But safety, like so many other things we think we can control, is an illusion. Because when I turn around to open the truck door and get her inside, keeping Sofia shielded behind me, a sharp, piercing pain explodes against my temple . . .
And the world goes dark and silent.
20
Sofia
It’s funny, the things you remember. The moments that are branded in our minds, the minutes you wish you could forget. I don’t remember being afraid during that childhood plane crash, though I’m sure I was. I don’t recall the pain when my side was sliced open. The shock, the adrenaline probably left me numb.
What I can still hear though, even after all these years . . . is the sound. The crash of the impact. The roar as we slid across the runway. It was thunderous and inescapable. I remember reaching up to cover my ears, when I should have been holding on for dear life.
And this sound—right now—is almost the same. The shrill screech of wind.
The rushing.
So loud. Deafening.
But that’s not what stands out the most this time. The image that will haunt me from this moment on is Stanton, unmoving, on the ground. Eyes closed, his body slack and terribly still.
“No! Stanton!”
It’s funny, how quickly clarity comes when life or death is at stake. When whipping, dirty, cold hell swirls all around you, bending the trees, flinging scraps of wood and metal through the air. And you realize—suddenly so absolutely sure—how deeply you feel for someone, how much they mean to you, when you’re faced with the possibility of having already lost them.
“Stanton, wake up!”
I was so angry when I walked out of the house, just a short while ago.
“Can you hear me? Baby, please wake up!”
No, that’s bullshit. Time to put on the big girl panties.
I wasn’t angry—I was hurt.
“Oh God, stay with me, Stanton. Don’t you dare leave me!”
When I heard Jenny’s admission, it felt like a steel poker had been plunged into my stomach. Because what had happened between us at the river last night—the way he looked at me, touched me, held me—seemed like more, felt like it meant more, than all the other moments we’d shared. And deep inside me, I’d hoped that it was the same for Stanton.
Apparently I’m a dummy after all.
And all the mental excuses I’ve made over the last days—the explanations, justifications, defenses—were just lies I told myself, feelings I pushed away and ignored.
Because I didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to face the complicated truth.
“I love you,” I whisper.
It’s horrifying. A mess. And the most true, pure thing I’ve ever felt in my life.
“I love you, you big, stupid idiot!”
If I was thinking clearly, I’d recall all the reasons I shouldn’t: his story about Rebecca, the pedestal he has Jenny on, and how to him we’re nothing more than “friends who fuck.” These feelings are the last thing a guy like him would want to deal with.
But none of that matters. ’Cause I’m pretty sure we’re both about to die.
I’ve seen The Wizard of Oz. Twister. Sharknado 1 and 2.
Any minute now a house or a cow is going to fly by and do us in.
“Please, Stanton, I love you!”
I don’t realize I’m crying until I see the drops on his perfect face. His head rests on my thighs, my back is curved, leaning over him, sheltering us both beneath my wildly blowing hair. I kiss his forehead, his nose, and finally linger at his warm lips.
Then I feel Stanton’s fingers flex against my waist, clutching the material of my shirt. And I lean back just enough to look at his eyes as they finally open.
His pupils are wide, confused and searching. But within seconds they contract in understanding, realizing where we are.
In one fluid motion he rolls me underneath him, his weight pressing down on top of me, protecting me from the cutting wind and debris that churns around us.
I grip his shoulders, my voice still clogged with tears. And fear.
“You’re all right? Thank God you’re all right! I thought—”