Page 33 of After All The Wreckage
My gut clenched. “I’d heard there’d been an accident… I didn’t think… I didn’t know…” My entire being revolted at the idea of Rory getting that call. I knew excruciatingly well what it was like. The fucking agony.
I almost said I was sorry but stopped myself. Because it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t ease any of the goddamn pain. It wouldn’t even be the comfort people thought it was.
“She’s in a coma,” she said quietly.
“She’s still alive.” I breathed out a sigh of relief.
“The doctors don’t think so…” She shook her head, lips turning grim. “They want us to turn off her life support.”
Every molecule of heartache I felt for her tripled. Quadrupled. Zoomed out of control. How could they expect her to make that call? How could they expect anyone to make it? To essentially kill the person you loved most?
I’d thought my life was hard. I thought finding out Dad was dead had been the worst thing to happen to me, but God… What if I’d had to be the one to stop him from breathing?
I wouldn’t have been able to do it.
As if she sensed the enormity of my own emotions, she looked away again. Tugging her sweater again before flipping her phone over in her lap half a dozen times.
“I should have brought my motorcycle. We could have gone in two directions after the Capitol and covered more ground.”
I knew her suggestion wasn’t just because of Monte and our search. It was because she didn’t like being in the car with me, sharing her life… her feelings… the overwhelming emotions.
I completely understood. I didn’t want to think about Monte alone and scared, and she didn’t want to think about her mom on a ventilator. So, I did what I could for both of us and tossed out a tease I knew would rile her up.
“The Rebel is cute, but I’m not sure it qualifies as an actual motorcycle.”
In a flash, I saw the defiance I adored. She pointed a finger at me and then waved her hand around the abused Pathfinder with its airbags and safety features I’d been prompted to buy after Ivy had been born.
“What the hell would you know about motorcycles anymore? You’re driving a dadmobile,” she said with scorn.
My lips curled upward ever so slightly. “The Rebel is a little shit-spitter. Mine… Mine’s a real motorcycle.”
She hesitated for a beat. “You still have it? The red Indian?”
I shook my head. “Traded the Sport in for an Indian Chief.”
She snorted. “That totally makes sense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Safe. Sturdy. Road cruiser.” She said it as if she was saying it about me instead of the bike. As if I was safe and sturdy… As if I’d take sex slow and easy.
And hell, sometimes I would. Lazy Sunday mornings were perfect for taking your time. But there were also moments for fast and furious up against a wall or on the back of my bike parked on the shore. Still, the hint of condescension and teasing picked at my ego.
“I think you mean burly, highly responsive, and can beat your little 471cc four-stroke off a starting line in any race on this earth,” I tossed back.
“Burly? Isn’t it against the law for a man to use that word?” Her face burst into a smile, and it almost made me drive off the road.
It had been so long since I’d seen that kind of smile on her face. Full of joy and recklessness. Lightning. It was a smile that turned her from an avenging angel into a teasing sprite. Mischievous. Promising things I shouldn’t want.
Her phone pinged, and when she looked down, her smile disappeared and my heart faltered.
“Monte?” I asked, not even bothering to hide the fear in my voice.
She shook her head. “No. Sorry. This is my dad.”
She hit the side button, ignoring it, and the phone buzzed a couple more times, which she also ignored. Finally, it started making music with an incoming call.
She lifted it to her ear, annoyance in every syllable as she said, “I can’t talk right now. I’m in the middle of something.”
