The Story of Us
I’m in the front seat of the police car. My purse is on my lap. I didn’t bring anything else. I didn’t even change my clothes.
We’ve been driving for ten minutes, I think. I’m not sure. I’ve asked the officer questions, and he answered what he could. But I’m stuck on “St. Luke’s Hospital” and “found non-responsive.”
A sob swells in my chest, but I hold it in. Somehow, I’m not falling apart on the outside, although my insides are so big they might explode. I rub my arms for warmth. I hadn’t realized I was cold.
The officer is quiet now. It’s probably better this way. I was unresponsive to what he said, nodding my head to the words I didn’t hear clearly. I think he explained the accident, but I’ve already forgotten the details. I can only focus on one thing at a time.
The highways are empty except for the occasional semi that passes. I try to concentrate on the road and the scenery. The broken white line dividing the lanes. The green signs stating the up-coming turn-offs. Streetlights illuminating the way. Anything but the burn in my eyes and the emptiness in my chest.
I don’t know what that means. Could he not speak? Was he breathing? Was he moving? Was his heart beating?
I must’ve finally let out the sob, because the officer turns to me.
“It’ll be all right,” he reassures me, touching my arm. But how does he know? No one knows that; we only hope. And right now, hope isn’t good enough. I have to see Maverick for myself.
The officer doesn’t understand. Mav’s been my rock. He rescued me from myself. Mav, my Mav, he owns me.
My heart grows heavier, pressing against my ribs.
“Can you pull over, please?”
“Of course,” the officer answers.
The car slows down and moves to the side of the road. I’m unbuckled before we’ve stopped completely. A moment later, I throw open the door and vomit.