Page 45 of My Best Friend Is Broken
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of traffic and the Thames moving sluggishly below.
“You’re right,” Nicky says finally, and the words hit me like a physical blow.
I turn to look at him, shocked. He’s standing maybe ten feet away, his hands in his pockets, his face pale but determined.
“What?”
“You’re right. Olivia Patterson is dead, and you were driving the car that killed her. That’s a fact. That’s something you’ll have to carry for the rest of your life.”
Each word lands like a hammer blow, confirming every horrible thing I’ve told myself for five years. But there’s something in his voice, some quality I can’t identify, that makes me keep listening.
“But you know what else is a fact?” He takes a step closer, and I see something fierce and desperate in his eyes. “You’ve already paid for it. Five years in prison, Liam. Five years of your life gone, your mental health destroyed, your future stolen. You’ve paid for that mistake with everything you had.”
“It’s not enough.” The words scrape my throat raw. “It will never be enough. She’s still dead. Her parents still lost their child. Payment doesn’t bring her back.”
“No, it doesn’t. But destroying yourself won’t bring her back either.” Another step closer. “And throwing away the life you have left isn’t justice… it’s just more waste. More death on top of death.”
I turn back to the railing, back to the gray water below. “Maybe that’s what I deserve.”
“Maybe.” His voice is closer now, close enough that I can hear the emotion he’s trying to keep controlled. “But maybe what you deserve and what the world needs are different things.”
“The world doesn’t need me, Nicky. I’m nobody. I’m nothing.”
“You’re not nothing to me.”
The simple words hit harder than any of his arguments. I close my eyes, feeling tears start to spill down my cheeks.
“I saw you laugh today,” he continues, his voice soft now, gentle. “Really laugh, for the first time since you came home. Do you know what that meant to me? Do you know how beautiful it was to see you remember how to be happy?”
“I shouldn’t be happy. Not when she…”
“She wouldn’t want this.” The words are quiet but certain. “From everything I remember about her from school… she wouldn’t want you to destroy yourself over this. She was kind, wasn’t she? She cared about people?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Then she wouldn’t want your pain. She wouldn’t want your death. She’d want you to live, to find peace, to maybe even find a way to honor her memory by being someone who makes the world a little bit better.”
“How?” The word comes out broken. “How do I honor someone I killed?”
“I don’t know. But we can figure it out together. You and me, we can find a way to carry this weight without letting it crush you. We can find a way to live with the guilt without letting it destroy everything good that’s left.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts. But the weight in my chest is so heavy, and the water below looks so peaceful.
“Liam.” His voice changes, becomes something I’ve never heard before. Commanding, absolute, touched with something that might be panic. “Step away from the railing.”
The tone cuts through my spiral like a blade. It’s not a request or a plea. It’s an order, delivered with the kind of authority that demands obedience without question.
My body responds before my mind can process it, muscle memory from five years of following commands. I step back from the railing, turn toward him, and suddenly I’m in his arms, held so tightly I can barely breathe.
“Thank you,” he whispers against my hair, and I can feel him shaking. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Shame crashes over me like a tide. What the fuck is wrong with me? How could I do this to him? How could I stand on a bridge and contemplate destroying the one person left in the world who loves me?
“I’m sorry,” I sob into his chest. “I’m so sorry, Nicky. I’m so fucked up. I’m so broken. You should just leave me. You should find someone who doesn’t fall apart every time they see a ghost.”
“Never.” His arms tighten around me. “Never, do you hear me? I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to get through this together.”
But even as he holds me, even as I cling to his warmth and his certainty and his stubborn refusal to give up on me, I can’t shake the image of Mrs. Patterson’s horrified face. Can’t forget the weight of knowing that somewhere in this city, a mother is probably crying because she had to see her daughter’s killer looking happy and free and loved.
