Page 110 of Things I Wish I Said
The windshield is a spiderweb of shattered glass, and a tree branch has impaled the driver’s side window where Grayson’s head rests, a smear of blood coating its otherwise translucent surface.
With a shaking hand, I knock on the glass, calling out his name, “Grayson?”
Instead of answering, he lifts his head and wretches into the passenger seat.
“Grayson!” I rush to open the door, unperturbed by a little vomit. Lord knows I’ve had my fair share of puke these last months.
I place a firm hand on his back, learning early on that no amount of rubbing, consoling, or comfort when you’re emptying your stomach out provides relief.
Instead, I just stand here, offering my silent support as he empties himself.
His face and body are darkened by shadows, partially obscured by the branch, but I desperately want him to glance up at me, so I can see his face, make sure he’s okay.
It feels like forever until he’s finished, and when he sags back against his seat, I assume he’s done.
“Grayson? It’s me, Ry. Can you look at me?”
The rise and fall of his chest stills, as if he’s holding his breath before he finally turns and lifts his gaze.
I gasp, my hands flying to my mouth.
Bile rises to the back of my throat, but I choke it back.
Bruising is already visible around his left eye, but that’s not what has my stomach roiling. Dried blood from a large laceration above his brow covers his face like the melting wax of a candle. I have no idea if it’s from the tree branch or a shard of glass or debris, but my stomach sours all the same.
He grunts and raises his hands to his head, wincing. “You came,” he breathes.
My heart kicks. “Of course I did.”
He hums, and his eyes fall closed.
“Grayson?” I gently shake him. “Grayson?”
Panic grips me like a vise when he doesn’t respond.
Breathe, I tell myself.Just fucking breathe.
“I’m going to call an ambulance.”
His eyes fly open, alarm turning the gray to blue. “No. You can’t.”
“You were in an accident,” I say, taking in the smashed hood of the car. “You need to get checked out, make sure you’re okay.”
“I can’t.” His head flops back against the headrest and he shakes his head. “They’ll arrest me.”
“Why would they arrest you?”
I think of the puke, and I freeze.
“Were you . . .” I can barely say it. “Drinking?”
He grunts out a response I can only assume is confirmation.
I spin around, trying to fight for composure. I have half a mind to leave his ass here.
How completely reckless.
He could’ve killed someone.
