The sirens have stopped. Everything feels like it’s going in slow motion—even the hard slices of rain seem to be frozen in the air, a sheet of water turned diagonal. Three cars have pulled onto the shoulder. People are running toward me, turned by the headlights into faceless shadows.
“Nick!” they’re shouting. “Nick! Nick!”
Run.
The word comes to me on the rain, on the soft tongue of the wind against my face.
So I do.
BEFORE
Nick
The summer I was nine was a wet one. For weeks it seemed to rain nonstop. Dara even got pneumonia, and her lungs slurped and rattled whenever she inhaled, as if the moisture had somehow gotten inside her.
On the first sunny day in what seemed like forever, Parker and I crossed the park to check out Old Stone Creek—normally shallow and flat-bottomed and barely two feet across—now transformed into a roaring, tumbling river, barreling over its banks, turning the whole area to swampland.
Some older kids had gathered to throw empty cans in the creek and watch them twirl, bobbing and resurfacing, in the current. This one guy, Aidan Jennings, was standing on the footbridge, jumping up and down, while the water pummeled the wooden supports and went swirling up across his feet.
And then, in one instant, both Aidan and the bridge were gone. It happened that quickly, and without sound; the rotting wood gave way, and Aidan was swept up in a swirl of splintered wood and churning water, and everyone was running after him, shouting.
Memory is like that, too. We build careful bridges. But they’re weaker than we think.
And when they break, all our memories return to drown us.
It was raining, too, on the night of the accident.
I didn’t mean for it to happen.
He was waiting for me at home after Ariana’s party, jogging up and down a little on the front porch, his breath crystallizing in the air, his sweatshirt hood tugged up over his head, casting his face in shadow.
“Nick.” His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “We need to talk.”
“Hey.” I tried not to get too close to him as I moved toward the door, rooting in my bag for my keys with fingers that had gone numb from cold. Dara had insisted I stay to watch the bonfire. But the rain had increased steadily, and the fire never materialized: only a blackened, pulpy mess of diesel oil and logs, crushed paper cups and cigarette butts. “I missed you at the party.”
“Wait.” He grabbed my wrist before I could push open the door. His fingers were icy, his face raw with some emotion I didn’t understand. “Not there. My house.”
I hadn’t noticed until he gestured that his car was pulled over a little ways down the road, half-concealed by a group of straggly pines, as if he’d been deliberately trying to stay hidden. He walked a few feet ahead of me, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the rain, almost as if he was angry.
Maybe I should have said no. Maybe I should have said I’m tired.
But this was Parker, my best friend, or my once-upon-a-time best friend. Besides, I didn’t know what was coming next.
The drive to his house took all of fifteen seconds. Still, it felt like an eternity. He drove in silence, his hands tight on the wheel. The windshield was almost completely fogged over; the wipers squelched against the glass, sending sheets of water plummeting down toward the hood.
Only after he was parked did he turn to me. “We haven’t talked about what happened on Founders’ Day,” he said.
The heat was on, feathering his hair under his trucker hat. Come to the nerd side, it said. We have pi. “What do you mean?” I said carefully, and I remember I felt my heart like a fist, squeezing slowly in and out.
“So”—Parker was drumming his hands on his thighs, a sure sign he was nervous—“it didn’t mean anything to you?”
I said nothing. My hands felt like deadweight in my lap, like enormous, bloated things pulled up by a tide.
At the Founders’ Day Ball, Parker and I snuck into the pool and climbed up to the rafters, trying to find a way up to the roof. We did, eventually: we found a trapdoor through the old theater. We ditched the dance and sat together for an hour, sharing a bottle of Crown Royal Parker had siphoned from his dad’s stash, laughing about nothing.
Until he took my hand in his.
Until there was nothing funny about the way he was looking at me.
We came so close to kissing that night.
Afterward, when the rumor started going around that I’d ditched the dance to hook up with Aaron in the boiler room, I let everyone think it was true.
Rain diced the light from his front porch into crazy patterns. For a while he said nothing. “All right, listen. Things have been weird between us for months. Don’t argue,” he said, when I opened my mouth to protest. “They have been. It’s my fault. Jesus, I know that. It’s all my fault. I should have never—well, anyway. I just wanted to explain. About Dara.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I need to,” he said, with sudden urgency. “Look, Nick. I screwed up. And now—I don’t know how to fix it.”
Cold crept through my whole body, as if we were still outside, standing at the edge of the ruined bonfire, watching the rain fizzle the flames into smoke. “I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” I said. I didn’t care if I sounded mad. I was mad.
All my life, Dara had been taking things and smashing them.
“You don’t get it.” He took off his hat, shoved a hand through his hair so that it stood up straight, electric, defying gravity. “I should never have—God. Dara’s like a little sister to me.”