We fall back into silence, and I try to think of something else to talk about before the relative ease of it slips into awkwardness.
Matt beats me to it. “You look nice too,” he says. “Is that a new dress? I don’t recognize it.”
I look down at the dress I’m wearing, one of about twenty that I pulled out of my closet, tried on, and finally settled on. “Well, that makes two of us, because I have no idea.”
For whatever reason, this strikes me as funny rather than strange or sad, like most other things have, and it makes me laugh, which still hurts. But I’m glad because Matt starts laughing too, and by the time we pull into the lot of our local news studio, it feels like a start of some sort. A turning point, maybe, that we can laugh together at a tiny part of our situation.
I can feel us both relax a little, but that lasts only until he parks and shuts off the truck. We both look out the windshield at the news station building in front of us, but neither of us makes a move to get out.
Matt looks at me. “Are you sure you want to do this? I don’t—I hope I didn’t pressure you into it. Especially if you’re not ready.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “She contacted me too, and I thought about it, and I decided I want to. I really do.” I pause. “The only thing is, I don’t . . .”
His eyes run over my face, searching for what I’m trying to say as I try to figure out how to say it, but he doesn’t push. He gives me time to find it.
“I just really don’t want to talk about my memory loss,” I say.
He nods.
“I mean, I know it’s normal not to remember the accident, but I don’t want people to know about the rest because . . . I don’t want the whole story to turn into that, and have to answer a whole bunch of questions about it.”
“Of course. I won’t mention it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I want this to be about us. And moving forward.”
The words sound like someone else’s in my ears, but this is what I’ve decided moving forward is for me right now.
Matt’s eyes soften, and he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Thank you, Liv,” he says, and he leans into me, close. Inside, I tell myself it’s okay if he kisses me. He’s my boyfriend, and we’ve probably kissed thousands of times. Still, I feel myself tense up.
Again, it’s like he can read my mind. Or my body language. He stops in the middle of the space between us and gives me a smile that’s more sad than anything else. Leans back in his seat. We’re both quiet, and neither one of us knows what to say or how to acknowledge the strangeness of the moment.
“Liv,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens with this—with us, I want you to know I love you.”
I fight the urge to look away. “I . . .”
“You don’t need to say it back,” he says quickly. “I just . . . need you to know that.”
I nod, relieved. And surprised. This may be harder than I thought.
We get out and walk around to the front of his truck, and he takes my hand in his, and when we walk into the studio, I remind myself that it’s as a couple who’ve been together for over two years, who went through something traumatic together, and who should be closer and stronger because of it.
As soon as we walk through the door, we’re greeted by a young guy in a headset who ushers us down a hallway to a room where he asks us to wait for Dana Whitmore. No sooner does he leave than she walks through the door wearing a jacket, skirt, and heels that push the definition of professional.
“Hello, you two!” She says, arms outstretched as she walks to the couch we’re sitting on, huge TV smile plastered to her heavily made-up face. Her teeth are the most brilliant shade of white I’ve ever seen, and it takes me a moment to realize that Matt has greeted her already and that I should too.
I reach a hand out, but she takes a step past it and envelops me with a hug and perfume that smells exactly how she looks. “And Liv,” she says, pulling me back by my shoulders like my mom would, which seems odd given that she can’t be that much older than me. “How are you?”
She asks it like it’s a huge question—one you’d end with multiple question marks if you were writing it.
“I’m good,” I say, taking the tiniest step back to put a little distance between us. She’s a lot.
She takes the hint, steps back too, and shifts into business mode. “Well, thank you both, so much, for agreeing to come in. This was such a big local story, but we’re still getting inquiries from all over the country—people wanting to know how you two are doing, so this is a great chance to let them know that you’re okay—heroics, and healing, and human triumph, and all.” She smiles again. “Can I get you anything before we go on? Water? Soda? Restroom? We’ve got a couple minutes.”
Matt and I both shake our heads. “No thanks,” I say.
She claps her hands. “Okay then. Let’s head to the studio. We’ll get you all set up and then get started.”
She leads us back down the same hall to a door that opens up into the studio. There is a brightly lit stage with a chair and a small couch on it, surrounded by multiple large cameras. My stomach does a flip-flop as she leads us to the couch and gestures for Matt and me to sit.
It’s just us. There’s no sign of Walker.
I try not to look disappointed as the same young guy appears out of nowhere with two mics—one that he clips to Matt’s shirt, and another that he hands to me, with instructions to clip it to my dress. Someone swings a light our way, momentarily blinding us. I flinch and blink, and it moves away. Dana sits down across from us and smooths her dress. Clips on her own mic. A girl comes by with a big makeup brush and adds another layer to her face.
Dana smiles at us again. “Just so you know, this isn’t live. It’ll go up as an edited segment tomorrow or the next day, so if you stumble over an answer, don’t worry. Just try to relax and tell your story, okay?” She punctuates the question with another wide smile, sits up impossibly straight in her chair, and before Matt or I can respond, the bright light beams on us again and the young guy behind the camera is counting down.
Dana angles herself toward the camera, her face now serious. “Thank you, Mark. And now I have a very special report for you. Over two weeks ago, Pelican Bay witnessed an accident that could have been one of the worst tragedies this town has seen when the driver of an eighteen-wheeler lost control of his truck and struck a car carrying two teenage passengers, sending them off the Carson Bridge and into the bay. But today I’m here with Matt Turner and Olivia Jordan, the two teens who miraculously survived this accident.” Now she looks at us. “Matt, Olivia, thank you so much for being here. I know you’ve been through a lot in these past few weeks.”