My mother knew this would happen. She said there would come a time when he would want to meet me, that he would bowl me over with gifts and promises.
“Give him a chance because you deserve that. Don’t give him a second because he doesn’t.”
I climb into my car, the hole in my heart gaping wide open, and start the ignition.
“You were right,” I say, wiping the snot off my face with the back of my hand. “That was his one chance.”
I pull out of the winding, tree-lined driveway and onto the road. My heart actively breaks inside my chest as I try to stay between the white and yellow lines.
The hopes and dreams for a life with my family splinter, impaling me with open, bleeding wounds.
I smack the steering wheel with my hand.
My tears blur the road, and I wipe them with my shirt—the shirt I fretted over so that I made a good impression on the Bowerys.
So stupid.
The farther I get from the Bowery mansion, the more I know what I want.
Wade.
Being with his family today felt more like love than I’ve ever felt with anyone besides my mother. The Masons were so supportive, so kind, so gentle with my tender heart. Siggy seemed to know exactly what I needed from her, something that I’ve been missing so much in losing my mom.
An indulgent comment. A side hug. A lingering smile that said she understood my complicated emotions that I don’t even know how she saw in the first place.
She made me see that I can’t do life on my own … and that there might be another option.
“I need you, Wade,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “I need you so much.”
I wipe my tears again but when I look back at the road, a set of bright lights blind me.
“Oh, shit!”
I pull my car as far to the right as I can.
The sound hits me first.
Screeching tires. Twisting metal. A horn that won’t stop honking.
What’s happening?
A pain rips through my back as I vaguely acknowledge I’ve stopped moving.
I try to see around the mass of metal in front of me, but I can’t.
What’s it doing there?
I can’t do anything.
I just need to sleep.
My eyes fall closed as Wade’s face drifts through my mind, and I fall into the darkness.
THIRTY-SEVEN
WADE
“Where the hell is she?”
I pace across the living room and try to call her again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Maybe she’s just enjoying a night with her grandfather. But even though that’s a logical thought, I know it’s not true.
My gut tells me it’s bullshit.
Worry bleeds into anger because I don’t know what to do. She said she would call when she left, and she expected that to be two hours ago.
I know Dara. She would’ve at least texted me if things were running late because she knows I would worry.
What the fuck?
I should’ve made her let me go with her. It would’ve made me a dick, but I wouldn’t be in this situation now.
Anger builds, bordering on rage, because I have no one to call. Her friend Rusti? I don’t even know her last name.
She doesn’t have anyone else either.
That realization hits me like a semitruck.
I pace back and forth and make a decision. If she doesn’t check in with me in twenty minutes, at the top of the hour, I’m calling Curt.
Fuck it.
If she wants to be pissed, she can be pissed. I ran out of fucks an hour ago.
I should’ve gone with her.
I consider calling my mother and getting advice from a woman’s perspective. I even go as far as considering calling Holt and listening to him babble about married life—anything to get my mind off this chill that’s settled in my soul.
My feet stop walking.
A cold sweat breaks across my skin as a memory forces its way into my brain.
“Is this Wade Mason?” the woman on the other end of the phone asks.
“Yes.”
“We need you to come to the hospital. It’s urgent.”
I know it’s just a memory. It comes back a lot this time of year. That’s all it is. It’s just a memory.
I press her name on my phone again.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Click!
“Hello?” I ask.
“Hello.”
The voice answering me is male. Not Dara.
I pull the phone away from my face and check her number. It’s correct.
“Who is this?” I ask.
Whoever is on the other end is breathing heavily.
I close my eyes and fight a head-to-toe chill that snakes through my body. I think I’m going to be sick.
“First, may I ask who this is?” he asks.
“This is Wade Mason. Who the fuck is this, and why are you answering my girlfriend’s phone?”
He breathes into the line. “Sir, this is Officer Wastell with the Savannah Police Department. I regret to inform you that there’s been an accident.”
Oh, fuck.
No.
No. Please, no.
The bottom of my world drops out.
I fall to my knees on the hardwood.