Chapter 25
“Yara, what did I say? Always check your mirrors.” David sat in the passenger seat of his car, one hand tightened around the grab handle. The other hand white-knuckle gripped the console.
“I did.” My trembling hand readjusted the rearview mirror for the third time since I had backed up onto a curb.
The litter-infested parking lot of a long-abandoned Martie Mart was the perfect place for a twenty-something, non-learner’s permit-having, anxiety-prone woman to learn the driving basics.
I hadn’t thought I’d get behind the wheel during my first lesson. But David insisted one learned better by doing. I’d warned him of the potential pitfalls, and now, he pressed his lips together, regretful of writing me off.
“Can you see out of them?” he asked.
I scoffed. “Of course, I can see out of them. I’m not that… inept.”
The side mirror on the right remained slightly turned in, dripping in morning dew.
I chewed on my bottom lip and moved the tiny knob David had shown me before I got into the car, adjusting it so I could see the tree's reflection on the curb. If I had seen that before, his poor tires wouldn’t have been at risk.
David blew out a breath, but when I stole a quick look at him, it wasn’t anger that shadowed across his face. He brushed the back of his hand across his lips and turned his gaze outside. From the haggard way he took in air, I’d bet he was holding in a laugh.
He’d given me a complete walkthrough of everything from the tire tread to popping the hood and pointing out oil and coolant.
I spaced out when he went into great detail about motors and the sounds that I should understand.
So, once we got to mirrors, I’d mentally moved on to organizing the masquerade decor supplies in the living room.
Haven would not be pleased with the incessant amount of clutter we’d have to live with for the rest of the semester.
“I can see through it now,” I mumbled as I put the car in drive.
David cleared his throat. “It’s the one thing I ask of you. If you do nothing else, do that.”
I nodded and gave the gas a light tap. We jerked forward when I panicked and slammed on the brakes at the sight of a stray dog running across the parking lot.
“I almost hit him,” I said in a low, rushed voice.
David chuckled. “He’s at least fifteen yards away.”
“But he’s running.”
“Away from us.”
“But I’m faster. If I went from zero to eighty—” My heart slammed against my ribcage at the thought.
“My car can barely pick up to fifty on a good day. I think you’re safe from hyper-speed.”
“—then I could have hit him. He was in my pathway.”
“Yara.” David’s smile melted when he noticed my labored breath. “Relax. You didn’t hit the dog. You would have never hit the dog. And once you learn how to adjust your mirrors, you’ll—rarely—hit a curb.”
When I frowned at him, David added, “Everyone hits curbs. It’s a very human thing to do. There will always be a margin for error when you’re behind the wheel.”
“See, and that’s what I don’t like.” I shoved the car into park and unbuckled my seatbelt so it was easier to breathe.
“You don’t like adjusting your mirrors?” His brows pulled down, confused and concerned about that being the hill on which I would die.
I looked in the back seat for my bag, rummaging through the pockets in search of gum.
My fingers itched to pick, and I’d read online that giving my body something else to focus on would help quell the urge.
So far, no dice. Quitting cold turkey had been easier said than done.
Regardless, I had to try—especially when I was with David, who would notice.
“The margin for error,” I said once I’d found two rogue pieces of gum sandwiched between my wallet and travel first aid kit.
“Everything has a margin for error, Daredevil.” His features softened as he watched me shove the gum into my mouth one after the other.
“Not with stakes this high.” I waved my hand toward the empty spot where the dog had been. “I could kill something… someone.”
“You’re not going to kill something or someone.”
“But I could,” I insisted. “I don’t like those odds.”
“They’re small.”
“Doesn’t matter, they exist.”
We were silent for a moment, watching the sun rise over the horizon, waking up our sleepy college town.
I replayed what I had said in my mind, embarrassment catching up to me as I realized David was getting prolonged exposure to the irrational side of me.
The board up all the windows, tin foil hat, no one can be trusted (not even myself), side of me.
“Your car accident,” his words poked at the silence, gentle and cautious. “How bad was it?”
My throat tightened. I shook my head as if it were nothing of note. Like my ears weren’t burning from the shame.
“You don’t have to tell me,” David said. “But if you wanted to... well, I’m not going to tease you for it. I’d never joke about something that’s caused you this kind of stress.”
“I know that.” Because if I knew nothing else, I knew David didn’t actually like to see me hurt. Annoyed, maybe. Frustrated, most definitely. But not hurt.
“Before Westbrooke,” David continued. “I don’t remember you ever picking at your hair. I know we weren’t besties—”
I laughed a little, and it undid some of the tension between my shoulder blades.
“—but I don’t remember you ever being this afraid to make a mistake.”
I met his gaze. Those dark brown eyes, a source of familiarity, I think I’d crave for all eternity and then, another century for the hell of it.
“Am I wrong?” he asked, offering me the floor with grace.
“No.” I shook my head and couldn’t help but add teasingly, “For once. We should probably alert the press. We could make good money off this story.”
He sighed, the sides of his mouth twitching in an almost smile. “Appreciate the acknowledgement.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I warned and directed my attention out the windshield to avoid the awkwardness of meeting his gaze as I confessed, “My accident involved me, my sister, another car, and a ditch. It was my fault. I... it was rainy, and I was going too fast. Logan was trying to help me get some experience on the highway. When it rained, she wanted me to pull off to the side. But no, I was… me. I thought it couldn’t be that dangerous.
When we started hydroplaning, I turned away from the skid.
I knew I should have turned in. I read everything I could before the written test. Repeated all the warnings to myself day after day.
But information means nothing if your body won’t… . won’t listen to you when it’s time.”
The wind outside picked up, pressing against our doors loudly as if it wanted to be let in. A cold seeped through the windows, drowning our shared silence and my hot shame.
“I wasn’t hurt too badly. Just a couple of bruises.
” My voice lowered, weighed down by recollection of the bloody cut on the side of Logan's head. “But my sister… she’d hit her head and didn’t wake up till the next day in the hospital.
She had a concussion. And messed up her hand so much that she had to take a semester off from school.
She’s better now, but… I can see it in her eyes every time she gets behind the wheel.
Logan’s not where she wants to be in school.
She says it’s just because grad school’s difficult, but I know that’s not the only thing.
I know that accident took something from her I can never give back. ”
I sucked in a breath. Oxygen lodged in my throat, strained against the muscles as it made way to my lungs.
“Yara.” David's hand covered mine, calloused fingers offering me a protective squeeze. “It was—”
“An accident,” I interrupted, eyes hot with tears. “Yeah, I know. I know. Everyone has told me that over and over. And that it could have happened to anyone. And it’s not my fault.”
“Maybe it was your fault,” he said.
My gaze snapped to him, chest tightening so much I expected a crack. His words gave me a kind of frustrating shock I couldn’t process.
“I can’t dance around it,” he reminded me.
“Right.” I may as well bury myself in the darkness.
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t or shouldn’t forgive yourself for it,” David continued.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t move forward. More importantly, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to move forward.
A mistake doesn’t make you any less than, Yara.
Just because something may have been your fault doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to heal. ”
I wanted to believe that. Him. Prayed his words broke shame’s ironclad grip. But anxiety remained lodged in my throat. I parted my lips, breathing through my mouth in hopes it’d breed better results.
“Doesn’t it, though?” I blinked more than necessary, looking everywhere but him.
“It doesn’t.” David squeezed my hand again to affirm the new belief. “What you don’t deserve is what you’ve been doing. The picking. The terror. The self-doubt. None of that will change what happened. But it will change who you are.”
I twisted my mouth to the side, giving it everything I had not to break down in front of him.
“The Yara I know lets nothing get between her and the goalpost,” he said. “It’s the Yara I’ve learned to like. The Yara I want to love. The Yara I plan to protect.”
I met his gaze then, a million and one sparks traveling through my bloodstream.
“Don’t let this change who you are. Who you want to be. You deserve to move on, no matter what happened,” he said. “I know it’s easier said than done, but it is possible. With some help, it’s possible.”
“I’ve tried to get help. And talk about it. And do all the meditations, exercises, and journaling. But none of it works like…when I pick,” I confessed. “The repetition, the pain, it’s a ritual. If I do it enough times, I’ll…”
My skin burned as I realized how open I’d become. I vowed forever ago to lock away this version of myself, in fear that whoever came across it would insist I needed to be locked away, isolated in case I was contagious. I wouldn’t blame them.
“You’ll?” David encouraged me.
“Pay penance. And earn another chance to be worth it. When I do it, I’m consistent. I’m not forgetting what happened. I’m—”
“You’re punishing yourself,” David said firmly. “Again and again. Tell me, when will it be enough? How long? How much harm will you inflict before it’s enough?”
I shook my head, chin trembling. The words wouldn’t make it out of my mouth, so I just shrugged.
“If one of your sisters or your brother were doing something like this to themselves, taking on judge, juror, and executioner all day, every day, what would you think? How would you feel?”
“I’d… feel awful… and I’d want to make sure they didn’t feel so alone. I’d do anything to make sure they weren’t hurting.” I traced the bumpy stitches on the leather console, trying to ground myself.
“And what makes you so different that you don’t deserve the same?”
David raised a brow as I tried to come up with something substantial, something that made sense. And when I tried for too long, he gave me the sweetest ‘I told you so’ look. And I wanted to cry, laugh, and burrow my face into his neck and never let go.
“The answer was ‘nothing,’” he provided.
“Such a know-it-all,” I complained in a whisper.
“Nothing,” David repeated, the time it sounded like a promise.