You're to Blame by Lindsey Iler
This story is for everyone who hasn't found the person who makes them pause and think 'This is what it's supposed to feel like'.
Don't settle. They're close by.
Chapter One
Charlotte
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The heart monitor sings the usual tune. Feelings of life and hope are swiftly chased away by a real bitch named Bleakness.
“Dammit, Jacob Matthews, it’s been two weeks.” His hand is warm, which is such a contradiction to how lifeless he is. “No one knows what happened. You need to wake up, so you can tell us.”
When the one in an accident isn’t awake to share the tale, the rest of us are left to link together the tiny pieces of the puzzle.
Being alone with Jacob’s still body is my new normal. My new reality.
“It’s getting harder to leave,” I whisper my fears.
Since receiving the terrifying news, one of Jacob’s family or I have spent every minute in this hospital room. He’s never had a moment alone. If the doctors are right and he can hear us, his skin is crawling from all the attention. He’s not the kind to be fussed over. When he was in fourth grade and had his tonsils out, he crawled out his bedroom window and came to my house. He couldn’t handle his mother asking if he was feeling okay and if he needed anything.
There are only so many popsicles a kid can eat, Char. The memory makes me laugh.
The only detail we know is the police found his car around the S-curve right outside campus. According to the tread marks on the gravel, speed was a factor in his wreck. No surprise to me. He’d squealed his tires like a bat out of hell, and the last sign of him I’d seen was his tail lights.
A few days later, his brother Wes and I had gone to the impound to see if anything could be salvaged and recovered from inside the vehicle. The image of the smashed chunks of metal still aches in my chest. I don’t know how he survived, but clearly, he’s meant to be here for something. Perhaps to finish our argument. No one should have come out of the car alive. His doctors keep saying how lucky he is to only have a broken leg and ribs. They believe the impact caused a brain injury, which is why he’s in a coma. His young body needs time to recuperate.
A yawn breaks through, reminding me how tired I am. The sterile smell piping through the vents and the annoyingly attentive nurses are starting to weigh on my last nerve. The way they gawk at Jacob is borderline inappropriate. Even in a coma, the guy can rattle a girl’s heart. Lord knows he’s always been able to shake mine up.
To make matters worse, the doctors don’t have answers for us. They spew a lot of ‘nothing’s changed’ and ‘all you can do is wait’, none of which gives any sort of comfort or takes away an iota of our pain. This hurt, this unbearable ache I feel for Jacob’s absence is intolerable. Over time things are supposed to grow easier, but I don’t understand how it’s possible. Whoever created the mantra is full of crap.
Jacob and I have known each other since I was eight and he was ten. Inseparable is more like it. My family moved in next door, and at my young age, I thought my world was over. A child of theatrics is how my father described me. Jacob likes to argue I still hold a bit of an eight-year-old in my heart, releasing her when the time is right and most beneficial for my personal causes.
The afternoon my family pulled up to our new home, the giant tree house was the only redeeming feature. It wasn’t until high school when I discovered the closet was large enough to hide Jacob’s six-four stature that anything about the house impressed me.
I ran to the backyard, stretching to climb the rungs two at a time.
“This is my tree house,” a young boy, close to my age, called from the bottom of the ladder. He wore a football jersey and stain-kneed jeans.
“No, it’s in my yard, so it’s my treehouse.” I scurried down to come face to face with him.
He flashed a toothy grin. “I’m Jacob. You must be the new neighbor.”
With one smile, he had stolen my heart, and since then, he’s broken it and put it back together more times than I can count.
“The Broncos still suck, Jacob,” I utter, hoping to trigger something and force him to open his eyes. If anything is going to work, talking about his football team will. I have tried every last thing in the playbook and defeat sets in every time my plan doesn’t work. Stupidly, I’ve even searched Google for ways to wake a coma patient.
“If that doesn’t stir him up then I don’t know what will, sweetheart.” Mrs. Matthews makes her way over to her oldest son, pushing long strands of hair off his forehead to kiss him. She loves him unconditionally and deeper than I can ever understand. Her eyes scan over the monitors. “How’s he doing today?” Hope screams in her words.
Once again, I have the privilege to disappoint her.
“No change,” I answer, mimicking the doctors I hate so much.
I stand and wrap my arms around her. Mrs. Matthews hugs me back with the same urgency.
“Everything will be okay. Something will change soon because Jacob’s a fighter, and there’s no chance in hell he’d leave you behind.”
I almost believe her whispered words.
“Enough with the tears.” She swipes her cheeks then mine. “Now, I need you to go downstairs. Rachel’s waiting. She’s under strict orders to force you to go out tonight.”