I take a deep breath.
Fifteen yards.
Ten.
Five.
At the last possible second, I swerve the wheel sharply right. I register the SUV flying past us on the left, a familiar Hulk-sized man behind the wheel, but most of my attention is locked on the road in front of me.
Or, lack thereof.
Dirt flies up in a cloud as we spin out, the tires skidding onto the slope of patchy grass beside the road. The wheel is wrenched from my hands as I lose control of the vehicle. The world goes mute; time seems to slide into slow motion as I wait for the inevitable crash.
Somehow, my hands find the wheel again, clamping down in a last ditch effort to bring the car back under control. It’s locked hard over — no matter how hard I try to turn, it doesn’t budge.
I see the fence — a towering, ten-foot wall of graffiti and concrete, lining the roadway. Coming ever closer to my windshield.
I think I scream, but I’m not sure. All I know, in that instant, is that I’m probably going to die.
And, if I die, it’ll be without telling the one man who’s ever scaled the walls of my heart and made himself at home that I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.
Actually, I’m not pretty sure.
I’m sure.
Certifiably, 100%, no-going-back,in love with him.
My last thought, before we slam front-first into the wall with a piercing screech of metal and a shower of sparks, is that I hope, somehow, he knows that.
***
I must’ve passed out for a second, because when I come-to, the dust has settled, somewhat.
My head aches worse than anything I’ve ever felt before. Judging by the pain in my lungs, I figure at least one of my ribs has to be broken — either that, or the airbag hit me hard enough to rearrange my internal organs. My shoulder burns where Ralph’s bullet grazed me, and his earlier blow to my cheekbone pales in comparison to the sharp spike of pain that shoots through my temple as soon as my eyes blink open.
I rub at my chest, hoping it might soothe the ache there. The airbag is already deflating and over the top of it, I see the front of my car is crumpled in like an aluminum soda can. The engine shakes violently —once, twice— and then, with a final wheeze, falls silent. I see smoke drifting up from beneath the hood and pray to god fire isn’t about to follow.
In the sudden quiet, I hear a mewling whimper of pain.
Chrissy.
“Chrissy!” I scream, turning around to face her as my hands search for the release button of my seatbelt. “Chrissy, are you okay?”
My heart pounds madly in my chest as my eyes fly over the backseat.
She’s there — eyes slivered open, her hand on Winnie’s tiny, flailing arm.
He’s alive.
She’s alive.
“Chrissy, talk to me.” My voice cracks. “Tell me you’re all right.”
“Just.” She wheezes. “Peachy.”
I try to chuckle, but it hurts too much. “Glad to hear it. Is Winnie okay?”
“I think he’s just shaken up,” she says, stroking her fingers through his hair. “We’ll be okay.”