Asher(18)

I shiver. I remember Ash’s dad clearly. A huge guy with a beard, built like a tank, his nose crooked from having been broken too many times in the ring. A famous ex boxer. A brooding, quiet man. Ash never talked about him.

His dad should be rotting in prison, but isn’t, because of extenuating circumstances. I don’t know what they are. So unfair.

“Think about calling Ash, okay? Promise me?” Tessa takes a sip of her cocoa, looking as serious as I’ve ever seen her. “At least so he knows you don’t blame him for the accident. Zane says he’s been blaming himself enough.”

He has? Holy crap. Now I feel like ten kinds of a bitch. “I’ll think about it. Seriously.”

She gets up and lifts my bag onto the couch next to me, then brings me my books and my laptop. “Good. Now do your homework, rest, and I’ll pick you up in the morning, okay?”

I nod. So much to think about.

But long after Tessa leaves, having made me promise to go out that Saturday night and not to shut her out again, I stare at my cell, undecided.

Should I call Ash? What am I going to say?

Hey, you left without saying goodbye.

Christ. It sounds like a come-on line.

Hey, was it something Tessa said? She was kidding, you know?

Yeah, right.

I might have treated you like crap, but I don’t really hate you. Like, not anymore. Or ever. Not sure.

By the way, sorry your mom died.

Oh god. How lame and horrible.

I put my cell down and check my ankle. It hasn’t swollen much. The ice pack made a difference, and Ash was probably right, it isn’t so bad.

Ash...

I power up my laptop, open my essay, try to concentrate. I was rolling the ideas for my paper over and over in my mind when I was attacked, but now all I have to show for it is a big blank.

I’m tired. It’s getting late. Truth be told, I’m still shaken. I’ve never been attacked before, and the way those guys pawed at me...

So different from the way Ash held me, and touched me. As if I’m the most precious thing in the world.

The time on my cell reads eleven. What if Ash is already asleep?

Good try, Audrey.

I open Tessa’s text message with his number and hit ‘call.’

And wait as the phone rings, and rings, and rings, until it goes to voice mail.

I disconnect without leaving a message.

Ash probably doesn’t want to talk to me tonight. And I can understand why. I’ll try again tomorrow.





***





That night I dream. The nightmare starts as usual. I’m in the car with Dad and we are driving down an empty street. It’s dark. A light drizzle falls. The windows of the car are fogged.

Dad is focused on driving, pushing his wire-framed glasses up his nose from time to time. His short, dark hair is swept to the side. He always has that distracted air about him, even when he’s concentrated. He has a smudge of ink on his cheek. All his work as an architect is done on a computer, but he loves doodling on paper.

And I stare at him, aware I’m lucky to be seeing him, and not knowing why.

“I missed you,” I say. “It’s been a while.”

“I live far away now,” he replies, his mouth twisting. “Takes me longer to come down here.”

I frown. I know he’s right but can’t remember why he lives so far from me now. “You can drive.”

“Cars don’t cross over,” he says, and again that makes sense somehow, though the details escape me.

“Glad you made it.” I settle back in my seat. Unease stirs in my stomach and the urge to throw the door open and run is too strong.

But I can’t leave him. Not when he’s come so far to see me.

I open my mouth to ask how he’s doing, when I realize he isn’t my dad. Not anymore. His dark hair is tousled, and the glasses are gone. I know those pale blue eyes.

Ash.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.

“On the contrary,” he says. “I’m the one who should be here.”

“This isn’t your place.”

“This has always been my place.” His expression is grim. “It’s what I deserve.”

I put my hand on the wheel. “No. You should get out while you still can.”

He shakes his head, his eyes focused ahead. “For me it’s too late.”

“No. Ash. Get out before—”

Then comes the crash, the noise, the pain. I struggle, I thrash, I try to escape. It never works.

But I jerk awake and sit up in bed, twisted in my sheets and covers. God. My chest aches and sourness rises in my throat. I swallowed convulsively.

I’m okay. It’s just a nightmare.

At least some of it. My fingers search for the scar on thigh where metal sliced into my flesh, then move up to my lower belly, where they operated to fix the bleeding in my liver and kidney.