A flash of light from the corner of my eye catches my attention. I hear the screech of tires on gravel. I feel the shock of pain. My mind can’t grasp what’s happening. Mark’s arms wrap around me and pull me down, gravel digging into my bare elbow.
I feel wetness and pressure, then the shock of having the air whoosh out of my lungs. My back is flat against wet grass. His chest presses against mine. Mark’s hot breath is against my neck and ear as the rain hits us. The screech of tires fills my ears.
The sickening slide of a car’s headlights toward us catches my eye.
It all registers as Mark rolls our bodies three times down the edge of the ditch. His arms are wrapped around me tightly. A heartbeat jams against mine, my breasts tingling from surprise and fear.
And then the scrape of tires as the headlights shift away makes the danger go away.
Mark is panting, hard, on top of me. My own breath is held back by his wall of muscle. Every part of him pushes against every part of me. When I shift my hips I feel his arousal.
It makes me hot suddenly. My mouth is against his neck and I want to lick him. The rain pounds us both, making him slick. Making me feel more alive and raw than I have felt in three years.
Mark does that to me. Only Mark.
He pulls back, hat long gone, and the rain runs in rivulets down his bangs. It drips on my face and I smile, lost in his eyes.
Even in the dark I know he sees the real me.
And that’s the problem.
He never believed the real me.
With a hard push I separate our bodies, relief and regret pulsing through me. He stands quickly and brushes the sides of my arms as if taking inventory.
“You okay? That car almost hit you,” he says.
My head is pounding, but not from the impact with the ground. Too many feelings, too many missed chances beat through my body like a shockwave on an endless loop.
“I’m fine.” Those are the only words I can find. Too bad they’re not true.
I’m breathing hard, standing two feet from him, and his hands are on my elbows. If I lean forward right now and stand on tiptoes, I can kiss him.
He would kiss me back. I know it.
That’s why I can’t.
As if there’s some unspoken agreement between us, Mark lets go. I almost whimper from the loss of his touch. You go three years without a man’s touch and when you have it again, you want more.
I can’t want more.
I can’t want anything.
When you want a person, all you get is pain. And not the kind on my arms, now, from the gravel digging in and scraping me. That kind is easy to deal with. Tangible and visual, it doesn’t keep you awake at night, making your chest heave and your gut turn inside out. Scrapes and scabs eventually heal.
Broken hearts? Not so much.
Mark pulls a flashlight off his belt and I almost make a joke. I felt his want for me seconds ago, felt him pressing into my thigh, a thick longing that made my core bloom with heat.
I want to say, “Oh, so that really was a flashlight in your pocket,” but the joke would fall flat. It’s better to shut up. It’s better to get away before I say or do something stupid. Like kiss him.
Mark finds his hat and throws the soggy thing on his head. Then he turns back to the task at hand: changing my tire.
“You’re freezing,” he says, eyebrows turned down. “Go in my squad car.” His voice has that kind of authority that says I can’t refuse.
This time I don’t argue. If I have to stand next to him for much longer, I don’t know what I’ll do.
His car is warm. Even better, it’s empty. I can be with my own thoughts. My heart is slamming in my chest and my butt is soaking the seat.
Cradling my head in my hands, I start to laugh. Soon, I can’t stop. My laughter has edges so sharp I could cut myself to the bone.
What was I thinking, coming back? Mark and I met at the donut shop on campus where I’d worked three years ago. He bought a donut and I made a cop joke and he stayed until my shift was over.
Walked me home. Waited until our third date to kiss me. That kiss was still the best minute of my life, followed by the second best.
That was the next kiss.
Four months of dating and we’d been so close, finishing each other’s sentences, volunteering together at the animal shelter, going on dog rescues and exercising the puppies. Petting and cuddling the old dogs no one came for. Talking about life.
Living life. Just starting to dance around the idea of a future together.
And then I learned why he really found me at that donut shop.
And then I stopped really living.
The car door opens and my memory is shattered.
“Tire’s changed, but man is it bald,” he says. He’s worried. I can feel it in his voice. It’s nice that he worries about me. That’s the kind of emotion that isn’t safe, though.
The kind where you let yourself think there’s a chance.
I climb out of the warm car just as the radio squawks something about a robbery in town. The convenience store near my dad’s old bar.
Mark’s eyes light up with excitement and attention. Then he looks at me and seems conflicted. Duty, however, always comes first.
“I gotta go,” he says. Sandy blond hair is now dark and soaked. His eyes flick between my lips and my wet chest. If our bodies were pressed against each other again, I know it wouldn’t be a flashlight I’d feel against my hip. My insides tingle at the thought.
“Okay,” I say, willing away my desire. What else can I do? I get out and he walks next to me. The slightest brush of his fingertips against my back makes me jolt.
“Sorry. Habit,” he says, and the tears come so close. Too close. That’s a habit I’ve thought about for three years.
I have to stop thinking about it now.
I climb in and start the car. It rumbles, strong and steady, and I put it in gear. My foot is on the brake, all the way to the floor. Words are stuck in my throat.
He swallows, hard. I can see his neck move and his hand rests on my door. I open the window a few inches. What’s a little more rain when you’re soaked through?
“Carrie, I…I’m sorry about your dad.” He tilts his head to the left and makes a sound of regret.
“Thanks.” After months of hearing it, you would think I’d know what to say when people give condolences for my dad’s death. But I don’t. I never get used to it.
“I hope you don’t…”
His voice trails off. The rain pounds him, like punishment. Good.
He deserves it.
“You hope what?” I’m bold now. I’m in my car and have control. I can peel out and drive away. The words he needs to say don’t control me.
The words I fear he’ll say can’t be unheard, though. Please don’t say it, I think.
And yet I need to hear it.
“I hope I didn’t…” Mark’s struggling with what to say.
I go cold. I’m in lockdown. Emotions are in check, because there are two ways this can go.
Mark can tell me he hopes he didn’t cause my dad to die.
But he kind of did.
Or he could say something else. But then he’d be avoiding saying the first thing, which is just stalling. This is inevitable.
Coming home was a bad, bad idea.
I let my foot off the brake and the car moves forward just enough to make Mark step back into the safety zone. I peel out. The engine roars and the glowing road lines are easy to see as the moon witnesses everything, now out from behind the clouds. Even through my pooling tears I see it all and I’m driving, moving further and further away from the man I once loved.
Who said he loved me back.
Yet every tire’s turn brings me closer to a past where nothing made sense.