Something he said to me the other day still bugs me. Do you remember what I told you? And the problem is, as much as I’ve tried to rack my brains and remember, I really don’t. I can’t remember what he said to me at all, only my screaming, only my raw, horrible emotions spilling out like hot, thick, sticky oil.
“What did you try to tell me back in the hospital, Rian?” My voice is quiet and far away. I don’t want an answer. I really don’t—because I’m terrified of what he’ll say and what it’ll mean for us.
He doesn’t seem surprised by the question, even though it’s not really related to what we’re talking about. He chews on it, mulls it over. “If I tell you again, you’ll wish I hadn’t.”
“Tell me. You said you never lied to me. What did you say that matters so much all these years later?”
“It’s everything,” he whispers, staring straight ahead. His fingers curl into the arms of the chair. “I haven’t stopped thinking about that night for the last eight years. The accident doesn’t make sense, Daley. I remember her car. It was smashed up, but not that badly, not so badly that she’d be dead. The airbags deployed, but her head—” He stops and looks at me. “She looked like those Turkish guys did. Caved in and ruined. But all that stuff only makes sense if you remember what I told you.”
I’m dizzy with the memory and the image of my best friend with her skull wrecked. I want to throw up and my hands tremble. That night, Rian was drunk and needed a ride home, and Megan lived near him. I had my own car since I came from my part-time job at CVS and met them there, and Rian had gotten a ride with a different friend. But his buddy was hammered, and so was he, and since he and Megan lived in the same section, she agreed to drive him home. Don’t sweat it, she said, grinning at us. I’m a great driver. I’ll get his drunk ass home, no problem.
Then the late-night call. The texts from friends. The police. The hospital. The grisly story: Rian was driving too fast, lost control of the car, and slammed into a tree on some old guy’s front lawn. She died on the scene, and he walked away with minimal injuries.
“You shouldn’t have been driving,” I whisper, gritting my teeth to keep from crying. “I keep asking myself, why the hell was he driving? That’s what really kills me. Megan wasn’t that stupid, but you could be so persuasive. Did you talk her into it because you felt like speeding and having some fun? Were you so drunk that you thought you would be better behind the wheel than she was?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He’s staring at me now, his eyes like thunder. “Why would I be driving? Why the hell would Megan let me drive when she was sober and I wasn’t? It doesn’t make any sense, Daley.”
“But you told the cops you were the one driving. It was all over the news. You confessed to losing control and smashing the car.”
He nods slowly, face twisted up in a pained grimace. “I did. You’re right. But the problem is, I confessed right after they found us, when I was sitting on some stranger’s front lawn with Megan’s mangled face in my lap, trying to make her start breathing again, covered in her blood, with no memory at all of the crash or of getting into that damn car or the fucking party. I didn’t remember any of it, and when the cops shone their lights in my face, I freaked out. I panicked. I told them what I thought they wanted to hear, that I was the driver, that I was drunk, and I begged them to help her. But it was too late.”
I’m crying and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to hear this, any of this. It’s too painful and it’s dredging up too much. I stand and walk away, heading toward my bedroom, trembling with the sudden urge to curl up beneath my covers and hide.
But Rian catches my wrist and pulls me back. I gasp as he shoves me against the wall, pinning me there. I struggle, but his grip is iron, and I’m aching from nearly getting killed not too long ago. He’s a monster, so large, and he’s not letting me escape. He glares into my face, breathing hard.
“Think about it, Daley. You know Megan. Why would she let me drive? Why the fuck would she let me drive if I was drunk?”
“She wouldn’t,” I say, still struggling. “Let me go.”
“She wouldn’t,” he repeats. “She wouldn’t. That’s what I told you in the hospital. Daley, you hate me because you think I killed your friend. You think I was driving her car drunk, lost control, hit a tree. But that’s not what happened. I woke up in the passenger side seat and found her lying outside of the car on the ground, her skull smashed in. But I wasn’t driving. I wasn’t the one driving.”