Crashed(book three)(7)

The thought alone breaks me and yet the tears don’t come.

I see surgical booties in my periphery. Hear Beckett being addressed.

“The specialist needs to know exactly how impact was made so we best know the circumstances. We’ve tried to catch a replay but ABC stopped airing it.” No, no, no. Words scream and echo through my head and yet silence smothers me. “I was told you’d be the person who’d most likely know.”

Beckett shifts beside me. His voice is so thick with emotion when he begins to speak that I dig my fingers into my thighs. He clears his throat. “He hit the catch fence inverted … I think. I’m trying to picture it. Hold on.” He drops his head into his hands, rubs his fingers over his temple, and sighs as he tries to gather his thoughts. “Yes. The car was upside down. The spoiler hit the top of the catch fence with the nose closest to the ground. Midsection against the concrete barrier. The car disintegrated around his capsule.”

The collective gasp of the thousands of people in response still rings in my ears.

“Is there anything you can tell us?” Beckett asks the nurse.

The unmistakable noise of metal giving under force.

“Not right now. It’s still the early stages and we’re trying to assess everything—”

“Is he going to be …”

“We’ll give you an update as soon as we can.”

The smell of burned rubber on oiled asphalt.

Shoes squeak again. Voices murmur. Beckett sighs and scrubs his hands over his face before trembling fingers reach over and pull the hand gripping my leg free and clasps it in his.

The lone tire rolling across the grass and bouncing against the infield barrier.

Please just give me a sign, I beg silently. Something. Anything. A tiny little thing to tell me to hang on to the hope that’s slipping through my fingers.

Ringing cell phones echo off of the waiting room’s sterile walls. Over and over. Like the beeps on the life supporting machines that filter out into the waiting room. Each time one silences, a little part of me does too.

I hear the hitch of Becks’ breath a moment before he emits a strangled sob that hits me like a hurricane, shredding the paper bag I have preserving my resolve and faith. As hard as he tries to push away the onslaught of tears that threaten him, he’s unsuccessful. The grief escapes and runs down his cheeks in silence, and it kills me that the man who has been the strength for me is now crumbling. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to stay strong for Beckett, but all I keep hearing are his words to me last night.

I shake my head back and forth in a panicked disbelief. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so, so sorry. This is all my fault.”

Beckett hangs his head momentarily before wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands. And the gesture—pushing away tears like a little kid does when ashamed—wrings my heart even more.

I can’t help the panic that flutters as I realize that I’m the reason Colton’s here. I pushed him away and didn’t believe him—made him tired the night before a race—and all because I was stubborn and scared. “I did this to him.” The words kill me. Rip my soul apart.

Beckett lifts his red-rimmed eyes from his hands. “What are you talking about?” He leans in close, his conflicted blue eyes searching mine.

“Everything …” My breath hitches and I pause. “I messed with his head the last couple of days, and you told me that if I did, it was on me—”

“Ryl—”

“And I fought him and left him and we stayed up so late and I put him in that car tired and—”