Chapter 1
Movies and TV often show moments like these as chaotic. There’s ringing in the ear and movement all around. People rushing to help. Lights flashing. Metal crunching. And maybe sometimes that’s exactly what happens, but for me it’s silent, dark, and terrifyingly cold.
It’s impossible to breathe, and I know it’s the panic setting in. My heart hammers and my chest tightens. Then, all at once—as if someone hit the volume button on a remote, unmuting the scene—I hear everything.
“Beckett!” I almost can’t recognize the voice as my mother’s, but who else could it be? No other woman was in the car…what the hell happened?
“Beckett, please,” she begs, her voice hoarse and broken.
I don’t have to see her to know tears are falling down her cheeks.
“Mom.” The word forms on my lips but no sound comes out. I swallow and try again, but it’s like my vocal cords are just as frozen as the ice pouring in from the smashed windshield.
Ice. Right. We crashed.
“Keith.” The word is released on a sob, and I can’t fathom how the sound that follows comes from any human, let alone my mother.
It’s a plea for my father, one he doesn’t answer, and I hope he’s either just as frozen as I am or he’s passed out.
I try desperately to form words, anything to let my mother know I’m here, but I can’t. No sound escapes and something has me pinned to the steering wheel.
I can’t move.
I’m trapped, listening to the sound of my mother’s world shattering around her, unable to let her know at least one person with her in this vehicle is alive.
There’s nothing to explain what wakes me. No sound. No movement. Just one minute I’m asleep, and the next my eyes are open.
The clock on my night stand grabs my attention instantly, there to tell me it’s just before four in the morning. Far too early to be awake when I only went to bed three hours ago.
I roll to my back, letting my mind wander from the nightmare, one I’ve grown used to having. It’s a nightmare I know to expect but refuse to acknowledge, especially today.
Knowing there’s no chance in hell I’ll get back to sleep, I throw the blanket off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, pausing to let my body adjust to the movement.
The cool air prickles my exposed skin, irrationally frustrating me.
I’m the one who went to bed in only a pair of boxer briefs with the ceiling fan on—knowing I didn’t need it.
But that doesn’t stop me from glaring into the darkness.
It’s not summer anymore and hasn’t been for over a month. We’re officially entering prime fall foliage here in the Big Apple, and the idea of being in the city for the influx of people quickens my pulse.
The New York City tourist season isn’t really a season but year-round, and while the city isn’t the prime location to see this part of the world’s beautiful fall foliage, that doesn’t stop tourists from stopping here on their way farther north, and I can’t say I blame them.
Not that the city’s tourism matters at four o’clock in the morning—or ever.
Forcing myself up from the bed, I make my way to the bathroom, flipping on the light and moving to the toilet. Letting my mind wander as far from my nightmare as it can may not be the healthiest thing to do, but I don’t fight it.
I wish I could blame what day it is for the cause of my restlessness, but I know it’s more than that. The stress of life has been piling on for months now and I’ve been diligently avoiding it, hoping it’ll all work itself out in the end, but I know that’s all denial.
Moving to the sink, I wash my hands and splash water on my face, but as I reach for the towel to dry off, my eyes land on the scar I got eighteen years ago today.
It’s not the only scar I received in that accident, but it’s the only physical scar I see on a daily basis and the only physical injury that threatened the life I planned for myself. Well…the only physical injury on my body.
It’s an old scar. One that doesn’t actually hurt and isn’t as noticeable as it could be, but now that I’ve laid eyes on it, my brain will play tricks on me.
The phantom pain starts the moment my fingers reach for my throat, and it instantly becomes hard to swallow.
Without touching the mottled skin, I let my hand drop and turn from the mirror, wiping my face quickly before throwing the towel to the vanity and walking out of the bathroom.
Reaching my bedroom door, I remember I’m not the only one in my apartment, and plowing through like I am isn’t fair to my guest.
I take a moment to breathe and quiet my racing heart.
Turning back, I grab the sweats I dropped on the floor before climbing into bed and step into them before leaving the room.
I’m not trapped in the vehicle, listening to my mother’s sobs, and wondering where the hell help is. I’m in my cushy apartment in Brooklyn, surrounded by warmth and comfort.
The simple reminder is enough to staunch the panic, at least for now.
I’ve barely poured myself my first of many cups of coffee when I hear the sound of someone else moving around the apartment.
It’s not necessarily a surprise, I’ve never known Ryan to sleep soundly when he stays in the city with me, but I’m not sure I’m ready to face talking about why I’m not asleep.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” The words are soft as Ryan comes around the corner, pulling a shirt over his head.
“You know you didn’t. I never sleep well when I’m not in my own bed.”
There once was a time I took our friendship for granted, never truly appreciating how lucky I am to have someone like him in my corner. Someone who’s known me since I was ten years old, since before the accident. Someone who knew me before the world did.
Ryan is probably the only person on earth who truly knows me and has been there for me through all the ups and downs life has thrown my way. Being friends for almost three decades will do that—at least with a person like Ryan, someone who doesn’t let you push them away.
“I don’t know why you don’t just get your own apartment in the city. You’re here often enough. And you have the money.” I mumble the last part.
I don’t actually have an issue with Ryan staying with me.
If I’m being honest, it’s probably good for me.
But that doesn’t mean it’s good for him.
He has more than enough money to pay for a place here as well as back in Boston, and with his new work schedule, he’s in the city far more often than he used to be.
“But who would keep you company? I know how lonely you are when I’m not around.” How he manages to keep a straight face while batting his lashes I’ll never understand.
I grab the dish towel from the oven handle and throw it at him, covering his face perfectly.
Releasing a chuckle, I can’t help but poke fun at my perfect aim.
“And somehow, you were the one who ended up pitching in the majors,” I joke, as Ryan pulls the towel from his head, a mock-glare firmly held in place.
I keep laughing as I grab another mug and fill it with coffee before handing it to him.
“Come on, man.” Ryan takes the cup from me, moving to pull the creamer from the fridge.
The fact I have creamer is a testament to how solid our friendship is—and just how often he’s here. I drink my coffee black while Ryan now takes his creamer with a side of coffee, a new side effect of his retirement from the majors.
“You’re the music guy and I’m the athletic guy, don’t go trying to change our things,” Ryan says as he puts the creamer away.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I was pretty good at sports in high school. I was on the varsity team before you.” It’s automatic, the smirk that pulls at the corner of my lips. I love giving Ryan a hard time about our high school days.
“You’re two years older than me,” he deadpans. “Of course you were on the team before me,” he mumbles, moving out of the kitchen and into the living room at the back of the apartment.
I laugh at his pinched expression, but follow him, both of us getting comfortable on opposite sides of the couch. It’s moments like these that make me most grateful Ryan and I are still friends. The easy comfort and camaraderie that can only come with a genuine connection to someone else.
I know that connection doesn’t always come with time, but I haven’t found it with anyone else in my life.
“What’s got you up so early this morning?” Ryan asks in the silence, his voice soft.
He’s not good at hiding it—the fact he knows what woke me this morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ryan knows exactly what day it is. He may not have physically gone through the accident, but he saw the aftermath.
“Stress,” I answer simply. It’s not necessarily a lie, but it’s also not the complete truth, and when I hear the sigh from Ryan’s end of the couch, I know he knows. “That’s not a lie.”
“All right, but it’s not the whole truth either.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh, sinking into my seat a little farther.
I wish I was one of those people who took a traumatic experience and twisted it into something better, but that’s not who I am.
The accident changed everything about my life—unsurprisingly.
But the thing I regret letting it change is how I treat the people around me.
I could’ve let the accident teach me just how important it is to appreciate the people in my life.
To hold on tight. Instead, I learned how to push people away.
There’s no one to blame but myself. Instead of handling the situation like a healthy adult—even if I was only twenty years old—I buried everything and focused only on the things I could control.
Eighteen years later and I still haven’t spoken to a single person about that accident. Not that I need to with Ryan. He may not know all the details, but he was there every step of the way after. From the hospital, to the rehab center, and back home again.
“You’re right,” I concede finally. “But I still don’t want to talk about it.”