Roadkill. It was already dead, I told myself before I drove away.
Now Charlie pulls out a journal. The journal my dad bought me for my birthday. He flips it open and out spill stacks of newspaper clippings. He swears under his breath. I don’t have to look over to know what he’s reading. I’ve memorized the headlines: “Vagrant Struck by Hit-and-Run Driver.” “Western Springs Hit-and-Run Motorist Remains Unidentified.” “Homeless Man in Critical Condition After Hit-and-Run in Chicago Suburbs.” A dozen more. Now he flips the pages of the journal, poring over my scrawled confessions, his face turning white.
“Aubrey,” he says slowly, clenching a clipping in his fist. “What is this?” I shake my head, tears pooling in my eyes. I can’t speak. I feel dread mingling with relief. Finally, someone knows what I’ve done. But what will he do with it? “You hit this man,” he says, pulling my chin toward him—forcing me to meet his eyes. Mine are so clouded by tears that I can barely make out his features. I can’t tell whether it’s sympathy or something else that’s contributing to the intensity in his voice. “That’s a very bad thing,” Charlie whispers, his hand still resting on my cheek. I feel chills sliding up the back of my neck. “You could get in so much trouble for what you did.” I nod, and the room turns bright around me. My entire body is trembling now, as I anticipate his next words: I’m going to tell.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he says, folding me into an embrace. He holds my head firmly in place over his shoulder so I can barely move. My heart trumpets against his slower, more rhythmic pulse. He’s incongruously calm. It doesn’t feel right. My eyes flit around the room, settling on all the generic hotel room décor: a wooden lamp with a cream-colored shade; a speckled brown-and-blue carpet. A green satin runner on the opposite bed, meant to convey warmth. Ever since that first time in Montreal, we’ve spent our whole relationship in places like this. Every part of me is stiff. I wriggle my body, trying to pull away, but he only holds me closer.
“I forgive you,” he says, and my heart clenches and my body turns cold. “I forgive you about Adam. It was only the distance making things difficult for you. You’ve had so much on your mind. My poor little Aubrey.” He leans his head into my hair and breathes into it. He caresses my back with one hand, and it’s all I can do not to recoil.
“Charlie, I—” I struggle to pull back, to make him talk to me, because all of this is wrong. But he cuts me off.
“No need to say anything,” he whispers, while his grip tightens on my arms. “I love you and I forgive you.” He’s squeezing so tightly I’m sure I’ll have bruises. I realize I’m terrified. I wish I could grab the phone, run to the door; but just as in the car that night, I’m paralyzed.
“I forgive you for everything you did with Adam,” he continues. “I know what you did was just from the stress.”
“Charlie—” I start. He’s not making sense. What happened with Adam came before the accident. I didn’t mean for it to go further, to turn into something emotional. But it did. Charlie lifts a finger to my lips to silence me.
“You’re devoted to me,” he insists. “I’ll keep your secret. How could I not? How could I not protect my beautiful girlfriend? No one will ever find out, baby. Not as long as we’re together.”
“You still want . . . to be with me?” I manage to ask. None of it makes sense: why he’d want me in his life after Adam, after this.
“Of course!” His eyes soften, and he leans in to kiss me everywhere: my cheeks, my throat, my collarbone. Every part of my body is screaming to pull away; his lips feel somehow violating. “How could I not? Who would I be if I abandoned you at a time like this? No, Aubrey,” he tells me. “You haven’t thought this through very clearly, have you? I’m not letting you get away so easily.” I can’t explain why, but his words cause my body to seize up in terror.