K. Bromberg - Crashed

I need Rylee.

I need to forget. Again.

“Dad?” My voice is shaky. The sound of a little bitch asking for permission and fuck me, right now, isn’t that what I am? On the fucking floor once again about to throw the fuck up, body shaking, head racing as my stomach revolts?

He’s sitting on the floor beside me like he used to do when I was little, his hand on my knee, his patience calming me some. “Yeah, son?” His voice is so soft, so tentative, I can tell he’s afraid he’s pushed me too far. That he’s broken me more when I’ve already been fucking shattered and held together with scotch tape for way too long.

“I need—I need to be alone now.”

I hear him draw in a breath, feel his resigned acceptance, and his unending love. And I need him to go. Now. Before I lose it.

“Okay,” he says softly, “but you’re wrong. You may have never said the words aloud—may have never told me you loved me—but I’ve always known because you have. It’s in your eyes, how your smile lights up when you see me, the fact that you’d share your beloved Snickers bars with me without asking.” He chuckles at the memories. “How you would let me hold your hand and let me help you chant your superheroes as you lay in bed so you could fall asleep. So words, no, Colton … but you told me every day in some way or another.” He’s silent for a moment as a part of me allows the fact to sink in that he knows. That all the worry I’ve had over all of these years that he didn’t know how much I felt didn’t matter. He knew.

“I know your worst fear is having a child …”

The elation that lifted me is choked by fear with his words. This is all just too much—too much, too fast when for so long I’ve been able to hide from it. “Please don’t,” I plead, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Okay … I’ve thrown a lot of shit at you, but it was time you heard it. And I’m sorry I probably fucked with your head more than you needed me to, but, son, only you can fix that now—deal with it now that all of the cards are on the table. But I have to tell you, you’re not your mother. DNA doesn’t make you a monster like her … just as if you were to have a child, your demons won’t be transferred to that new life.”

My fists clench and teeth grind at the last words—words that feed off the worst of my fears—the urge to break something returning. To drown the pain that’s back with a vengeance. I know he’s pushed me to the breaking point. I can hear his quiet sigh through the screams of every ounce of my being.

He stands slowly and I tell myself to look at him. To show him that I’ve heard him, but I can’t make myself do it. I feel his hand on the top of my head, like I’m a little boy again, and his uncertain voice whispers, “I love you, Colton.”

The words fill my fucking head but I can get them past the fear lodged in my throat. Past the memories of the chant I used to say that was followed by the brutality and unspeakable pain. As much as I want to tell him—feel the need to tell him—I still can’t.

See, perfect example, I want to tell him, to demonstrate how fucked up I am. He just bared his fucking self to me and I can’t give him a goddamn response because she stole it from me. And he thinks I could be a parent? She made my heart black and my core rotten. There’s no way in hell I could pass that on to someone else if there were the remote chance it could happen.

I hear the door shut and I just remain on the floor. The outside light fades. Jack calls to me, tempts me, allows me to drown myself in his comfort, no glass needed.

Confusion fucking swamps me. Drags me under.

I need to clear my fucking head.

I need to figure my shit out.

Only then can I call Ry. And God I want to call her. My finger hovering over the fucking Call button. Hovering there for well over an hour.

Call.

Call End.

Call.

Call End.

Fuck me!

I squeeze my eyes shut, head fuzzy from however much I’ve drank. And I start to laugh at what I’ve been reduced to. Me and the floor are becoming best fucking friends. Fuckin’ A.

It’s not hard to go up when you’re already at fucking rock bottom. Time to ride the fucking elevator. I start laughing. I know there’s only way to clear my head—my only other fucking high besides Rylee—that will help keep the demons at bay for a bit. And as much as I need Rylee right now, I need to do this first to get my shit figured out. My right hand fucking trembles as I go to push Call, and when I do, I’m scared out of my fucking mind, but it’s time.

Head straight.

Then Rylee.

Motherfucking baby steps.

“Hey, douche bag. I didn’t realize you knew my phone number it’s been so fucking long since you’ve called me.”

Such a fucking old lady. God, I love this guy.

“Get me in the fucking car, Becks.”

His laughter stops in an instant, the silence assuring me he’s heard me, heard the words I know he’s been waiting to hear since I got the all clear.

“What’s going on, Wood? You sure?”

What’s with everyone fucking questioning me tonight? “I said get me in the goddamn car!”

“Okay,” he drawls out in his slow cadence. “Where’s your head at?”

“Fucking seriously? First you push me to get in the fucker and now you’re questioning the fact that I want to? What are you, my goddamn wet nurse?”

He chuckles. “Well, I do like my nipples played with, but shit, Wood, I kinda think you touching them would give me a reverse boner.”

I can’t stop the laugh that comes. Fucking Beckett. Always a bucket of fucking laughs. “Quit fucking with me, can you get me on the track or not?”

“Can you get the slur out of your voice and put down Jack, because that’s a dead giveaway your head is still fucked up … so I’ll repeat my question again. Where’s your head at?”

“All over the fucking place!” I shout at him, failing miserably to not sound drunk “Goddamn it, Becks! That’s why I need the track. I need to clear the shit from it to help fix me.”

There’s silence on the line, and I bite my tongue because I know if I push he’ll hang the fuck up on me. “The track’s not going to fix that fucked up head of yours, but I think a certain wavy haired hottie could do that for you.”

“Drop it, Becks.” I bite the words out, not in the mood for another shrink session.

“Not on your life, fucker. Baby. No baby. You really gonna push the best thing you got going for you out the fucking door?”

And session number two begins.

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks. You’re not my type.”

His condescending tone pisses me off. “Stay the fuck out of it!”

“Oh! So you are going to let her go? Isn’t that a song or some shit? Well hell, since you’re gonna let her go, I guess I’ll give her a run then.”

Motherfucker. Are my buttons that easy to push tonight? “If you’re smart, you’ll shut the fuck up. I know you’re pushing me … trying to get me to call her.”

“Wow! He does listen. Now that’s a news fucking flash.”

I’m done. “Quit fucking around, do your job, and get me on the goddamn track, Beckett.”

“Be at the track at ten tomorrow morning.”

“What?”

“It’s about time. I’ve had it reserved for the past week waiting for your ass to get with it.”

“Hmpf.” He had me pegged.

“You won’t show.” He laughs.

“Fuck off.”

“You wish.”

I blow out a breath and roll my shoulders, welcoming the burn as I stretch my warm and thoroughly tired muscles. I desperately needed this run—the escape into our backyard and through the gate of the neighbor behind us so I could get away undetected from the persistent press.

I look up from my stretch and something across the street catches my eye. I’m immediately on guard when I see the dark blue sedan across the street with the man leaning against it, camera in hand with a telephoto lens blocking his face. Something about him strikes me as familiar, and I can’t put my finger on it … but I know my little piece of freedom—by secret passage—has been compromised.

The thought pisses me off and although I’ve yet to engage with any press, my feet have a life of their own and start walking toward him. My mind running the verbal lashing I’m about to give him over and over in my head. He watches my approach, the shutter clicking at rapid fire pace, the camera still blocking his face. I’m just about to start my spiel when I’m about fifty feet away and my phone rings in my hand.

Even after many days of no contact, my pulse still races at the sound, hoping it’s Colton but knowing it’s not before I even look at it. But I’m taken back a bit when I look at the screen and see Beckett’s name. I stop immediately and fumble with my phone, worried that something’s happened.

“Becks?”

“Hey, Ry.” That’s all he says and falls silent. Oh shit. Dread drops like a lead weight through me.

“Beckett, what’s wrong with Colton?” I can’t stop the worry that weighs heavy in my voice. The silence stretches and my mind runs as I glance at the photographer momentarily before turning my back and hurrying home.

“I just wanted you to know that Colton’s on his way to the track right now.”

I’m standing outside in the open, but I suddenly find it hard to draw in a breath of air. “What?” I’m surprised he can even hear me, my voice is so soft. Images flash through my head like a slideshow: the crash, the mangled metal, a broken Colton unresponsive in the hospital bed.

“I know you two … the whole baby thing and he hasn’t called you.” He sighs. “I had to call you and let you know … thought you’d want to know.” I can tell he’s conflicted over breaking his best friend’s trust and doing what he thinks Colton needs the most.

“Thanks.” It’s the only thing I can manage as my emotions spiral out of control.

“Not really sure you mean that, Ry, but I thought I should call.”

Silence stretches between us and I know he’s just as worried as I am. “Is he ready, Becks? Are you pushing him?” I can’t hold back the contempt that laces my question.

He breathes out and chuckles at something. “Nobody pushes Colton, Ry, but Colton. You know that.”

“I know, but why now? What’s the urgency?”

“Because this is what he needs to do …” Beckett’s voice fades as he finds his next words. I push open the gate and scramble over the little fence separating the neighbor’s yard and mine. “First of all, he needs to prove he’s just as good as before. Secondly, this is how Colton deals when there’s too much going on in his head and he can’t shut it all off, and thirdly …”

I don’t hear what Beckett says next because I’m too busy remembering our night before the race, our conversation, and the words fall from my mouth as I’m thinking aloud. “The blur.”

“The what?”

It’s when Beckett speaks that I realize I have in fact said it out loud and his voice shocks me from my thoughts. “Nothing,” I say. “What’s the third reason?”

“Never mind.”

“You’ve already said more than you should, why stop now?”

There is an uncomfortable silence and he starts and stops for a moment. “It’s nothing really. I was just going to say that in the past he’s turned to one of three things when he gets like this. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay. I get it—get him. In the past he turned to women or alcohol or the track when life got to be too much, right?” Becks remains silent and there’s my answer. “Well, I guess I should be lucky there was an opening at the track, right?”

Beckett belts out a laugh, and I can tell he’s relieved. “God, he doesn’t deserve you, Rylee.” His words bring a smile to my face despite the worry eating at my insides. “I just hope you both realize how much he needs you.”

Tears prick my eyes. “Thank you for calling, Becks. I’m on my way.”

* * *

I’m thankful that traffic is light as I speed to the track in Fontana, and that the security at the parking lot prevent the press from following me into the facility. I park the car on the infield and freeze as I hear the crank try to start the car. The engine roars to life, its sound echoing against the grandstands and vibrating in my chest.

I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How I’m going to be able to watch Colton, belted in and flying around the track, when all I can see in my head is the smoke and feel the fear? But I promised him I would be there the day he climbed back behind the wheel. Little did I know I’d get a call to collect on that promise when everything was unsettled between us.