Whisper to Me(48)

Sadness filtered through his eyes before he continued. I found it hard not to look away. Seeing him miserable affected me whether or not I wanted to admit it. No matter how much he hurt me, I still cared about him. I couldn’t help myself.

It wasn’t the same kind of caring it had once been. It had evolved and transformed into something different. Something that bordered on agony. Almost like going through the surgery to put my head back together. I knew that in the end, it would be the best thing for me—despite hurting like a bitch and knowing I’d come out differently.

Others who have life-changing experiences find God, become charitable, go around preaching not to take life for granted. I’d never had that need. I figured people already knew just how precious life was.

I let other people ignore signs of my accident as they went about their daily life, because any reminder would be too painful for them. I remembered how difficult it had been for people to look me in the eyes when I’d attempted everyday tasks in the weeks following my accident—like walking into the grocery store, needing the support of my mother’s arm or a cane.

Life was hard enough.

Instead of going around preaching about just how fragile our existence was, I took life by the balls. I got my needs met—physical, mental, social—did whatever the hell I wanted, never worrying how I looked to those around me. They didn’t know me anyway.

It was a pretty fucked-up way of conducting my life, I now realized. Even I could see the absurdity of my last three years. I had been over-the-top, like a clown with too much makeup. If I’d just toned it down, people might’ve actually been able to understand me better, see me more clearly. I was just some messed-up girl trying to navigate her way through relationships and decisions. Through life.

“I asked you to take a ride on that motorcycle with me,” Miles said, with conviction in his voice. And it dawned on me that he’d been trying to navigate through life in his own way, too. “And after the accident . . . seeing you like that, knowing it was my fault?”

Suddenly his head dropped to his hands, and I was stunned into silence. “I couldn’t live with myself. With the idea that I’d hurt you.”

My fingers reached across the table to comfort him, but they fell short. He should’ve been comforting me, damn it. Not the other way around. I quickly wiped a tear from my eye, so he didn’t see it spill over.

“No, Miles.” I cleared my throat. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I was driving the damn thing, Rachel,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m the one who was being careless. I caused the accident.”

Honestly, the revelation that he’d felt that much remorse took me by surprise. I mean, Shane felt guilty about his bike—but his guilt had looked different. Shane didn’t just fucking walk away.

“Don’t you see?” His voice was muffled by his hands. “Not only did I feel guilty about wanting to break up with you. I also had the shame of the accident.”

Those words delivered a powerful punch straight to my gut. I was surprised I wasn’t hunched over dry heaving or something.

“Got it,” I mumbled, tasting bile in the back of my throat.

I couldn’t remember a time I had felt lower as a human than waking up in the hospital, unable to speak or use my limbs. I felt my bottom lip quivering and clamped my teeth down on it. I was so close to losing it. To letting all my sorrow burst free.

“I’m so damn sorry, Rachel,” he said, lifting his head. “Please, believe me.”

I said nothing in return, maybe secretly wanting to prolong his torture.

And then fury, disappointment, and agony bubbled to the surface as I stared at his perfectly shaved head and starched collar.

What a fuck stick. A goddamn motherfucking fuck stick. Plain and simple.

And if I truly had been half the girl I pretended to be at TSU, I would have said that out loud.

For everyone in the entire universe to hear.

But he was only being honest. And I probably should’ve respected him for that. My anger deflated and then dissipated as my own pride and humiliation won out.

He had put it all on the line, never mincing words. He could have left out the bit about how he’d felt about me and just worked the guilt angle. But no, he was pouring it all out in front of me. Every last bit of his ugly words—his ugly truth.

I wanted to stomp on it and bury it deep within my subconscious.

Maybe he’d actually done me a favor. Had he hung in there with me, I probably wouldn’t have fought so hard. After all, the tears and the wallowing, the heartache and the shame did a hell of a lot to spur me on. Along with having my life hanging in the balance.