The curves in the road were too sharp. I was going way too fast. I did too much city driving and not enough country roads now. The tears clogging my eyes weren’t helping. Instead of slowing down, though, I pushed my foot harder against the accelerator, weighted down by waves of grief.
With each snaking turn, the tires squealed. The colossal beast of a machine swayed and pulled me farther and farther across the yellow line with each twist. I fought the steering wheel harder and harder to maintain control.
Then came the curve that was too much to handle. The SUV slid sideways, and I overcorrected. The Escalade fishtailed. Its weight sent it into an uncontrollable spin. In the commotion of screeching tires and smoke from burning rubber, the rear became the front. I hurtled backward down the road, unable to clearly see where I was heading. I slammed on the brakes.
Was this the panic Dean experienced in the last seconds of his life? Had he known he was going to crash? Did he feel the tentacles of death wrap around his heart before he hit that tree? Or had he been as confident as ever, convinced he would save himself once again? Maybe he’d believed he would walk away with only a few scratches and bruises, less banged up than after a good football game. Maybe he’d truly believed he would avoid a collision entirely.
I had no such illusion. A grove of trees grew in my rearview mirror. The steering wheel wobbled in my hands, a useless rudder in an out-of-control skid.
Then the rear tire dropped off the edge of the pavement and sank into the soft dirt. My top-heavy vehicle shuddered when the momentum slowed. The driver’s side rose. The vehicle threatened to roll.
A low-hanging branch slapped the back window, as loud as a cannon retort in the confines of the cabin. A crack slithered across the glass. My body tensed in anticipation of a greater impact. I closed my eyes and prayed.
Then it was quiet. The vehicle had, somehow, come to a stop with two tires still on the road. I leaned my head against the steering wheel and closed my eyes. My body quaked with fear and relief. A thin sheen of sweat formed over my body. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. A wail escaped my lips.
Seeing my father—a stern, healthy man in my mind—as little more than a withering body in a deathbed was too much. I’d wanted only to escape the pain and anguish so badly that I had driven faster than I had in years. Much too fast for these country roads, especially in this ridiculously big SUV.
On unsteady feet, I walked around the vehicle, inspecting for damage. Scratches from tree limbs etched the paint. A taillight was shattered. The rear window sported a thick crack. But somehow, I had avoided plunging off the road and into the forest, where I would have ended up wrapped around a tree. Just like Dean had.
I lowered my head against the side of the car and sobbed. My emotions confounded me. Just a day earlier, I’d told myself I’d felt so indifferent that I hadn’t even wanted to return to Millerton. But if that were true, why was the sense of imminent loss so great? How could I lose something when I hadn’t even seen the man for nearly two decades?
The obvious answer shook me—because I cared more than I had ever admitted to myself.
My breathing slowed as I contemplated that thought. The tears dwindled. I took a shaky breath.
Opening my eyes, I focused on the deep skid marks painted across the asphalt. Fortunately, no oncoming traffic had been on the blind sides of the curves. Not a single vehicle approached as I sat on the side of the road. Chalk one up in favor of the isolation of Miller County. I needed to extract my car before that changed.
The tires on the passenger side were sunk about three inches into the soft shoulder. Not hard to escape. I’d pulled myself out of far worse messes as a teen in a significantly less capable car. The four-wheel drive would have me back on the road in minutes.
But where would I go? Back to the house. Eventually. That much I had decided. Whatever doubts I had harbored moments earlier were squashed, even if I dreaded the coming days.
But returning to the house without time to think wasn’t possible. I needed to compose myself and wrestle with my feelings. I needed a quiet spot to meditate.
Getting back on the road and turned around only took a couple minutes, but this time, I kept my speed well below the limit. My luck had been pushed as far as I dared.
As I neared the edge of town, the number of houses grew. A few businesses dotted the road. Then the town’s park, a place of so many childhood memories, came into view. Maybe my subconscious had known all along where I needed to go and guided me in this direction. The park had the perfect spot to get away from everything.
Not the sports fields near the main parking lot, where crowds gathered, watching kids’ games—baseball on one end and soccer on the other. I had spent hours in those bleachers, watching my brother’s rise to fame. By the time we’d entered middle school, everyone knew he would make any of the teams he wanted.
The hiking trails that circled through the woods didn’t offer the sanctuary I sought either. On a pretty day in June, families with squawking little kids would traverse the paths, stopping at informational signs and learning about nature. Too much noise and too many people to think.
But there was a remote corner of the park, where few people visited. A narrow, winding trail led deep into the forest until it opened into a small meadow. Wildflowers exploded with color as bees buzzed through the air. No picnic tables or benches enticed casual visitors, despite the surrounding beauty. Only the hardy went to that spot, so it was a perfect place to be alone.
During my teen years, I had spent many hours in that hidden meadow, scribbling in a journal, making up songs, and daydreaming of playing them in front of screaming fans. Sometimes, I sat there alone with a guitar in my hands, strumming chords and picking through notes. Other days, Xander drummed rhythms on the barks of trees. Either was far better than being forced to watch Dean score yet another goal and lead his team to yet another victory. It was our sanctuary.
The trail remained etched in my mind, and I followed the path without hesitation. At the first turn, the parking lot disappeared behind a thick layer of leaves. The sounds of cars and cheering fans dwindled. Squirrels scampered about, their claws scrabbling across bark. An unseen hawk shrieked as it stalked a meal. Tree branches clacked in the gentle breeze.
The deeper into the forest I walked, the calmer I became. The tension seeped out of my tight muscles. My chest loosened. My freed mind grappled with the conflicts in my head.
In this more emotionally controlled state, I could envision the impact of my father dying without panicking. How would my aging mother, always so resilient in my memories, handle living alone? Would Russ honor his commitment to let her live out her years in that house?
My thoughts were distracted by an unexpected sound. From a distance, the chords of an acoustic guitar floated in the air. The song was unfamiliar. Slow. Melodic. Beautiful.
Someone had beaten me to my oasis. I would have to find somewhere else, but I didn’t resent the intrusion. The music was too interesting. Who played so beautifully? Who had written the haunting melody? My listening tastes were eclectic and wide-ranging. I knew many obscure artists, but I couldn’t place this one. Intrigued, I pushed forward, tiptoeing down the trail. I didn’t want to disturb whoever was there, but I wanted to be close enough to hear the song more clearly.
The trees thinned. Sunlight filtered through the branches. The meadow came into view. Sitting with his back against a broad oak, eyes closed, a teenaged boy strummed a guitar. He sang softly, lyrics I couldn’t place. I inched toward the opening of the trail, mesmerized.
Despite my effort at stealth, my foot came down on a twig, snapping it in half. In the meadow’s quiet, it sounded like a crack of a rifle, loud and rude. The boy’s eyes popped open. His hand froze over the strings. The music stopped. He searched the perimeter. It didn’t take long before he focused on me.
I had intruded on his solitude. How many times had I wanted the same solitude as a teen, just to be alone with my songs, only to have some clueless adult interfere? I did my best to apologize. “Sorry for interrupting.”
The boy didn’t respond. He only stared at me. The awkwardness made me feel compelled to explain. “The song. I had never heard it. It’s really… good.”
He looked down at the guitar in his hand and shrugged. “It’s not finished. I’m still working on it.”
An open notebook lay to his side, a pen keeping the pages from flapping in the breeze.
I was incredulous. “You wrote it?”
When the boy only nodded, I tried to explain my interest. “I’m a musician. Written a few songs myself.”
“I know who you are. You’re Mad Maverick McDougal.”
My mouth dropped open in shock at being recognized.