Page 15 of First Love, Second Draft

Rachel. His friend Rachel. Not his girlfriend Rachel. Nope. Because Matt had never worked up the courage to ask if she’d mind placing that one little word—girl—in front of their friendship.

Hey guys, this is Rachel. My girlfriend.

How many times had he dreamed of saying that? A hundred? A thousand? Didn’t matter he never exactly figured out who he was saying that sentence to in a town where everybody already knew everybody.

But it was the same dream Matt fell asleep to throughout all of high school. Until the night of their senior prom. The night when everything had gone wrong, and Matt realized it was time to stop dreaming.

But now she was back. Maybe the dream wasn’t dead. Maybe their friendship could finally develop into something more.

Or maybe he should cool his jets and make sure thefriendaspect was still in play first, considering they hadn’t spoken directly in five years other than texting the occasional GIF or meme to each other. Last thing he wanted to do was make a fool of himself the first time he saw her by assuming they could pick up right where they’d left off.

Somewhere in his thinking and dreaming, he must’ve finally fallen asleep. Because now a ringing sound was waking him up.

He snatched his phone from next to his pillow, praying it wasn’t a call about his grandpa—the only reason he kept his phone so close to his head every night.

He squinted one eye open at the caller ID. Wombat? Why on earth would he be calling at quarter to one in the morning?

“Hello?” Matt answered.

“Hey, I’m out on Route 20. Rachel hit a deer on the curve. She’s dead. You want the meat?”

Matt, only half awake before, sat straight up. “What?”

“You want the meat?”

“No.” Obviously Matt wasn’t asking about the meat. He was asking about—

“Okay, bye.”

“Hey, no. Wombat?” Did Wombat seriously just hang up on him? Matt glared at the screen. He seriously just hung up on him. What was wrong with that guy?

Matt dialed Wombat back. No answer. He tried again. No answer. A text came through before Matt could tap the call button again.Can’t take

Matt stared at the screen, trying to make sense of it. “Can’t take? Can’t take what?”

Another text pinged.*talk

“You can’t talk, but you have time to correct your autocorrect words?” Matt muttered as he texted Wombat back.Is Rachel ok?

He waited for a response. Preferably something along the lines of ayepor thumbs-up emoji.

When nothing appeared after several seconds, not even three little dots to let him know Wombat was typing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Surely Rachel was fine. Wombat had to have been talking about the deer. But why did he mention Route 20 on the curve? The curveeveryone thought of as Dead Man’s Curve because of its long history of fatalities. Who had died on that curve tonight?

Better have been Bambi.

Matt jumped from bed, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. He needed light. And pants. He knocked over the lamp, so he moved on to the pants. Grabbed the first pair he tripped over next to his bed. Shoved on his running shoes. Snatched his truck keys from the kitchen table. Ran out the door.

At the edge of town, he realized he’d forgotten to put on a shirt. Twelve miles outside of town, he realized he’d forgotten to put on the pants. They were still clutched in his right hand against the steering wheel.

But apparently he’d also forgotten his plan to play it cool the first time he saw Rachel. Because another mile later, the moment he saw her standing on the side of the road and recognized her wild dark curls, he couldn’t get out of his truck fast enough.

“Rachel!” he shouted, nearly forgetting to put his truck in park.

She shielded her eyes from the flashing yellow lights of Wombat’s tow truck gathering her mangled car. “Matt?”

“You’re alive.” Matt slammed into her, wrapping both arms around her. “You’re alive, I’m so glad you’re alive.”

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