Page 37 of That Friendzone Feeling
“It’sreally fucking awful,”Walkersays.
Hisanger cuts through my worry and pierces my heart.Doeshe thinkI’mto blame? “Whyare you shouting at me?Thiswasn’t my fault.”Alump rises in my throat.
Hepoints aggressively out the window ahead of us. “Look.Seethat big metal pole?”
Itmust have been embedded in the wall because it’s bent toward us and pointing right at me.
“It’sliterally inches from coming through the windshield and slamming into your head.”
He’sright.Itis terrifyingly close. “Iget it.It’sscary.”
Okay, he’s not yelling because he’s angry with me.He’sfreaking out.Whenyour parents have died in a car accident, anything like this must give you flashbacks or something.Itotally get that.
Hestares blankly out of the windshield, his lips sucked in, his brow knitted.
Allthoughts of the smashed car, the pole inches from my head, and how the hell we’re going to showChasearound a muddy bog tomorrow vanish, replaced by one thing—an overwhelming need to take away the pain obviously coursing throughWalker.
Imanage a deep breath whileIunbuckle my seat belt, then place a hand on his thigh to try to calm him.Myfingers tremble.PerhapsI’mmore shaken thanIrealize.ButWalker’sfeelings are the only thing that matter right now.
“We’refine,”Ipromise him. “We’retotally fine.”
“Wecould so easily not have been.”Helooks right at me, the fire in his eyes morphing into concern. “Thatthing could have killed you.Icould have killed you.”
Whatthe hell is he talking about? “Youcould have killed me?Youdidn’t do anything.”
“It’sall my fault.”Helooks as sure as if he was telling me two plus two is four. “IfI’dcome here with you this morning, when you wanted me to, you wouldn’t have come to pick me up tonight, and we wouldn’t have been on the road in this fucking weather.”
Hischin drops to his chest. “Ididn’t even need to stay behind.”Allthe fury in his voice is gone, replaced with remorse. “Vijayfixed it without me.ThatmeansIcaused this.”
“Don’tbe silly.”Istroke his thigh.It’sfirm and reassuring.Andthis is the first timeI’veever touched it. “It’snot your fault.”
“Itis,Em.Entirely.Ialmost killed you the wayIkilled my parents.”
What?Imove my hand from his leg and twist in my seat to face him.
“Whatthe hell are you talking about,Walker?”Iplace my hand on his forehead. “Areyou okay?Maybeyou’re in shock.”Heis a bit clammy. “BecauseIknow for absolute certain you did not kill your parents.”
Pressingmy hand against his skin makes me feel likeI’mdoing something beneficial, as if by leaving it thereIcan absorb some of his pain.
“Idid.”Heturns his face away, and my fingers drag across his forehead, then finally fall off, breaking the precious physical contact and leaving me desperate to find another part of him to touch.
Theone working headlight is reflecting from the wrecked wall and must be glaring directly into his eyes.Buthe doesn’t seem to notice it as he stares straight ahead at the rain bouncing off the mangled hood.Orpossibly at nothing at all.
“Thatnight.Ididn’t want them to go out.IpretendedIhad a stomachache, hopingMomwould stay home.Shesat with me, rubbing my belly and reading me my favorite book about a kid who lived in a magic tree house.Imade them late.”
Myhands fly to my chest to try to suppress the instant and overwhelming hurt in my heart.
Heslowly turns his head to look at me, one side of his face illuminated, the other in darkness.
“IfIhadn’t pretendedIhad a stomachache, they wouldn’t have been on the road at the same time as that truck.”Hestares at me, unblinking. “Andthey’d still be alive.”
Hisvoice doesn’t waver.There’sno crack.Nohint of emotion.Tohim it’s an indisputable fact.
Therain hammers on the car, the wipers steady as a heartbeat.
Mythroat tightens and my eyes burn for the child who blamed himself for the crash and for my best friend, the manIadore, who’s been carrying that burden for a couple of decades.
IfIcould suck all the hurt out of him and take it on myself,Iwould.Butthe bestIcan do is try to soothe the agony that must live inside him every day.
