Page 59 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)
Even the ebony sky weeps for what’s happened here today—a nimbostratus rolling out over Maple Grove like an unspoken funeral procession, low-sitting clouds sagging with rain.
Fibrils of darkness feather into the atmosphere, hailing droplets to fall to the tainted earth and cleanse my blunder from between sandblasted cracks.
The neighboring trees bow in the unrelenting wind, and a few wide-eyed stragglers race to the nearest building to absolve themselves.
A sillage of petrichor dances in the air.
This is all my fault. I didn’t see her. I should’ve seen her.
Her hand flies to the gash on her head as she uses all her strength to try and sit up. “What just happened? ”
With my heart performing a sixty-yard dash in my chest, I restrict her from elevating any further in case it exacerbates an invisible injury.
“You—I—um, I hit you…with my car,” I explain, the last part practically a whisper, paralytic guilt stunning my nerve endings.
I hear the wail of an ambulance in the distance, and instinctively, I grab her hand, crushing it against the warmth of my palm.
I’ve fucked up a lot in my past—from cheating on tests in high school to giving my current hockey captain shit for rightfully earning his title—but this takes the cake. I’m not a bad person, right? It was an accident.
Do you think that’s how this girl’s parents will feel? It might’ve been an accident, but you knowingly put yourself and others in danger.
An unhelpful susurrus creeps through the remaining students. They’re talking about me. They’re taking pictures.
Anger flips the kill switch, welling behind my ribs until a budding pressure descends on my chest like an anvil. “Show’s over. Every single one of you—leave!” I snarl, practically vibrating with rage, my inhibitions reduced to something so viscerally primal that I barely recognize myself.
A few people flinch at my outburst, doing the wise thing and speed-walking away to evade the fallout. This is going to make headlines within an hour. Coach is going to hear about it—my parents are going to hear about it.
Rain begins to plink against the ground, puddling into craters that reflect the dreary aether above. The mystery girl finally wrenches her eyes all the way open, her chest rising and falling at a more quickened pace.
The color of her irises is a familiar brown—warm, comforting, like a sunlit forest in the middle of autumn, bathed in persimmon shafts of light that weave through a dense canopy, soaking the detritus-riddled floor in tones of sepia.
She’s too discombobulated to pull away from me. “ You hit me? With your car?”
“I’m so sorry. The paramedics are on their way,” I inform her, instinctively bringing our interlinked hands to my chest.
She stares at me strangely, then glances down at the crimson carnage staining her fingers. “I’m barely bleeding. You shouldn’t have called 911. I can’t afford a hospital bill.”
“Are you serious? You could’ve died!”
Betrayal flickers across her expression. “Yeah, thanks to you.”
She has a point.
Not right now, Inner Me.
“You need medical attention. Don’t worry about the hospital bill, okay? Just work with me here,” I beg, long-brewing fear burrowing into my bone marrow like a starving parasite looking for sustenance to siphon.
I don’t know anything about this girl, but as the dunce-cap-wearing fool that I am, I have a feeling that begging for her forgiveness won’t be an easy feat.
Suddenly, a flip in her switches, and she yanks her hand back. “Work with you? That’s a mighty high ask for someone who plowed me down a few minutes ago,” she growls, all animalistic vitriol and flashy incisors.
I can’t stave off the heat encroaching on my body. “I…”
Don’t incriminate yourself, Knox. Don’t make things worse.
“In my defense, I was on the phone. I didn’t see you.”
Dude, why would you admit that?!
“Oh, great. Negligent driving. Along to go with the fact that you’re a fucking idiot.”
Take it back. TAKE IT BACK.
I have no idea how to make any of this better. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get sued .
“I deserve that. God, I’m so sorry. Tell me what I can do to fix this. I’ll do anything.”
A little bit of color loads back into her cheeks, and although she’s grumbling expletives at my expense, it’s comforting to know that she’s lucid enough to hate me at full capacity. “Ooh, how about you kindly fuck off and find a drainage grate to shove your dick in?”
Dear God.
The high-pitched screeching of sirens loudens, and the ambulance pulls haphazardly into the parking lot, deploying its first responders who push me out of the way. It’s a whirlwind of black uniforms, first aid, and hospital jargon that I can’t understand.
I stagger to a stance, sidelined, left to watch the broken shards of my mistake be picked up by those who aren’t responsible. A common theme, I’ve come to notice. It’s like I’m always looking for something—or someone—else to take accountability.
She’s hoisted onto a stretcher, hooked up to various different machines that look invasive at best, and swept into the back of the ambulance in record time.
When I round my car to tail after them, my forfeited exam is the last thing on my mind.