Page 44 of My Best Friend Is Broken
And here I am, five years later, sitting in an expensive coffee shop, laughing like I don’t have blood on my hands. Holding hands with someone who loves me like I deserve affection instead of the endless punishment I should be serving.
Mrs. Patterson’s eyes fill with tears, but they’re not sad tears. They’re furious tears, the kind that come from seeing injustice walking free while your child rots in the ground.
She starts to stand, and I can see her mouth opening, probably to say something that will destroy what’s left of my sanity. To remind everyone in this coffee shop exactly what I am, what I’ve done.
She thinks I was driving, just like everyone does. But the details don’t matter. The fact my hands weren’t on the wheel changes nothing. I knew Sam was drunk. Knew he was driving too fast. Knew he was upset. Knew it was dark and raining and he didn’t take care of his car. And I did nothing. Nothing except let Olivia die.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“Liam?” Nicky’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “What’s wrong?”
But I can’t answer him. Can’t explain. Can’t do anything but run.
I push through the crowded coffee shop, ignoring the annoyed sounds of people I bump into, focused only on getting away. Away from Mrs. Patterson’s horrified stare, away from the judgment and the guilt and the weight of a ghost I can never escape.
The December air hits my face like a slap as I burst through the door onto the street. London rushes around me, traffic and pedestrians and the relentless noise of a city that doesn’t care about one broken person falling apart on its pavements.
I don’t know where I’m going. Don’t have a plan beyond the desperate need to be anywhere else. My feet carry me through side streets and past shops I don’t see, following some instinct that promises relief if I can just get far enough away.
But you can’t run from guilt. You can’t escape the weight of a life cut short, especially when you’re the one who cut it.
I find myself on a bridge I don’t know the name of, without remembering how I got there. The Thames stretches out below, gray and choppy in the winter light. People stream past me in both directions, tourists taking photos, commuters hurrying to work, joggers with their headphones and determined expressions.
None of them see me. None of them know what I’ve done.
The railings are cold against my palms as I grip them, staring down at the water far below. It looks peaceful from here. Quiet. Like it might wash away five years ofnightmares and guilt and the crushing weight of existing in a world where Olivia Patterson doesn’t.
“She was eighteen,” I whisper to the wind. “She was going to be a teacher. She wanted to work with kids who struggled in school, help them find their confidence.”
The words are torn away by the December gusts, but saying them feels important. Like maybe if I acknowledge her properly, admit what was lost, the weight in my chest might ease just a fraction.
But it doesn’t. If anything, it gets heavier.
Eighteen. The same age I was when I made that split-second decision to climb into the driver’s seat. The same age when I thought I was being noble, protecting Sam and Amy and their unborn child by taking responsibility for something that some people would say wasn’t even my fault.
Except it was my fault, wasn’t it? I wasn’t the one driving, but I knew damn well that Sam was drunk. And then in the car, after that phone call, he was upset and distracted.
If only I had told him to pull over. If I’d insisted we call a taxi when we left the pub. If I’d taken Sam’s keys. If I’d been braver, smarter, less eager to seem cool.
If, if, if. Five years of ifs that led to a beautiful girl dying because I wasn’t strong enough to make the right choice when it mattered.
It is a secret twisted and embedded in my soul. So deep I’ll never be able to cut it free. Not even to tell Nicky.
Me and Sam are the only ones who know I wasn’t driving. We are the only ones who will ever know the facts of that night. But it doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant who’shands were on the wheel. I’m still responsible. Olivia’s blood is still on my hands.
“Liam.”
Nicky’s voice comes from behind me, careful and controlled in a way that makes my stomach clench. I don’t turn around. Can’t bear to see whatever expression he’s wearing. Pity, probably, or that careful concern that means he’s calculating how close I am to completely losing it.
“Don’t,” I say quietly. “Just... don’t.”
“Okay.” His voice comes closer, but not too close. Close enough to be heard over the traffic, far enough that I don’t feel trapped. “Can you tell me what happened back there?”
I laugh, but it comes out broken and bitter. “Olivia’s mother was in the coffee shop. She saw me laughing. Saw me happy.” My fingers tighten on the railing until my knuckles go white. “How fucking dare I be happy when her daughter is dead because of me?”
“Liam…”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Don’t you dare try to make this better. Don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault or that I deserve happiness or any other fucking lies.”
