Page 85 of About That Night

I open the front door. “Oh, my word. Go home. I’ll talk to you later.”

We easily have twenty minutes, but it’s safe to say I’m freaking out. It’s a delayed reaction. The incredible sex, the phantom condom, the curse. The fact that what was supposed to be a lesson in oral sex turned into a full night of nakedness. It wasn’t even supposed to be that. Hank was supposed to teach me how to cook, not teach me how to sit on his face. It’s amazing, a full shift in everything I’ve ever thought about my future. I need to shower and sit at the kitchen table with my coffee and regroup before my son and roommate get home.

It becomes obvious Hank isn’t going to rush out the door unless I encourage him. I step outside. “Where’s your car?” It isn’t in my driveway.

To my relief, he follows me. “Across the street. I didn’t want to block anyone in if Nevaeh hadn’t left yet.”

My neighbor, Mrs. McDonnell, is at her mailbox. She’s pretending not to notice us, but she’s also lingering for a long time just to pull out those bulk store flyers.

“Hey, Chastity?” he says.

“Yes?”

“I hate to break it to you, but this is real.” Hank tucks my hair behind my ear and fixes the scarf around my neck. He leans forward and kisses me softly. “I like you. You like me. We’re in love. And nothing bad is going to happen. If you’re pregnant, we’ll have a baby. If you’re not, we’ll have a baby later.”

He’s right. I’m being anxious for no reason. Everything is different now. I’m totally and completely in love with him. There’s no other explanation for this bubbly sensation in my chest. He said he loves me, and I believe him, because Hank may be a charmer, but he’s not a bullshitter. He means it.

He loves me. That’s incredible.

Yet, in spite of all his reassurances, I can’t shake the feeling that something will go wrong. I’ll be alone again, taking care of myself, because no one else ever has. Not even when I was a child. No one takes care of my emotional needs, and I don’t know how to let him do that.

He takes a step backward, toward the street, not breaking eye contact with me.

“But…” I’m torn between wanting to swoon and having a panic attack.

I’m not sure what any of this means beyond that I’ve just had the most amazing night of my life and I’m in love with Hank Young.

“But nothing,” he says. He takes another step back, over the curb, and into the street. He gives me a wink and a grin. “Face it, Chastity DuBois. I’m your boyfriend.”

My boyfriend.

There is no time to process that. I see it before Hank does. A car comes around the corner right as he steps smack dab into the middle of the lane. “Hank!” I call out, taking a step forward. “Watch out!”

He turns, puzzled.

The car hits him.

Just bam. Contact. And he goes flying.

I scream. And scream. And keep screaming. At the top of my lungs.

It seems like my best course of action. The only thing I can possibly do.

For a split second, none of my trauma training kicks into gear. Not a single ounce of it. Not when I see Hank Young, my boyfriend, thrown through the air and land a few feet in front of the reckless Honda, where I can’t see him.

I don’t want to look. I can’t look. Every muscle in my body is frozen except for my vocal cords, which have found a volume I didn’t even know they were capable of.

Then I surge forward, desperate to get to him. I need him to be okay. If Hank is dead because of me, I don’t even know what I’ll do. People rush into the street from all directions, which prevents me from getting to him, and a woman slips her arm around me, murmuring something I can't process.

“Move!” I demand, trying to shove past a man wearing a cowboy hat, which isn’t helping my visibility.

“Can someone please tell her I’m okay?” Hank says, clear as day.

“He’s okay, he’s okay!” someone yells.

I shake off who I now see is Mrs. McDonnell and surge forward, running with zero grace and full hysterical relief. Hank is on the asphalt, looking like he’s all in one piece. I fall down next to him and start checking him for injuries.

The driver appears, running his hands through his hair. He’s probably sixteen, lanky, with a face covered in acne. “Holy shit, man, I didn’t even see you. You okay?”

---