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PROLOGUE

BODHI

“I want you to take a second and tell me how that makes you feel. Put yourself back in your car all those years ago and do your best to explain what it felt like at the moment of impact.”

I remember the feeling—maybe too clearly. It feels like a laceration to the chest. I can vividly map out the night scene by scene.

It isn’t pretty, I’ll tell you that.

It’s a feeling I’ve fought to forget every day since. Why would I want to remember something so tragic?

Oh, that’s right. Therapy. It’ll help fix me.

Somehow, I doubt that. Not much these days will convince me I’m fixable , that there’s an end to this haunting affliction I can’t seem to tame.

I’ve been a shell of myself since.

I’ve overcome the unthinkable, but I don’t deserve to be here. Not when she went through hell and I couldn’t be there like I should have. I was a coward without a choice. The accident was my fault.

I was immature and put her life in danger. Mine, too, but her chance at a happy and healthy life was at risk because of my stupidity.

I want to do better. I want to be better. Time has passed, yet everything is still the same.

That’s what brought me here.

But somehow, it doesn’t feel like enough.

I’m still seated on the brown leather loveseat across from Dr. Banks as she patiently waits for me to answer.

Dr. Banks is always patient. It’s strange. I guess that’s what she’s paid the big bucks for.

She’s lucky I’m here.

I’m on my third session with Dr. Banks, and I’ve fought to flee this suffocating confinement every second that I’ve been here.

But I haven’t because of her . She deserves the work I can put into myself to finally feel like I can justify surviving—I’m using my free pass.

My arms cross at my chest as I stare intensely at the glass bowl of mints on the coffee table separating us.

Why are mints always present? It feels clinical, like they’re part of the therapy aesthetic. This place is intended to be a comfort zone, yet it feels the opposite. No pillow is out of place; no plantation shutter is left undusted.

It’s pristine. Likely to resemble the progress Dr. Banks hopes to get out of me.

I’ll admit, she’s a nice woman. She looks to be in her late fifties, with light skin, short brown hair, and petite in height.

She’s kind.

However, her front of perfection gets on my nerves.

I don’t want kindness. I want someone to tell me I’m a fuckup and what to do to fix it. I have yet to be convinced of this process, but I owe it to Gwendolyn and those who care about me.

I hope I’m reparable.

Lifting my sight to Dr. Banks, I finally respond, “It felt like you would imagine. It was an explosion of black. That’s all I remember seeing. Not Gwen, not another car in sight around us, just black. I felt nothing. I think that was the scariest part. I felt nothing, but I heard everything. That’s what haunts me. Her screams, the sirens, the radio muffling from its destruction, and the sound of liquid leaking. I’m still unsure if it was from gas or oil, but the steady trickling never stopped. I heard it until I woke up in the hospital.”

The room is silent. I can hear my heart pumping from my chest as I recall the moment my life changed for the worst.

“How does thinking back on that now make you feel?”

I can’t help but shake my head at her question. How does she anticipate it felt? Not like a fun walk down memory lane, I can tell you that much.

I answer her, “Like facing it a thousand more times wouldn’t be enough to equal the pain she went through. Not even close.”

It’s useless to compare. I got off easy while Gwendolyn fought like hell.

Dr. Banks lets out a long exhale. “That’s it for today. We’re making progress, Bodhi. I’m hopeful. See you next week.”

Progress?

Her expectations of me are far too high.

She has her work cut out for her.