Page 31 of Best of Me

As we move toward the vehicle, we look for any sign of movement from inside, calling out our presence as we approach. “Driver, respond if you’re okay!” Nate hollers just as two more units and a sheriff pull up, effectively blocking off a quarter-mile stretch of road. A firetruck and ambulance arrive shortly after.

When we reach the overturned vehicle, I cover Nate while he presses his face to the window, once again asking the driver if they’re okay. Still no response.

The fire department medics end up having to do an extraction—the driver wasn’t wearing a seat belt and sustained severe injuries. Turns out, he ran because he was hauling enough methamphetamines to take out a small country.

If he survives, he’s facing a whole slew of charges, including felony possession with intent to sell, fleeing a peace officer in a motor vehicle, and reckless endangerment. Suffice to say, dude’s in a whole lot of trouble.

The rest of our shift is uneventful—pretty much just paperwork, a lot of paperwork. But the chase and subsequent wreck left me on edge. Every single time I work an accident, regardless of the circumstances, it forces losing Val to the front of my mind.

I’m in a foul mood by the time we radio out. Though I can’t pinpoint precisely why. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a combination of the events of today, memories of Val, andeverythingwith Mallory. My temples throb as an ache forms behind my eyes.

“Just text her,” Nate says quietly as he pulls into the lot at the station.

“Text who?” I ask, playing dumb.

He shoots me a look. “Mally.”Here we go again; he’s been on me since he picked me up Saturday afternoon.“You obviously want to, so man up and do it.”

“You suddenly a psychic?” I’m being a dick and I know it.

Nate throws the car in park. “Listen, brother, when shit was a mess between me and Jenny, you told me that if I loved her—or even thought Icouldgrowto love her—that I needed to buck up, because a girl like her only comes around once in a lifetime. I know you don’t wanna hear this, that you’re not ready to hear this, but it looks like life’s giving you a second chance—don’t throw it away.”

His—well,mywords—hit me like a punch right to my solar plexus. Could there be any truth in what Nate said?

Back at my house, the first thing I do is hit the shower and desperately try to wash away the day. Except no matter how hard I scrub, thoughts of today’s wreck and flashbacks from Val’s accident mingle, one blinking into the other like some kind of fucked-up nightmare tailor-made for me.

Once the water runs cold, I towel off and slide on a pair of sweats. I pad out to the kitchen and grab a water bottle and my phone before retreating back to my bedroom. This is the one room in my house that’s fully outfitted with furniture and décor. As lame as it sounds, this room is my sanctuary; my safe place to escape when the weight of life gets to be too heavy.

I pitch myself down onto my bed, sighing in contentment as the plush foam envelops my body, making me feel weightless. After a few sips of water and a muttered prayer, I pull up my and Mallory’s text thread and tap out a message to her.

Me: Come over?

Mallory: It’s almost 9 at night…and we haven’t talked for 2 days…

Me: I…never mind. Goodnight, Cricket.

I roll my eyes at myself. I had a bad day so now I’m begging for Mallory to come comfort me. How much more pathetic can I get? I toss my phone down next to me, hating the way I feel in this moment. I feel desperate and clingy and just…needy. But only for her, which makes me feel even more on edge.

I resolve to be stronger, to be self-reliant. I won’t let these possible feelings for a woman I can’t have break me. Except when my phone dings, I dive for it like a cat going after a laser pointer.

Mallory: I’m on my way.

Twenty minutes later, I’m opening the door for Mallory. She’s loaded down with her purse, a duffel-type bag, and two stuffed-full grocery bags. Just seeing her, I feel lighter.

“Moving in?” I joke, but my tone is off.

She rolls her pretty eyes and moves past me, heading toward the kitchen. I follow behind her out of pure curiosity. She drops her bags in the middle of the floor and starts opening cabinets and drawers, gathering things until she has two bowls and two spoons. “Do you have an ice cream scoop?” she asks, hands on her hips.

“Nope.”

“This’ll have to do then,” she mutters, grabbing a serving spoon. I watch with rapt fascination as she unloads her grocery bags, revealing two pints of ice cream—one plain vanilla and the other butter pecan—, a jar of caramel topping, a bottle of Magic Shell syrup, chocolate sprinkles, and whipped cream.

She adds a generous scoop of each flavor with a layer of caramel topping between them that she heated in the microwave before covering it all with the Magic Shell. Once it hardens, she adds the whipped cream and sprinkles.

Wordlessly, she passes me a bowl and spoon and heads to the couch. I debate for all of two seconds before I say, “Let’s go to my room.”

She whips around to face me. “Excuse me?”

“Not like that. We both know my couch leaves a lot to be desired, but my bed is comfy as hell, and I have a TV in there, too.”

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