Page 122 of The Chance

A treehouse surrounds us as he tells me he loves me, and I believe him.

I don’t know how to say it back.

The hotel room where he told me to leave his life.

Then my gym. The dance studio I never found a purpose for, only to find Mac having taken up the space with his own thing. Asking him out with a flutter to my stomach and a hope brightening my chest.

Come over.

It all comes cascading down like shattered glass.

“Mr. Kauffman? This is Officer Smith. There’s been an accident, and you were listed as an emergency contact.”

This is all my fault.

“Where are you taking them?” I all but growl with my gut somewhere near my knees.

“Sir, they’re en route to the hospital.”

They.

My lungs freeze, my heart stopping, but my feet are moving and I’m running.

Driving.

Running again, this time over pavement then squeaking linoleum.

The walls are whitewashed, but all I see is a club bathroom.

Except this time … I’m the one on the verge of hyperventilating.

I should have never told him to come over.

My chest burns as I pass a nurse’s station, their protests falling on ringing ears.

Carts and gurneys wing by, but I don’t stop.

Room after room flashing by, the boulder in my gut gaining momentum in its sink to my feet with each one that doesn’t hold my drummer.

“Mac!”

Another room. Another sickly patient that I disturb.

“Mi Vida.”

My steps slow like I’m rushing through cement sludge with each second that ticks by, and I don’t see Mac. Or Peach. Or any-fucking-one that I recognize.

My chesthurts.

This can’t be it.

Memories I’ve spent years and years building defenses against rush over me.

The burning of my skin.

The scent of charredeverything.

The screams.

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