Chapter 35
THE ACCIDENT
Thane: Five years ago
Music pounded in my ears as Bash parked his car at yet another farewell party.
Everyone would soon be leaving for college, so the end of July was planned for our last hurrahs together.
The price to pay for being popular was that we spread ourselves thin trying to hit every house we were invited to.
The lawn sprawled out in front of us, littered with teenagers laughing, dancing, and making out.
Bash grinned from ear to ear at his first night of real freedom.
Truth be told, I acted happy to be there, but what I really wanted was to be back at home, kissing his sister in the shadows of his backyard.
I weaved through the crowds, sipping on the same red plastic cup from my first and only beer, so no one would bug me about drinking.
Bash, on the other hand, went overboard with the alcohol, and after the third party, he was trashed.
The clock on the stove in the crowded kitchen indicated almost two in the morning, and my social battery was drained.
I found Bash in the living room, laughing too loudly in the corner with a girl I’d never met.
“Hey, man. I think it’s time to call it a night,” I said, throwing an arm around my best friend and steering him out the front door.
“The party is just getting started at Taylor Paul’s house. I want to go there and see what’s going on,” Bash slurred. He stumbled on the paving stones in the driveway and I caught him just in time.
“I think we’ve had enough parties for one night.”
“And I think that you’re a buzzkill that’s allergic to fun.”
“That’s not true. I’ve tagged along with you all night. But it’s late. Let’s go.”
“Well, you don’t have to keep tagging along. I’m perfectly capable of getting home on my own.”
I pulled on his shirt to lead him to the car. “Driving drunk isn’t a good idea if you want to go to Secret Service training. Come on, I’ll get you home.”
He swung an inebriated fist in my direction, and I ducked as his punch landed on the door frame of his car. This wasn’t a fair fight, and I knew it. I could usually beat him in wrestling on a good day, but with him drunk and me stone-cold sober, it wouldn’t even be a contest.
When he came at me again, I lost my balance as I dodged him, dropping the keys on the grass. He got to them before I could, jumped in the driver’s seat, and locked me out.
“Bash. Don’t do this!” I begged through the window. “I’ll come with you. You can even drive. Just don’t leave me here.”
I stood outside the passenger door, chest heaving with fear. I knew if he left without me, he wouldn’t make it home.
“Please!” I yelled.
A hint of compassion flashed through his eyes and he unlocked the door.
“You can come along, but I’m driving,” he grumbled. “We’re done when I say we’re done.”
Bash swerved back and forth across the empty road, jerking us back into our lane when he realized we weren’t in ours.
My stomach tied in knots the whole way, and my forearm ached from gripping the “Oh, Crap!” handle.
Two miles from home, the headlights of a passing car approached, and I held my breath as it neared us.
Bash didn’t notice we were veering toward oncoming traffic, and just before it was too late, I screamed to alert him.
He yanked the wheel, sending us careening off the road, down into a ditch, slamming head-on into a tree.
Then everything went black.
My head pounded when I regained consciousness, and the smell of smoke from the airbags deploying choked me.
Blood ran into my eyes. My fingers felt around through the warm, viscous liquid until I found the gash in my hairline.
I grabbed a bunch of napkins from the center console and shoved them into my wound.
I wiped the blood from my eyes, and when I turned to look at Bash, my heart sank.
He leaned unnaturally against the driver’s door with blood all over his face. I shouted his name, and although he didn’t wake up, his face squinted from the noise. Relief flooded me to see him responding, and I wept as I moved around the bent-up dashboard to reach him.
“Bash!” I yelled again, shaking him. “Bash! We’ve got to get out of here!”
He opened his eyes and looked at me, but I could tell he wasn’t completely cognizant. “Yeah, okay, man,” he replied, then fell forward against the airbag and lost consciousness again.
My head injury caused everything to move in slow motion.
Thoughts swirled around my brain, but didn’t connect.
I could barely think, I hurt so badly. But I did know one thing: we were in big trouble.
I imagined our parents and how mad they’d be at us for making dumb decisions.
I thought about the cops arriving on scene and giving Bash a breathalyzer test. It would certainly show that he was over the limit—and worse, underage.
What would happen to him? What about his dreams to work in the Secret Service?
With a DUI on his record, he’d be kicked out of the program he was just accepted into.
I looked over at him, unconscious and bleeding, and knew he’d never remember what really happened.
So I made an executive decision. I unbuckled us both, leaned over to his side of the car, looped my arms through his armpits, and pulled him across the middle console as I backed out of the car.
Once he was settled into my seat, I buckled him back in.
Then I grabbed my phone, called 9-1-1, and waited in the driver’s seat for help to arrive.
By the time I saw red and white flashing lights, I had already fabricated my story.
The paramedics loaded Bash up into the ambulance while the police interviewed me.
I pressed an ice pack so hard against my head that it gave me a brain freeze, but I kept my story short and concise: I swerved to miss an animal in the road and lost control of the car.
Bash was my passenger, I was the designated driver.
It was all just an unfortunate accident.
At the hospital, the bright lights blinded me and loud beeping machines made my head throb.
The best plastic surgeon money could buy stitched me up, and promised that there would barely be a scar.
Everything on the outside would heal, with minimal evidence left behind of that horrible night.
Still, I hung my head in shame when they released me from the ER.
Bash lay there in an induced coma in the ICU with a broken nose, a broken arm, a concussion, and a brain bleed, and I got to walk out after a one-night stay.
I went straight to his room and sobbed at his bedside.
“I should’ve tried harder to take your keys. I should’ve been better at convincing you to come home. I should’ve fought harder. I’m so sorry, Bash,” I wept. “It’s all my fault.”
My head pounded, and every time an alarm on his IV pole went off, I panicked.
I cried until my eyes were swollen shut from the impact of the crash.
I refused to leave without him, spending every day by his bedside until he was released to come home.
Even after that, we spent days resting on the couches in his family room talking, since our concussed brains made it too painful to watch TV.
He asked me once to tell him what happened, and I gave him the same clipped version I gave the police. He accepted it without question. He trusted me. And I looked him in the eyes and lied to him.
Soon after the bruises faded and the broken bones healed, Bash went off to Maryland for Secret Service training. I stayed home, directionless.
I spiraled into a depression and refused to see any friends—even Sera.
Especially Sera.
I couldn’t look at her in my broken state and feel worthy of her. When I did go out in public, the stares of strangers buried me under their judgment. They whispered in shops and cafes: “There’s the boy that almost killed Sebastian Spencer.”
I couldn’t handle the weight of their criticism on my young shoulders, so I broke down in front of my dad one night. The next thing I knew, he had arranged for me to do charity work in Costa Rica and I had a plane ticket with my name on it.
He told me it was to give me a purpose outside of myself. But I believed it was because he was ashamed of me.
I was ashamed of me too.
I left two days later without saying goodbye, never knowing that it would be five years until I’d return.
I wrote postcards and letters to Sera almost every week, but never sent them.
I just shoved them into a backpack pocket and let them be one more thing that weighed me down.
I saw her mirage weave in and out of busy crowds in foreign countries, but I never reached her in time.
I carried her in my heart every day I was away, but never told her how sorry I was for abandoning her.
It was the heaviest baggage I carried, a punishment I never put down.
After the guilt from the accident numbed, I turned to hating myself for hurting Sera, and I welcomed every misfortune that found me. I deserved to be miserable. I faked a smile in photos and forced a laugh at parties. But I was never truly happy.
When I ran out of places to run, I skulked home with my tail between my legs—scared to face whatever pain Sera wished upon me, but ready to get it over with.
Then I saw her that day crossing the lawn at her parents’ house, and everything I came home to do changed. Suddenly, I wanted more than anything for her to forgive me, but also to—maybe, possibly—love me again.