“She’s fucking sorry, man.”

I press my thumb to my temple, begging, pleading for the voices to stop.

“Dylan?” she whispers.

“She needs you, man.”

“Not now!” I yell, punching the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry,” Riley shouts, cowering against the door again.

I face her quickly. “Not you!” And when I focus on the road again, Dave’s standing in front of the car, his head blown off, his voice loud in my ears. “Stop fucking yelling at her!”

I slam on the brakes to avoid hitting him, my hands gripping the wheel as the tires spin, burning rubber against the concrete. I lose control, just for a moment, the car fishtailing across the narrow road before finally coming to a stop. Smoke surrounds the car, fog rises through the headlights.

I turn to Riley, her eyes wide, her hands gripping the door. She’s breathing heavily, just like me.

Fear.

It’s all I see.

All I feel.

In her.

In me.

“Fuck!” I hit the steering wheel again. Feeling the rage build. “Get out, Riley!”

“I’m not leaving!”

I reach out and open the door, forcefully pushing her out of the car. “Get out!”

“I’m sorry, Dylan!” she shouts through her sobs, standing next to the car.

“Go home!”

She shakes her head, her hands in her hair. Then her face turns white. “Dylan!”

Forty-Seven

Dylan

My breaths are weak. My body weaker. I try to open my eyes, but I can’t. I can hear her voice. She’s screaming my name. Over and over. I can feel her with me, but she sounds far away. So far.

My lips part, her name barely a whisper.

She’s crying. She screaming and she’s crying.

White light flashes behind my eyes. More distant voices. But none louder than Dave’s. “What the hell did you do, man?” I follow his voice because I have no choice. My breath leaves me. It doesn’t return. It’s dark. So damn dark.

Forty-Eight

Dylan

There’s a beeping sound, something pressing down on my fingers, faint voices, and the familiar smell of hospitals. I know where I am before I open my eyes.

I try to remember what happened, about as much as I try to forget.

I remember Riley’s face—the white caused by the headlights behind me. Then the sound of crashing metal right before the car spun and spun and spun some more. I tried to control the steering wheel but I couldn’t.

“Riley,” I breathe out, my eyes snapping open. I search frantically for her, but she isn’t here. No one’s here. “Riley!” I shout, starting to get up. There’s weight on my chest, keeping me down, and pain in my right leg that shoots up to my hip.

Dad steps into the room, his eyes wide when he sees me half out of bed. He starts to speak, but I cut him off. “Where’s Riley?”

He places a gentle hand on my chest, keeping me down.

“Where is she!” I demand.

“She’s here. She stepped out for a minute, but she’s here. She’ll be back. She hasn’t left your side for two days.”

“Two days?” I whisper.

He nods.

I ignore the beeps from the monitor next to me, the sounds fast and frantic. “Is she okay?”

“She’s okay. Do you remember anything that happened?”

I shake my head. “Yes. No. Some.”

“The other car hit yours on enough of an angle that it barely clipped her. She’s got a bruised hip. That’s all. A few cuts and bruises from trying to get you out. But she’s okay.”

I rip the monitor off my fingers and try to get up again.

“Son, please,” he begs. “I know it’s hard. You need to stay down.”

Tears build in my eyes, my heart aching more than the physical pain I’m in. I try to take his advice, try to breathe through the guilt.

Dad inhales a breath, his hands slowly rising when he knows I’m not going anywhere. “I contacted your First Sergeant. They approved your leave until your leg heals. I think it’s best you stay close. You have a concussion and a punctured lung. Broken leg—”

“I don’t care. I want to see Riley. Where is she?”

“She’s just—”

“You’re up!” It should be physically and emotionally impossible to feel so much from the sound of one person’s voice, but hearing her, seeing her smile as she walks toward me, coffee in her hand… I feel everything. I feel the air fill my lungs, feel the pain leave my body.

“Baby,” I whisper, my hand out, reaching for her.

She glances at Dad quickly before looking over at me.

And her touch—her touch doubles everything I felt when I heard her voice, when I saw her face. She reaches up, one hand on mine, the other still holding the coffee when she uses the back of her fingers to glide across my forehead. I gaze into her eyes, looking for the calm. It isn’t there. Neither is the smile anymore. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” I croak, my throat dry.

Both her hands leave me, returning a second later with a cup of water and a straw. She lifts my head gently until my mouth surrounds the straw and I drink slowly, my throat aching when I swallow.

Dad steps back from the bed, taking a seat in the corner of the room.

“You’ve been out a while,” Riley says.

Where did her smile go?