One-Eighty (Westover Prep 1)

“She’s going to be fine,” Mom finally says.

“Oh, thank God,” Mrs. Payne answers. “I don’t know what I’d do if things were any worse.”

Tears burn my eyes once again. What grace it must take for this woman to be relieved that I’m not going to die. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d think she was happy that I’ll live just so she can see me suffer for what happened to Dalton, but Cynthia Payne is never one to say something she doesn’t mean. The woman is the epitome of no filter and opinionated. More than once over forced family dinners, she’s openly asked Dalton and me why we haven’t started dating yet, so sure that our once-in-a-lifetime love was already written in the stars and destined for forever.

Dalton, of course, just grunted his response, and I know it took everything in his power not to get sick at just the suggestion of willingly touching me or having any feelings for me other than the hatred that would swim in his eyes when our parents weren’t looking.

“Have they spoken to you about what to expect?” Mom asks Mrs. Payne.

“The induced coma will help the rate of swelling, and with any hope and a million prayers, they won’t have to do surgery. His left arm is broken, but we won’t know the full extent of his injuries until he wakes up.”

What?

“Well,” my mom says with a sigh, “Dalton is one of the most determined, strong-willed young men I’ve ever met. I’m certain he’s going to be fine, but we’re constantly praying. Let us know if you need anything.”

What?

The machine beeping near my head changes tempo, the annoying cadence nearly tripling in rhythm.

He isn’t dead? I didn’t kill Dalton Payne?

He isn’t dead, yet. My brain chooses now to lean toward pessimism. Which means I only have a slight reprieve until Mrs. Payne changes her tune. There’s only so much decorum a woman can maintain in the face of her worst nightmare coming true.

“D-Dalton,” I grumble.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Mom coos near my ear. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Even her assurance, something that’s always calmed me when I’m upset, doesn’t help right now. Nothing can help me right now.

But if Dalton is alive, even if he’s in an induced coma, I need to see him. I need to tell him I’m sorry for what I’ve done that landed us both here. I need to let him know that I forgive him for all the hateful things he’s said to me, for all the tricks he’s played, and all the times he’s made me cry.

I don’t care about any of it anymore. The only thing that concerns me right now is coming clean. I can live with the stain of hurting him on my conscience, but the agony of him slipping away before he knows how apologetic I am is enough to burn a hole through my soul. I’m already facing hell on earth. The last thing I want is an eternity of the very same.

“D-Dalton,” I repeat. “I n-need to see him.”

“Shh,” my mom says again. “Get some rest. You can see him when you’re strong enough.”

I struggle against her hands as they clamp on my shoulders. She doesn’t understand, and there’s no way for me to explain. My confession isn’t for her to hear. It’s only meant for one person, and she’s in my way of making that happen. But my body is weak, too unsteady even to manage to keep my eyes open while she holds me down.

I don’t know how long I fight to get out of the hospital bed, but it couldn’t have been long. By the time I collapse against the thin mattress, I’m breathing hard and crying uncontrollably.

As if he can hear me from here, I repeat I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, over and over until blackness claims me once again.Chapter 6PiperMy time spent in the darkness transforms after hearing that Dalton is still clinging to life in a coma. Although still ashen gray when the rescuers carry him past me at the scene of the accident, he no longer has his eyes closed. Sometimes he merely watches me until the angle of the rescue basket prevents him from making eye contact. During more vivid dreams, Dalton accuses me of ruining his life. He threatens me with more pain than he’s ever administered before, and during the worst times, he glares at me with confusion, asking me with his eyes why I had to do something like this to him.

It’s these moments that bring me the most heartache. Even with the years of torment, I wouldn’t wish any of this on my worst enemy, and that person just happens to be Dalton Payne, by his choosing not my own.

I have more episodes of wakefulness, but I’m still unable to understand how much time has passed since the accident. Mr. and Mrs. Payne stop by to visit regularly, each time asking how I’m doing, and every time they arrive, I close my eyes, so I don’t have to interact. It’s the coward’s way out, but I have no other recourse. At least not one I can think of during the minimal times when my head isn’t throbbing.