Rewind to You (15 page)

“Austin,” I say, breathless.

His lips capture mine again. “Mmm.”

I toss his hat aside and run my fingers though his hair, draw him into a deeper kiss. Wow, he knows how to kiss. We stumble to the couch. I put my hands on either side of his face and tilt his head up.

“Yeah?” he says and kisses me once more, tugging on my lower lip.

“Your uncle said something about you moving out as soon as you turn eighteen?”

“That was the plan,” Austin says, delivering a slice of hope.

“
Was
?”

“Yeah,” he says and wraps an arm around my waist, leaning back into the couch. “For the longest time, all I could think about was getting out on my own, starting college. Starting life.”

“But then . . . ?”

“I met you.”

I sink back against his arm, thoughts of my mom and Gary slipping from my mind. I don’t want to talk about them, think about them. Not yet. I’m about to kiss Austin again when I catch a nervous look in his eyes, something fleeting but there nonetheless. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” One doubtful glance from me is all it takes. He caves. “All right. I was talking to my assistant coach on Saturday.”

“Okay,” I say, prodding him to continue.

“Well, he’s friends with this professor.” Austin pauses, uneasiness betraying his poker face. I get this strange, bad feeling about whatever he’s going to say. Maybe he has to start training early and can’t be with me. He needs to focus on football and not a relationship. That would be totally lame.

“It’s about your fainting, Sienna,” he finally says. “I think this professor can help. You know, figure out what’s going on or whatever. I know you don’t want to tell your mom, and you said going to a doctor is out. This way, you won’t have to.”

A mixture of emotions coils within me at this turn in conversation. At first, I’m relieved. Then I feel all itchy and claustrophobic. Perturbed.

Yes, I fainted three times within a week. But, talk about embarrassing. Speaking with some professor about my symptoms? “Who is this professor? I mean, what does he teach?”

“It’s a she,” Austin says like he’s buying time.

“Okay. And?”

Austin taps his finger on the couch nervously. “And she works in the Department of Mental Health Counseling.”

I stand, suddenly glad that Deb, Mark, and Megan are gone so they can’t hear us. “What do you think, I’m crazy? Austin, I can’t believe you’d tell your coach about this.”

“I was just down there signing papers, and it came up.”

“What, you guys happened to be talking about passing out and you said, ‘Oh yeah, my girlfriend faints all the time’?”

Austin remains calm, no doubt an effort to help me stay reasonable as well. “No. This professor was doing research on someone in his family. That’s how it came up. This professor studies all kinds of seizures and—”

“Austin,” I cut in, “I fainted. I’m not having seizures.”

His voice rises, too. “But what if one of these times you don’t wake up?”

“What, you think I’m going to
die
?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what it sounded like!”

“You fainted in the ocean, Sienna, and luckily I saw you before it was too late.”

My tongue is tied. He’s right. What if this is a condition that will only get worse with time, a condition that could be treated if discovered early enough?

Austin cups my face in his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just don’t want anything to happen to you. This is the best I can come up with. I thought I could take you one of these Saturdays, but you don’t have to.”

“How do you know this professor would be willing to see me on her day off?” I ask, doubtful.

Austin’s lips pull to one side, forming a timid expression. “Well, from what I hear, she’s pretty hard-core. Really into gathering data and stuff for her research.”

“Research?” I exclaim, twisting away from him. “What, like I’m some lab rat?”

I take a deep breath and exhale, unable to ignore the hunch that my fainting is more than simply fainting. Regardless, I try to convince myself otherwise.

“I can’t have seizures like Spencer,” I say, remembering the side effects of some of his medications. “My mom would flip out. I can’t let her down, Austin, not now. Besides, I have college and dancing this fall. I can’t faint again. I can’t.”

And I quickly decide I’m not going to. If I start feeling shaky and faintish, I’ll stop it somehow. I did it once, on that drive home from meeting Austin on River Street. I envisioned his arms around me, catching my fall. It warded off the fainting spell that time. Maybe I can do it again.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going.”

Austin drops his gaze. I’m not sure what to make of his expression. The discordant sound of engines revving and horns honking outside breaks the silence. I’m thankful for the distraction, but the sound does something to me I can’t explain.

Austin stands. “Here they are. Sorry.”

I stand as well, remembering Austin’s friends. “It’s fine. I’d like to meet them.”

Austin opens the front door, and I step out into the blinding evening sun. Austin walks through the yard to greet them. I follow, my senses thrown into hyperdrive at the rumble of the engines.

I push the accident away, block it from my mind. Shading my eyes, I watch as two motorcycles pull into the driveway. Then I notice the color. I blink once, twice.

Red
.

My heart drums an angry tempo, beating the image back into me, a memory once suppressed. The motorcycle that swerved into our lane that night was red and the other was blue. Just like these two. I remember it now—finally—as clearly as I saw it then.

Pulling off his helmet, the guy on the red motorcycle flashes a smile. “Dobbs, my man! You should have been with us!”

One glance at his helmet and it all breaks loose, a landslide of memories long confined. A picture of a skull encompassed in red flames decorates his helmet. I’m staring at the last image I glimpsed before yanking the steering wheel.

Austin’s friends are from Virginia.

My lungs suddenly can’t get enough air. White specks float across my vision, blurring everything before me. But I’ve seen enough. The detective told me how amazing the human brain is, how with even a fleeting look during an instant of trauma, a victim can remember the most vivid details if only the memory can be dragged to the surface.

“Freedom, brotha,” the other guy chimes in. “You haven’t really lived until you tear down the coast like that.”

A metallic taste floods my mouth, and a tingling sensation washes over my body. I want to cry out, to demand answers. Even if it is possible to keep these fainting spells at bay, I can’t now. For one reason or another, the stifled details of that night are springing into sharp focus now. I feel my body give way to the inevitable, and as the light blinds my vision, one thought assails my mind:
Did they feel this free, this alive, the night my dad died?

When I open my eyes, where will I be? Will my plan work? Can I trap that moment with Austin on the beach? Could I be rewinding there now, or will I always awake in the garden with my dad? For now, I hope it’s the garden, because what could I possibly say to Austin?
Your friends killed my dad.

To my relief, I find a ground of dirt coming into focus. Although reason fights against it, I’m with my dad. I have the ability to say and do whatever I want.

“Dad!” I yell.

His head jerks up, surprise plastering his face at the sudden anxiety in my voice. Last time I tried to warn him, to save him, I woke up too soon.
Don’t let me swerve
, I’m about to cry out. But white specks flitter over my eyes before I have a chance.

“No!” I scream, but my voice takes no hold on the word. My dad is already a blur. I fight against it with everything I have. They killed my dad.

No,
I
killed my dad.

It happened so fast, all I could think to do was swerve. Why couldn’t my dad and I have made a pact to remember
that
moment? Could I change it then? As I feel myself being swept away, I fear this is my answer: Whenever I try to change the past, I wake up.

I’m so sorry, Dad.
I whisper the words I never had a chance to say.

But it does no good.

CHAPTER 22

Austin

A
strange expression crosses Landon’s and Evan’s faces, and I sense something’s wrong.

“What the—” Landon says.

I turn in time to see Sienna collapse, the grass a meager cushion to break her fall.

I run to her and slip my hand beneath her head. “Sienna!”

Landon and Evan crouch behind me. “Dude, she just, like, hit the ground.”

“Shut up!” I say, ticked at Landon’s attitude.

Within seconds, her eyelids come open and she gives me a weird look, like she’s going to be sick. I reach for her, but she weakly slaps my hand away. She bolts up and shoves Landon in the chest. Previously balanced on his haunches, Landon hits the ground hard on his backside.

Sienna grips her head, wobbling like she just stepped off some wicked roller coaster. “We killed him,” she whispers.

I stand as well, doubting I heard her right.

She rips Landon’s helmet from his hands. “This helmet. It was
you
, wasn’t it? You two were on those motorcycles. One red. One blue. I remember it now. You veered into our lane. July Fourth, last year, on the Powhite Parkway Bridge during those fireworks. You killed him, and then you ran!”

I finally realize what she’s talking about. I look at Landon’s and Evan’s motorcycles: one red, one blue. Remembering the story about her dad, I turn to my friends, stunned to see their faces blanch with guilt. Speechless. Neither one claims innocence. Or even cluelessness. Like they know exactly what she’s talking about and they’re freaked out. Caught.

Sienna returns Landon’s helmet, shoving it into his chest. A dangerous look flickers through her eyes. “Well, you know what? I shouldn’t have swerved. I should have hit you!”

She staggers off toward her car, bumping Evan with her shoulder as she shoves past him.

I run to catch up with her, not about to let her drive. She just passed out and she’s walking like a drunk. “Sienna—”

“Don’t!”

The sharp edge in her voice almost drives me back. “Wait,” I say.

She slams the door to Brian’s BMW and speeds off, leaving me no chance to stop her.

I have a feeling she’s right. Although I don’t figure Landon or Evan for murderers, I wouldn’t put drunk and reckless driving past them.

Sienna was angry enough about the professor of mental health thing, but this . . . This is more than a shock; it leaves me feeling totally sick. If it weren’t for my friends, Sienna’s dad might still be alive.

CHAPTER 23

Sienna

T
he sea is anything but calm as I walk toward the beach. I cross my arms, holding myself together and wondering how such a sunny day could turn so turbulent. One minute everything is calm and perfect, the next, a torrent of anger and chaos.

My feet stop before I reach the surf, and I relish the solitude beneath the stormy sky. I reluctantly look down at Spencer’s football resting on the sand, the one Austin taught me how to throw with. I bend down and pick it up, feeling the stiff leather.

I’ll teach you.
I can almost hear Austin whispering into my ear, his breath hot against my neck. The wind tosses my hair as I place my fingers over the threads. I grip the ball, my jaw tight. I step forward and chuck it, letting every ounce of pent-up anger seep through my teeth. Something between a groan and a scream echoes beneath the distant thunder, a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard from my mouth. Stupid, stupid ball.

My knees hit the sand. Moisture wells up behind my eyes. I take a deep breath, forcing the tears away. Crying won’t help. Spencer’s football spirals into the ocean. I straighten up as I hear the back door of the beach house creak open. Quickly, I brush my hair into place.

“Sienna,” my mom calls behind me. “What are you doing out here?”

I try to keep my voice level, but I fail. “Nothing, Mom.”

With a trickle of surprise, I feel a gentle hand touch my shoulder. Mom sits down beside me and lowers her voice to a sympathetic whisper. “Is it your father?”

I glance at her jeans, amazed she’s actually sitting on sand. Reluctantly, I nod. She doesn’t really want to listen. I’ve learned that much this past year. But when her hand glides across my back, it’s like an ointment, at last, to soothe the pain.

“If you knew . . .” I say hypothetically, feeling a catch in my throat. “If you knew who those motorcyclists were, what would you do?” I pause to see if she’s listening and find I have her full attention. “Would you make sure they paid for what they did?”

Mom takes a deep breath. “What would I do, or what would your father do?”

I laugh, knowing what polar opposites their reactions would be: calm and collected versus spitfire. Maybe I do have some of my mom in me after all.

Mom smiles. “I would probably hop on a motorcycle and run them over myself.”

I smile at the thought of my mom on a motorcycle, hair flying in the wind.

“Do you remember that time Dad’s golf clubs were stolen from his car?”

I wince. “Don’t remind me.”

When I was a junior, I drove my dad’s car to one of Kyle’s football games. In my rush to get ready for our half-time drill performance, I forgot to lock the doors, and—well, it was in a high school parking lot. The trunk hung open after the game, golf clubs gone, along with his GPS, iPod, and any spare change.

“Do you remember how quickly Dad forgave you?” Mom asks.

“Yeah,” I say. Why does she have to bring this up now? Dad was too good. His first words after I cried my apology to him were, “
Are you okay?
”

Then he wiped away my tears.

I was stunned (and relieved) by how easily he looked past my stupidity.
I
was the most important thing to him. The crooks got away with a thousand dollars’ worth of shiny golf clubs Mom had given Dad on his birthday, never to be found. And Dad simply moved on like it was a thing of the past, leaving me with some serious feelings of indebtedness.