Meant to Crash | ✓

Chapter Forty

The car came to a gradual stop. With how empty the park appeared, I was a bit apprehensive about getting out the car at first. However, that feeling didn't last long. It departed the moment I laid my eyes on a trail of white petals, leading to a table a few meters away. Surrounding the table in a half circle, was a band of string instruments and a singular flautist.

"You don't have to worry about Connie."

"I have ever right to freak out. I'm not going to be the other woman in your life." I looked back at the musician, growing perplexed. "What's this for?"

"It's August."

"That meaning?"

"You've been in California for a year," he noted, "I remember you saying that you moved in with your mother last year in August, and with the summer coming to an end, I thought it would be a nice way to commemorate you being here for an entire year."

How had this slipped my mind, but somehow cross his in a way that showed significance? I couldn't figure it out. All I could do was drop my phone from my hand and reach out to hug him. Still with my seatbelt on, it felt weird so I stopped before I could make complete contact with him.

I clicked off the seat belt and went to hug him again.

But somehow, ended up with his lips on mine before I got my arms around him. It was a soft kiss, slow with the placement of his mouth on mine. He touched his hand to my chin and I enveloped into him even more than before, getting lost in the scent of his expensive cologne and the slight hint of coffee on his tongue.

I moved back from his warmth and said a thought that had bombarded me earlier today. "You confuse me in everything you do."

"Why would you say that after a kiss like that? You know I like you."

"Then why get married to someone you already broke things off with?"

His eyes dropped. "Could we not talk about this."

I broke away from his touch entirely, moving away from the hand on my chin. "You called me a coworker in front of Timothy."

"He's a child. Why do you care what I say in front of him? He doesn't know any better."

"I do, though. I know better. I know that I deserve better than this."

Something behind his eyes shattered, brushing his fingertip to my lips. "You deserve the world, Maddie. Nothing short of it. I'm stupid for not having shown that from the start. I'm an idiot. I should've never hired you."

My face dropped.

He grabbed my chin again. "Let me finish."

"Finish then."

"I should've never hired you, because I only made things more difficult for us in the long run. What I should've done the second I saw you, was ask you for your number so I could set up a date."

I wanted to kiss him again in that very moment. A call, coming from the phone in my lap, cut our discussion short. Seeing "dad" on my screen caused a flash of panic to course through me, wondering what was wrong.

"Hey, I can't talk right now." I started to say to him.

"Maddison, it's about your mom-"

"Is she faking it again?"

I couldn't help but ask. She had given me false alarms.

"No, she's in the hospital," he added, "and it's serious this time. Someone planted a bomb under her car."

****

The earliest memory I had of my mother was of her leaving me.

Okay, so that wasn't totally true.

It was of her walking out the door every morning for work, and hardly holding a gaze at my father before saying goodbye.

Cutting the dramatics out of it, I would have to say the image I had of my mother at an early age was faint, frail around the edges like a worn-out piece of leather. Her presence was there, but drained once she took off her shoes and unwound into her favorite chair. I never got her at her most energetic, bright stage.

She put her work before anyone else, and even before herself most times. I didn't know it at that age, but I had a strong sense of resentment towards her. Before puberty, I translated that rage through skipping classes and lying about drinking from their liquor cabinet.

Soon enough, I'd resort to my father for any form of stability and consistency. He took notice of my declining grades—blaming himself without thinking twice about it.

If the calls I had gotten today were reversed, and I was told that my father was the one in the hospital...

Shaking my head, I stopped the idea from forming. I didn't want to finish the thought, knowing how grim I'd let my imagination get.

After I talked to the doctor treating my mother, Sebastian stayed with me in the waiting room till we were allowed access to her room. Her condition was stable. Despite the crash being a three-car collision, she walked away with a fractured wrist and a bruised rib.

By the time we got to her room, I was stunned to see gaze wrapped around her upper eyebrow. Her doctor didn't disclose a head injury. The bleeding her temple made my heart sink to the floor.

"Mom," my voice wavered as I neared her bedside. "How are you feeling? How are you?"

"She's on a lot of medication right now," a nurse said, touching the IV bag hanging to the side of my mother.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," mom reiterated, swatting away the lady as though she had been tattled on for something mischief. "I can handle a conversation with my daughter and..." she squinted hard to the left of me, where I was sure Sebastian was standing. "Wait."

"Hello," Sebastian said shortly, lifting his hand to wave. "I'm—"

"Howard Lockhart," she cut in, flinging her hand to her mouth. "You look so different."

"I'm Sebastian."

"I told you she's loopy," the nurse repeated with a shrug. "I'd give her another two hours—maybe even four—before things fade a bit."

While beginning to retreat from the bed, mom's hand snaked to my wrist. The corners of her eyes crinkled as her voice dropped to a whisper. "I want you to stop my house for me."

"What for?"

"I can't stand these hospital gowns."

Of course.

Somewhere in that doped up, rattled mind of hers, she was still that same woman who needed to look her best.

Of all people, though, why was Howard the name that slipped out of her mouth? Sebastian was adopted, meaning he bared no real resemblance to his parents. Why was that the first person that came to mind? Was Howard, somehow, trapped in her subconscious?

Was Howard the last face she saw before the car bomb went off?

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