say, wiping my face and squaring my shoulders. “I need to do it.”
“Is that a good idea?” His eyes are full of uncertainty as he shifts nervously on his feet. “I just mean, are you sure you’re up for that?”
“No,” I say honestly. “But I have to be. It should be me.”
“Here, clean your hands off,” he says, handing me a rag and running water from a bottle over my skin. When I look down at them, I nearly retch–they’re covered in Aaron’s blood from when I was doing CPR.
I don’t think my hands will ever feel clean again.
After checking in with the other guys assisting the paramedics and police officers, I begin the slow, agonizing walk back to my car.
When I pass by the driver of the truck, hatred rises in my throat like bile.
Before I can even think of doing something, the officer places cuffs on his wrists and follows him into the back of the ambulance.
Inhaling a shaky gasp, I wrench open the door and turn my keys violently in the ignition. I follow the route to Aaron and Abby’s house on autopilot–a drive I’ve done a thousand times. A drive that will never feel the same again.
I walk what feels like the green mile up to the door, steeling myself as I rap my knuckles loudly on the yellow painted wood. Through the door, I hear Abby’s voice yelling.
“I don’t understand how you remember your car key but not your house key. Why don’t you just keep them on the same key ring?”
The door swings open, and she smiles at me in pleasant surprise. “Jack Robbit! What on earth are you doing here?” I cross the threshold into the entryway without a word, pulling the door shut behind me.
“Are you okay?” she asks, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. “Aaron should be home any minute…” she mumbles, glancing at her watch. I see her face pale–she must have been expecting him hours ago.
“Abby,” I murmur, a wave of nausea threatening to spill the contents of my stomach on the hardwood. “Let’s sit down. We need to talk.”
“I think I’d rather stand if you don’t mind,” she breathes. “Please just tell me.”
“Aaron was in an accident,” I say, voice quivering. “We did everything we could.”
She sways, gripping the entry table to steady herself. “You have to say it Jack,” she whispers. “I need to hear you actually say it.”
I gulp painfully, desperately wishing these words didn’t have to leave my mouth.
“He died at the scene of the accident. I’m so sorry, Abby.”
She slides to the floor with a guttural, blood-curdling wail and I quickly stoop down, snaking my arms under hers and helping her to the couch. She crumbles in on herself, pulling her knees to her chest and screaming in a way I know I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
“Jack? Jack, wake up.”
Abby shakes my shoulders, voice breaking through the nightmare. I sit up bolt right, the scream in my throat dying before it gets all the way out.
“You’re okay, Jack,” she says, hands reaching up to grip my face. “It was just a nightmare. I’m here.”