The Fortunate Ones

“But what about your last relationship? Was it a tough breakup?”

“Not at all. I haven’t dated anyone serious in a few years.”

Even better.

“Why?” he asks.

“Asking for a friend.”

“Oh, okay.” He’s willing to play along. “Is your friend cute?”

I glance out the window so he can’t see my smile. By now, the sun has set and the bright lights of the businesses along Lamar whip past us.

“Blindingly.”

“Does she work at the club?”

I chuckle. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Is she interested in me?”

His question catches me off guard.

“Who knows? You’d have to ask her,” I reply tentatively.

That surprises him. He does one of those curious huh noises like I’ve just told him something incredibly interesting.

I turn back toward him. “She doesn’t know you very well. If she were interested in you at this point, it would be for superficial reasons, like your wealth. Hell, she might just want a membership to Twin Oaks,” I tease. “You have to be careful these days.”

His gaze slices over me. “Maybe she finds me attractive and it has nothing to do with my country club membership.”

I chew on my bottom lip. “Maybe.” But because I feel like I revealed too much, I add, “But she really wants that membership.”

He laughs as he pulls up to a red light. We’re about to turn right and head into the heart of north campus; there’s only another minute or two until he drops me off. Suddenly, I want to stall, but beyond asking him to take me back to his place, I can’t think of a good reason. I could suggest that we continue our night somewhere else, a bar maybe? But he’s still dressed in his golf clothes and my jeans are pretty casual. I just threw them on to get me back home from the club.

I tap my finger on my knee, trying to come up with something. We could take a walk somewhere or do something outside. Peter Pan Mini-Golf would be perfect for our ensembles, but it’s all the way in the opposite direction. I should have suggested it when we left the diner.

“James? Do you want to—”

Words are spilling out of my mouth before I even have a solid plan. I’m kind of hoping the second half of the sentence will come to me through divine intervention, but it never has the chance.

Bright headlights expand behind us so quickly that we both twist to look back at the precise moment a car slams into James’ Tesla. I whip forward from the intensity of the impact, arms flailing to catch myself against the dashboard as we’re pushed into the intersection, right in the way of oncoming traffic.

“JAMES!”

I scream just before another car comes into the intersection and slams into the side of us. We spin out, fishtailing in the center of the chaos. The airbags deploy with a loud POP, so quickly that I feel nothing, see nothing. One second I’m aware of my screams, and the next my ears are ringing so loudly I can’t hear myself breathe. White powder fills the air like snow and the sharp smell of chemicals stings my nostrils. I collect parts of the scene, quickly wondering if more will come or if the crash is over.

One of my hands grips the door. The other is on James’ arm, clinging for dear life.

My chest rises and falls so quickly I don’t feel as if I get any air at all.

I squeeze my eyes closed again, scared it’s not over.

James is saying something, but I can’t listen. I blink and blink until I can focus beyond the white powder in the air. There’s wreckage sprinkled across the road in front of us, another car, badly damaged, a man stumbling out of it. His head is bleeding.

James covers my hand with his and squeezes. It’s the first feeling that comes back to me.

“Are you okay? BROOKE, ARE YOU OKAY?”

He’s shouting at me now, so worried I’m hurt.

Am I?

I look down and assess that I still have two legs and two arms. I stare at the deflated airbag hanging limp in front of me, now useless.

“What happened?”

The sound of my voice surprises me. I’m crying—no, sobbing—and though I try to plug the waterworks, it’s no use.

“Brooke. Brooke. Brooke.”

He says my name so many times that it doesn’t sound like a word anymore. I turn and he cups my face between his hands. His dark, worried gaze darts back and forth between my eyes, desperately trying to focus.

“I think I’m okay,” I repeat, holding my hand up to grip his. My other hand is still on his arm, stuck there. I’ve probably branded his skin, but I don’t think I could move it if I tried.

Police sirens wail somewhere in the distance. The lights from an ambulance flicker through the front windshield, and now that the powder is starting to settle, it’s easier to see just how bad the wreck was.