“Pardon?”
“You know, a booty call. Someone you default to when your battery-operated friends aren’t quite sufficient.”
I was glad I hadn’t taken a sip of wine yet, because I would have sprayed it all over her. Hayden immediately came to mind, but I didn’t want him in a casual way. I kept that to myself. “No. There’s no one.”
Sarah sat on the couch, pensive. I dropped down at the other end and cupped the glass in my hands, waiting for her to go on.
“But you want there to be?” she asked.
“I’ve got too much stuff going on. I don’t need to add relationship drama to the mix.”
“So there is someone you’re into,” she pressed.
“It’s not you if that’s what you’re wondering,” I said snarkily, veering the topic in a different direction, away from Hayden. My feelings surrounding him were too discordant to talk about. More so after the call from Trey.
“I wasn’t, but I appreciate you letting me know.”
“You’re the one who asked if I had a girlfriend,” I said defensively. I couldn’t tell if she was serious.
“It seemed like a valid question.” She sipped her wine to hide her grin. I tossed a pillow at her. She deflected it with her arm. “Anyway, I get not wanting relationship drama. There’s this guy who keeps coming to my work and asking me out. It’s frustrating.”
“He’s not your type?”
“No. Well, yes, actually. He’s totally my type, which is the problem. Where I work, it’s . . .” She made a face and shook her head. “Anyway, he’s got a reputation, hangs out with some unsavory characters. He’s always so nice to me, but the red flags are there, ya know?”
I did. My red flag worked across the street. “So tell him you’re not interested.”
“I have, but he keeps coming back. He’ll give up eventually, I guess.”
“Maybe.”
We lapsed into silence for a moment. Her smile dropped, and she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You know how you told me you have bad dreams?”
I nodded.
“Do you have them a lot?”
“Why?”
“I know we don’t know each other all that well, but maybe you want to tell me about them?” she asked, her tone gentle, prompting. When I didn’t respond right away, she pressed on. “Lord knows they have to be pretty damn bad for you to scream the way you do in your sleep.”
The mood in the room went from light to serious. I felt ill. The worry she might hear me had been justified. My embarrassment was tempered with relief. Despite the inner turmoil, I wanted to tell someone, unload some of the burden.
“It’s okay. Whatever it is, you can talk about it,” she said.
“I liked the other topic better.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
I sighed heavily, unsure whether this would split the wound wide open or give me a modicum of peace. I wanted it to be the latter, but I feared the former. The events that brought me here couldn’t be undone. Up until now, sharing them seemed more torturous than helpful. Things had changed, though. I had changed. Living in Arden Hills in the aftermath of the crash had been difficult. I’d shut down as a protective measure. Allowing my pain a voice meant acknowledging my reality.
The shock of loss kept me blissfully numb for a while. I felt like I was submerged in a pool of thick, viscous liquid, viewing the events from below the surface. Nothing was clear, nothing felt right. In fact, I barely felt anything at all. I lived in a perpetual void, waiting for the numbness to wear off.
And now I sat in my living room with a person who listened to me scream bloody murder at night, and I was debating whether I should tell her about the event that had changed the course of my life. I wanted absolution for my transgressions.
In a moment of weakness I flipped my laptop open. Showing Sarah would be easier than telling her, and I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I needed someone to know, and Sarah was safe. I could reveal only as much as was necessary for her to understand. It took seconds for pages of articles detailing the crash to pop up on the screen:
“Plane Crashes Near West Coast: Only Thirteen Survivors”
I clicked the link. The grainy image that accompanied the article spoke to the devastation. The plane had crumpled like an accordion in an almost cartoonish way. The external destruction had paled in comparison to what had happened on the inside. I turned the monitor toward Sarah, and her curiosity changed to horror. When her eyes welled with tears, I looked away. I couldn’t handle her pity.
She scrolled down the screen, one hand over her mouth, the other clicking furiously as she scanned the article. At the bottom of the page was a link to related articles. I tapped the screen and she paused on one titled “Tragic Love Story Follows Crash.” I stared into my glass, unable to read along with her.