My back was on fire. The smell of burned skin and hair wasn’t potent enough to overpower the stench of fuel. The smoke was thick, like acrid fog bearing down on me. At least the heavy haze partially masked the visual devastation; mangled bodies, faces no longer recognizable.
“Miss! Miss! Stay where you are!”
A blanket shrouded my shoulders, and a hand smoothed down my back.
Crippling pain buckled my knees. Black spots swam in my vision, spreading until they blocked out the light.
“We’ve got another survivor in here!”
The black abyss welcomed me, luring me in with its freedom from agony.
*
I shot up with a gasp, half expecting to be back on the plane, still trying to escape. Pale morning light shone through the curtains. I was in my bed in Chicago.
“Bad dream?”
Sarah startled me. She was lying on her back on Hayden’s side of the bed.
“Sorry.” She sat up. “How’re you feeling?”
My back really did feel like it was on fire. I touched my shoulder and cringed. Plastic wrap. The previous evening came filtering through as the muddiness of nightmare-riddled sleep cleared. Hayden finished the outline. A woman who knew him more intimately than I liked showed up at the shop. When he sent me home I took painkillers. The strong ones prescribed after the accident, not Tylenol, as Hayden requested. I also took medication for the anxiety. Then I sought out Sarah with a bottle of tequila. The end of the night was unclear.
“I feel waterlogged.” My voice was raw, like I’d been screaming. I hoped I hadn’t. “Did I have a lot of nightmares?”
Sarah shrugged. “Mostly you were restless and you kept spooning with me.”
“Why do I feel so . . . out of it? God, my back hurts.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say your back hurts because of the gigantic tattoo. You’re probably out of it because we smoked a little.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Not cigarettes.”
“Oh. I don’t smoke that, either.” That explained why my throat felt raw.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I thought it would help relax you. It was stupid of me. Your boyfriend was pretty pissed about it.”
“Hayden’s not . . .” For a myriad of reasons, guilt the most predominant one, I hesitated to put a label on what we had. “Where is Hayden?”
“I sent him home.”
“What? Why would you do that? Was he angry?” Everything in my head was scrambled.
“He wasn’t angry, not at you, anyway. He wasn’t very happy with me, though.” Sarah reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand and took a swig.
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” She almost looked relieved.
A few disjointed memories from the previous evening began to solidify. I struggled to pull the snippets of conversation together, but they didn’t make sense. In fact, I couldn’t remember much, and Hayden’s absence made me nervous. I remembered him stopping by and Sarah arguing with him, over what I didn’t know. I also recalled crying.
“Not a lot,” I admitted. “Why? Should I be worried?”
Sarah sighed. “Please don’t be upset with me.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“Hayden knows how many people you lost in the crash.” Sarah rushed the words, as if getting them out faster would make it easier to hear.
“What?” Panic constricted my throat.
“You have to understand, I assumed he knew. He just showed up here unannounced, like he owned the place, and I freaked out. I’ve seen him before at work, and he was with that guy who can’t take a hint. Hayden said his name is Chris?” Sarah obviously didn’t know Chris worked across the street. She misread my shocked expression and hurried to explain further. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Well, it does, but not really. You were so upset last night when I came over. I hadn’t seen you this week, and all of a sudden you have this huge tattoo, and then this tatted-up guy comes in like the dark knight of whatever. You got . . . emotional. Hayden stayed until you fell asleep.”
That explained the waterlogged feeling. Losing it in front of Sarah wasn’t ideal, but I feared Hayden’s reaction to such an outburst. I didn’t want to come across as weak or unstable.
“He left after that?”
“Not quite. He had some questions.”
“What kind of questions?” I asked, concerned about the answer.
“He wanted details. I told him when the accident happened.”
So he knew it wasn’t quite a year yet. That wasn’t too bad. “But you didn’t tell him why I was on the plane?”
“I told him you were going to your best friend’s wedding, but I didn’t elaborate.”
“You didn’t say anything about Connor?”
“No.”
“That’s good.” I exhaled a relieved breath.