Crash (10 page)

There are so many things I need to say to him. My lips part.

“Wait,” he says, and rests his fingers against my lips.
“Wait until your dad and Carly come home. Until you can think straight.”

He stares at me a moment longer, then unclips his sunglasses from the neck of his T-shirt and slips them on. Shields back in place.

He taps one of the empty bowls. “I don't suppose I dare hope for Lucky Charms.”

I snort and open a cupboard. “Will you settle for organic quinoa cereal?”

He grabs the box from my hand and checks the label. “There are no marshmallows.” He shakes his head and pours some cereal into my bowl, filling his with a serving three sizes bigger.

We're about to start eating when I say, “Wait!” I drag my chair to the counter and climb up to rummage through the stuff at the back of the top shelf. Triumphant, I pull out a bag of colored mini marshmallows. “Carly brought these over last summer so we could make these chocolate-coconut-marshmallow roll things. They were gross.”

I dump a whole bunch of marshmallows into his bowl.

“Last summer, huh?” He gets a funny look on his face when he takes the first mouthful, but I can't be sure if the problem is the unfamiliar taste of quinoa or the stale marshmallows. Either way, he eats the whole bowl.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

WE HEAD TO THE ICU. DAD'S STILL SLEEPING, SO AFTER I watch him breathe for a few minutes and then press a kiss to his cheek, Jackson and I go to see Carly. As we pass the waiting room, two of her brothers, Mike and Scott, call out to me. They do the guy-nod to Jackson, then Scott hugs me. His and Mike's eyes are red.

“Tell me,” I say.

“No change since last night.” Mike swipes the back of his hand across his eyes. “They're still keeping her in a coma.”

“They only let in two people at a time,” Scott says. “Mom and Dad are in there now. We take turns. How's your father?”

“He's in surgical ICU. They took out his spleen and
they had to give him blood. His ribs are broken.” I wet my lips. “He hasn't woken up yet.”

“Bastard,” Mike snarls, slamming the side of his fist against his thigh. I gasp, thinking he's talking about my father. “That bastard hit them and walked away without a scratch.”

I blow out a breath.

“Michael. Language.” Carly's mom comes into the waiting room, arms crossed over her abdomen, shoulders sagging. “I came out to let one of the boys go in, but I'm glad you're here, Miki. You go on in now.” She smiles at Jackson. “You, too. Send my husband out. He could use a coffee.”

We go in. It's horrible seeing Carly like this, pale and still, a tube in her nose, another down her throat, ventilator pulsating, monitors beeping. People buzz in and out, the low drone of their conversations offering us snippets of overheard information that sounds foreign and scary. Intracranial pressure. Subarachnoid bleed. Lots of words.

I sit in the chair beside the bed, the one Carly's dad vacated when we came in, and hold Carly's hand between both of mine—her right one because there's an IV in the left—my head bowed low, my forehead against her wrist. Jackson stands beside me, one hand on my shoulder, the other resting on Carly's forearm.

“Remember when you were ten and you thought you wanted to be a doctor?” I ask Carly, lifting my head. “You were going to be a pediatrician and you were going to live in New York and be a runway model on the side.” Jackson
huffs a soft laugh. I stroke Carly's hand. “Remember when you changed your mind?”

She doesn't answer. She just lies there with the machine breathing for her, other machines beeping and flashing and doing their thing. I hate hospitals. If I never have to see a hospital room again in my entire life, it'll be a lifetime too soon.

“Why?” Jackson asks, and when I look up at him, he clarifies, “Why did she change her mind?”

“We were at my house after school. Mom was doing laundry in the basement. We wanted apples and peanut butter and we didn't want to wait till she came up. So we got the apples and the knives and next thing I knew there was blood all over the floor and the counter.” I trace the scar at the base of my thumb. It's a fine white line now, but I remember when it wasn't. “Carly looked at me, calm as can be, threw a dishtowel over my head, and told me not to look because I'd faint. Then she fainted.”

Jackson grins.

“Mom came running when I started screaming. She found Carly on the floor, me squatting beside her pressing the dishtowel to my thumb and holding an ice pack to Carly's forehead with my elbow.” I hold up my hand. “Four stitches.”

He touches his eyebrow, the one that's bisected by the scar. “Jungle gym, meet skull. Four stitches. I was ten.” He strokes my cheek. “Did Carly ever need stitches?”

“No. She—” She didn't have any. But she's going to
have some now. I had heard the nurses say something about surgery for her knee. I push to my feet and stand facing him, fighting tears. “I just need her to be okay.” I turn back toward her and whisper, “I just need you to be okay.”

Jackson and I split our day between Dad's room and Carly's—mostly Dad's. He talks under his breath, but nothing coherent. And he doesn't really wake up. Sometimes he moans and his face settles into a grimace, which tells me he's in pain, but when I ask the nurse about it, she says there's a limit to the amount of morphine they can give him, that it might dampen his breathing. Then she goes into a really detailed explanation about how removal of his spleen means he might not inflate his lungs properly with every breath, and the broken ribs just make that worse and how all of that might cause an infection that could turn into pneumonia, and how dangerous that is. All of which doesn't exactly endear her to me because I'd really like to wear my optimist panties right now.

And I pretty much hate her when she kicks us out at eight p.m. with a firm, “Visiting hours are over.”

“I need to go home for a bit,” Jackson says as we walk to the Jeep.

“For how long?” I blurt.

He stops and turns to face me, tipping his glasses up so I can see his eyes. There's no mistaking the worry there.

“I didn't mean that the way it sounded,” I say, feeling incredibly selfish. His parents haven't seen him in two
days. He hasn't left my side since the accident. He still has to be reeling after facing Lizzie in the white room, and with all his energy funneling to me, he hasn't had time to process that. Maybe he just wants some alone time. I hold up my hand, palm forward. “Sorry. I just . . .” I go up on my toes and press a kiss to his cheek, the stubble along his jaw scratchy against my skin. “Thank you. For everything. Go home after you drop me off. I'll be fine.”

“You can either come with me,” he says, as if I never spoke, “or I can drop you at home while I go see my parents for a few minutes and grab some clothes.” He strokes his knuckles along my jaw. “And I figure I better shave before I rub you raw.”

He flips his glasses down and starts for the Jeep again. I take a couple of quick steps to catch up. “Oh. I thought—”

“I know what you thought.”

I reach for the handle. Jackson reaches for the handle. His skin feels warm against mine. Then he loops his arm around my waist and spins me so I'm sandwiched between cold metal at my back, and Jackson's solid warmth at my front. He leans in and rests his forehead on mine, our breath puffing little white clouds between us. “When are you going to get it, Miki?” he whispers. “I won't leave.”

I want to tell him I believe him, but actions speak louder than words and I'm not sure my actions are saying what I want them to.

I want to tell him I love him, but this isn't the right time.

We both already made those declarations under duress, and I don't want to do that again. I don't want to say the words now, when it's all about me, him being here for me. I don't want to say it when people I love are in danger of dying. It seems that I'm always saying
I love you
to people who die.

The next time I say
I love you
to Jackson, I want it to be in a moment that's just about us—me and him—and just about joy.

I climb into the Jeep as he rounds the hood. Before he gets in, he sends a text. I assume it's to his mom.

When we pull up to my house, Luka's sitting on the front step.

“Cold ass?” Jackson asks as we get out.

“So cold it's blue. Wanna see?” Luka rises, turns and hooks his thumb in the waistband of his jeans, dragging them down.

Jackson cuffs him on the back of the head. “Funny guy.”

Luka turns to me and his humor fades. “Hey,” he says, his dark eyes shadowed.

“Hey, yourself.” I manage a weak smile.

I think he's going to say something more, about Dad, about Carly. Instead, he says, “Okay if I hang with you for a bit?”

I stare at him, confused, and then I get it. “Did Jackson call you to babysit me while he goes home?”

“I did not call him,” Jackson says.

Luka grins. “He texted.”

I laugh, exasperated. “Awesome.” But it is kind of awesome, because Luka dropping everything to rush over and be here for me means a lot. I'm really happy to see him even though he's too freaked out to even ask how Dad and Carly are doing.

Maybe my expression gives me away, or maybe he realizes how weird it is that he hasn't asked anything and he wants to offer some kind of explanation, because he says, “No news is good news, right? Plus, Jackson's been texting updates. You text Kelley, he texts me, and between us we keep everyone else in the loop.” His expression turns serious and he rakes his fingers back through his hair. “I'm sorry, Miki. I'm not good at this.”

“No one is,” Jackson says.

“Truth.” I study Luka's face. He seems different than he was in the game on the last mission. I've kind of always thought of Luka as an open book, easy to read, but he's been odd lately in a way I can't exactly put my finger on. But right now, he seems like his usual self.

Jackson tries to hand Luka something, but Luka shakes his head in disgust and pulls back. “You're kidding, right?”

“What'd he try and give you?” I ask Luka as the two of us head inside.

“Nothing.”

I cut him a look.

“Money,” he says.

“Why?”

Luka hefts a white plastic bag I hadn't even noticed he
was holding. “Food,” he says.

“You brought dinner?”

He looks sheepish. “Jackson might have made the suggestion. But I would have figured it out if I got here and found zero food.”

“Which is what you would have found. I don't think we have much in the fridge. And it doesn't matter who suggested it, thanks for bringing”—I gesture at the bag—“whatever you brought.”

“Kelley's mom wants to make you a tuna casserole.”

I shudder. “I, uh, have this thing about tuna casserole . . .”

“So do I. Ever since fourth grade.”

His mom died in fourth grade. “You had enough casseroles in your freezer to last months?”

He grimaces. “Maybe years.”

“Us, too. Been there, done that. But today, I think my freezer's about to yield something you'll like.” I dig out the container of butter tarts that Dad bought last week and set four out on a plate to defrost. “At least I can supply dessert. Two for you and two for Jackson when he gets back.”

Luka studies the tarts. “You're not having one?”

I almost say no. It isn't Saturday. That's the only day I stray from my healthy eating rule.

Except . . . that isn't a hundred percent true anymore. I had cupcakes with Carly and Kelley and Dee and Sarah. That was one tiny step toward loosening the reins of my control. I stare at the plate and finally add a fifth tart before
pushing the plastic container back into the freezer.

“I'm guessing Jackson told you what to order.” I unload the plastic bag Luka brought.

“Sort of.”

Steamed rice. Steamed veggies. Cashew chicken. Greasy spring rolls.

“Those are for me,” Luka says. “I needed to add something edible to this pile of disgustingly healthy. Unless you want one. I mean, you can have one if you want.”

“Definitely do not want.” I load up a plate for each of us, putting all the spring rolls on his.

He talks as we eat, mostly about this new game he just bought.

“RPG,” he says. “Love those. It's like you're helping tell the story. You ever play D&D?
Dungeons and Dragons
. It's like that.” He stares at me for a long moment and leans closer. For a second, he almost doesn't look like Luka, his expression's so focused, so intent. “You play a specific character in the game and you go on all these adventures. Missions. There's a Dungeon Master who's the mastermind behind it all . . . the storyteller. The rulemaker. And you gain experience points while you play.”