Crashed

by K. Bromberg

  Pain.

  Ache.

  Pleasure.

  Need.

  Rylee.

  Flashes of memories I can’t quite grasp or understand blindside me before disappearing into the darkness holding them hostage.

  But where is she?

  I fight to gain more memories, pull them in and grasp them like a lifeline.

  Did she finally figure out the fucking poison within me? Realize this pleasure isn’t worth the pain I’ll cause in the end?

  “Mr. Donavan? I’m Dr. Irons. Can you hear me?”

  Who the fuck are you? Ice blue eyes stare at me.

  “It may be tough to speak. We’re getting you some water to help. Can you squeeze my hand if you understand me?”

  Why the fuck do I need to squeeze his hand? And why is my hand not moving? How the hell am I going to drive in the race today if I can’t grip the wheel?

  My heart hammers like the pedal I should be dropping on the track right now.

  But I’m here.

  And last night I was there, with Ry. Woke up with her … and now she’s gone.

  … checkered flag time, baby …

  It all zooms into focus at once. And then complete darkness. Checkered holes of black—polka dots of void—throughout the slideshow in my head. I can’t connect the dots. I can’t make sense of anything except that I’m confused as fuck.

  All eyes in the room stare at me like I’m the side show at the goddamn circus. And for his next act folks, he’ll move his fingers.

  I try my left hand and it responds. Thank fucking Christ for that.

  My mind flashes back. Crunching metal, flashing sparks, engulfing smoke. Crashing, tumbling, free-falling, jolting.

  … It looks like your superheroes came this time after all …

  My mind tries to figure out what the fuck that means but comes up empty.

  Rylee’s gone.

  She doesn’t love the broken in me after all.

  I try to shake the bullshit lies from my head but groan as the pain hits me.

  Max.

  Me.

  She left.

  Can’t do this again.

  I can’t believe I was selfish enough to even ask her to.

  “Colton.” The doc is talking again. “You were in a bad accident. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  A bad accident? The flickering images in my head start to make more sense but gaps of time are still missing. I try to speak but my mouth’s so dry all that comes out is a croak.

  “You injured your head.” He smiles at me but I’m wary.

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

  He may have given me life again, but the fucking reason for living isn’t here. She’s smart enough to leave because I just can’t give her what she needs: stability, a life without racing, the promise of forever.

  “The nurse is bringing you some water to wet your throat.” He notes something on his tablet. “I know this might be scary for you, son, but you’re going to be okay. The tough part’s over. Now we need to get you on the road to recovery.”

  The road to recovery? Thanks, Captain Obvious—more like the speedway to Hell.

  Faces fill my immediate space. Mom kissing my cheek, tears coursing down her face. Dad hiding his emotion but the look in his eyes tells me he’s a fucking wreck. Quin beside herself. Becks muttering something about being a selfish bastard.

  This must be pretty fucking serious.

  And yet I still feel numb. Empty. Incomplete.

  Rylee.

  After a few moments they slowly back away at my Mom’s insistence to give me space, to let me breathe.

  And the air I’ve just gotten back is robbed again.

  I turn to look at the vague blur I notice in my periphery, and there she stands.

  Curls piled on top of her head, face without makeup, hollow, tear-stained cheeks, eyes welled with tears, perfect fucking lips in a startled O standing in the doorway. She looks like she’s been through Hell, but she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fucking seen.

  Call me a pussy, but I swear to God she’s the only air my body can breathe. Fuck if she’s not everything I need and nothing that I deserve.

  Her hands are fiddling with her cell phone, my lucky shirt hanging off her shoulders, and I can see the trepidation in her eyes as they flit around everywhere but at me.

  Breathe, Donavan. Fucking breathe. She didn’t leave. She’s still here. The neutralizer to the acid that eats my soul.

  Her eyes finally find and lock onto mine. All I see is my future, my salvation, my singular chance at redemption. But her eyes? Fuck, they flicker with such conflicting emotions: relief, optimism, anxiety, fear, and so many more unknown.

  And it’s the unknown I focus on.

  The unspoken words telling me all of this is tearing her apart. That it’s not fair for me to put her through this again. But racing is my life. Something I need as much as I need the air that I breathe—ironic considering she’s my fucking air—but it’s the only way I can survive and outrun the demons that chase me. The black ooze that seeps in every crack of my soul making sure it can never be eradicated. I can’t be selfish and ask her to stand by me when all I want is to be the most self-centered bastard on the face of the earth.

  Urge her to go but beg her to stay.

  But how can I let her go when she owns every single part of me?

  I’ll gladly suffocate so that she can breathe freely. Without worry. Without the constant fucking fear.

  Be selfless for the first time ever when all I’ve been my entire life is self-serving.

  I should have told her—got over the fucking fear that consumes my soul—but I couldn’t … and now she doesn’t know.

  … I Spiderman you …

  Words scream through my head but choke in my throat. The words I don’t know if I’ll ever be healed enough to say.

  She robbed me of that all those years ago.

  And now I’ll pay for it.

  By letting my one fucking chance go.

  Then I hear the sob wrench from her throat. Hear the disbelief and torment in that singular sound as her shoulders shake and her posture sags.

  And I know what I want and what is best for her are two completely different things.

  Out of nowhere the sob tears from my throat at the sight of him, lucid and groggily alert. My damaged man that is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

  My heart tumbles even further if that’s even possible. And we just stare as the noise and excitement in the room abates, everyone taking a step back and silently watching our exchange.

  Yet my feet are frozen in place as I try and read the emotions racing rapid-fire through Colton’s eyes. He seems apologetic and maybe unsettled, but there’s also an underlying emotion I can’t place that has trepidation eating at the corners of my mind.

  A nurse whisks past me, brushing my shoulder and breaking Colton’s hold on me. She brings the straw from a cup of water to his mouth and he sips eagerly until it’s gone.

  “Well, you’re a thirsty one, aren’t you?” she teases before adding, “I’ll go get you some more but let’s make sure this stays down before we waterlog you, okay?”

  I try to quiet my hiccupping draws of breath but can’t seem to calm my anxiety. I feel Quinlan’s arm go around my shoulder as she sniffles herself, but I don’t even acknowledge her. I can’t bear for my eyes to focus on anything but the tear–blurred vision in front of me.

  The nurse reaches over and takes a chart from Dr. Irons and leaves. I haven’t moved yet. I can’t seem to. I just stare at Colton as Dr. Irons examines him: tracking his eyes, testing his reflexes, feeling the strength in his grip as he squeezes. I notice he asks Colton to repeat the grip test for his right hand a couple of times, and I can see panic flicker over Colton’s features. I can’t drag my eyes away. I trace over every inch of him, so very afraid I’ll miss something—anything—about these first few moments.

  “Well, all seems quite well,” D
r. Irons says eventually after he examines him some more. “How are you feeling, Colton?”

  I watch his throat work a swallow and his eyes close with a wince before opening them again. I take a step forward, wanting to help take the pain away. He glances around at everyone in the room while he finds his voice. “My head. Hurts,” he rasps. “Hand?” He looks down to his right hand and then back up, confusion apparent in his eyes. “Happened? How long?”

  Dr. Irons sits down on the edge of the bed next to him and begins to explain about the crash, the operation, and the amount of time he has been in a coma. “As for your hand, that could be a result of some residual swelling still in your brain. We’ll just have to watch it and see how it progresses over time.” Colton nods at him, concentration etched on his face. “Can you tell me the last thing that you remember?”

  I suck in a breath as Colton blows one out. He swallows again and licks his lips. “I remember … knocking four times.” His voice comes out, his vocal chords scraping over gravel.

  “What else?” Andy asks.

  Colton looks over at his dad and subtly nods his head at him before squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. “It’s like snippets in my head. Certain things are clear,” he rasps before swallowing and then opens his eyes to look at Dr. Irons. “Others … they’re vague. Like I can feel them there but can’t remember them.”

  “That’s normal. Sometimes—”

  “Fireworks on pit row,” he cuts the doctor off. “Waking up overdressed.” Colton’s eyes lift and find mine with the words that let me know he remembers me, remembers my memorable pre-race wake-up call. A slight smile curls up one corner of his mouth looking so out of place against the pallid tone of his usually bronze skin.

  And if he didn’t own my heart already—if he hadn’t tattooed every single inch of it with his unmistakable stamp—he just did.

  I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up and spills over. I can’t stop my feet from moving and stepping up to the edge of the bed as his words fade and his eyes track my movement. My grin widens, my tears fall faster, and my heart swells as I feel relief for the first time in days. I reach out and squeeze his hand resting on the mattress beside him.

  “Hi.” It sounds stupid, but it’s the first and only word I can manage, my throat clogged with emotion.

  “Hi,” he whispers, that lopsided grin I love ghosting his mouth.

  We just stare at each other for a beat, eyes saying so much and yet lips speaking nothing. I lace my fingers with his and I see the alarm trigger in his eyes again when he tries to respond but his hand doesn’t.

  “It’s okay,” I soothe, unable to resist. I reach my other hand out and cup the side of his face, welcoming the feeling of the muscle in his jaw ticking beneath my palm. “You’ve gotta give it some time to heal.”

  Emotions dance at a lightning pace in the green of his eyes as he tries to comprehend everything. And in this moment the ache in my chest transforms from the fear of the unknown to sympathy over watching the man I love struggle with the knowledge that his usually virile, responsive body is anything but.

  “Rylee’s right,” Dr. Irons says, breaking the connection between us. “You need to give it some time. What else do you remember, Colton? You woke up underdressed and knocked four times,” he prompts, his face masking the mystification he must feel over not understanding the meaning behind these statements. “Then what?”

  “No,” Colton says, wincing when he shakes his head instinctively. “First knocking and then waking up.”

  My eyes snap up to Beckett’s because of all people he’ll understand that this is not the order in which the events happened. Dr. Irons notes the startled look on my face and shakes his head for me to remain quiet.

  “Not a problem. What else do you remember about the day regardless of the order?” Colton gives him a strange look and the doctor continues. “Sometimes when your brain has been traumatized like yours has, memories have a way of shifting and changing. For some, the sequence of events may be off but they’ll still be there. For others there are some memories that are completely clear and others that are lost. I have some patients who remember the day of their trauma perfectly fine but have a void of time during other times or events that have happened. Every patient is unique.”

  “For how long do these voids usually last?” Andy speaks up from the side of the bed.

  “Well, sometimes for a little while and sometimes forever … but the good thing is that Colton seems to have memories of the day of the crash. So it would seem that a small chunk of time has been lost for him. As days pass, he may realize he doesn’t remember other things … because really, until he is reminded of something, he doesn’t even know he’s missing it.” Dr. Irons looks around the room at all of us and shrugs. “At this time it wouldn’t seem far off to reason that you’ll regain all of it, Colton, but I advise caution because the brain is a tricky thing sometimes. In fact—”

  “The national anthem,” Colton says, relief flooding his voice at reclaiming one more memory from the darkness within. I smile at him in encouragement as he clears his throat. “I … I can’t …” Frustration emanates off of him in waves as he tries to remember. “What happened?” He blows out a breath and looks around at everyone in the room before scrubbing his left hand over his face. “You were all there. What else happened?”

  “Don’t force it, sweetie.” It’s Dorothea speaking. “Right, Dr. Irons?”

  We all look over at Dr. Irons, who nods his head in agreement, but when we look back at Colton, he’s fallen asleep.

  We all breathe in a collective gasp. All fearing he’s slipped back into a coma. All our minds racing into overdrive. Dr. Irons puts the brakes on our panic when he says, “This is normal. He’s going to be exhausted the first couple of times he wakes up.”

  Shoulders relax, sighs are exhaled, and relief is restored, but our concern never completely abates.

  “We know he seems to be—that his brain seems to be—functioning well so far,” Quinlan says as she steps up to the bed. “What can we expect now?”

  Dr. Irons watches Colton for a beat before he continues, meeting all of our eyes. “Well, each person is different but I can tell you that the longer it takes Colton to remember, the more frustrated he may become. Sometimes in patients their disposition changes—sometimes they have a temper or are more mellow—and sometimes it doesn’t at all. At this point it’s still a waiting game to see how all of this has affected him long term.”

  “Should those of us that were there fill in the blanks for him of what he can’t remember?” Becks asks.

  “Of course you can,” he says, “but I can’t guarantee how he’ll respond to it.”

  I resume my seat bedside as Dorothea comes over to kiss me goodbye on the cheek before leaning over to press her lips to Colton’s forehead. “We’re just heading to the hotel to get some rest. We’ll be back in the morning. Don’t you dare give up.” She steps back and stares at him for a beat more before smiling softly at me and leaving to join Andy and Quinlan in the hall.

  I sigh out loud as Beckett gathers the remaining trash from our late night dinner we’d had while impatiently waiting for Colton to wake. I glance over from my book that I’m really not paying attention to and watch Becks’ methodical movements. I can see the toll the past week has taken on him in the bruises beneath his eyes and the scruff on his usually clean-shaven face. He seems lost.

  “How you doing?” I ask the question softly, but I know he can hear me because his body stops momentarily before he puts the last bit in the trash can and shoves it down.

  He turns and leans his hip against a counter behind him and just shrugs as our eyes meet. “You know,” he drawls out in his slow, resonating tone that I’ve come to love. “In the sixteen years we’ve known each other, this is the longest we’ve ever gone without talking.” He shrugs again and stares out the window for a moment at the media trucks in the parking lot. “He may be a demanding smart-ass, but I miss him. Call me a
pussy, but I kinda like the guy.”

  I can’t help the smile that spreads on my lips. “Me too,” I murmur. “Me too.”

  Becks walks over to me and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’m going to head back to the hotel. I’ve gotta take a shower, check in with my brother, and then I’ll be back, okay?”

  A growing adoration for Becks blooms within—the ever true best friend. “Why don’t you stay there tonight and get a good night’s sleep? In a real bed instead of the crappy chairs in the waiting room.”

  He chuckles derisively and shakes his head at me. “Pot calling the kettle black, huh?”

  “I know, but I just can’t … and besides, I’ve been sleeping in these crappy chairs in here.” I pat the seat of the one I’m sitting on. “At least this has more padding than those out there.” I angle my head and watch him mull it over. “I promise to call if he wakes up.”

  He exhales loudly and gives me a reluctant look. “Okay … but you’ll call?”

  “Of course.”

  I watch Becks leave and welcome the unique silence of the hospital room. I sit and watch Colton, feeling truly blessed indeed that he’s here and whole in front of me—that he didn’t forget me—when it could be so much worse. I send a silent prayer up as time passes, knowing I have to start following through with the various barters I made to the great beyond to get Colton to come back to me.

  I field a couple of texts from Haddie, check in on the boys and see how Ricky’s math test went today, before texting Becks good night and telling him Colton’s still out.

  The early morning hours approach and I can’t resist anymore. I slip off my shoes, pull the clip out of my hair, and position myself in the only place in the world I want to be.

  At Colton’s side.

  The morning light burns through my closed eyelids as I try to rouse myself from the deepest sleep I’ve had in over six days. Instead I just burrow in deeper to the warmth beside me. I feel fingers brush across my cheek and I’m instantly alert, my body jolting with awareness.

  “Morning.” His voice is a whispered murmur against the top of my head. My heart floods with an array of emotions but what I feel more than anything is complete.