Chapter 4: Before and After the Crash

3.

That night, I still dreamed of Derek.

Sleep came in fits and starts, broken by the thrum of rain on the window. My brain replayed old memories like a scratched record—loops of laughter and promises that never lasted.

When we were young, he was so sweet.

I could see the two of us sitting on the back steps of his parents’ house, sharing a melting popsicle. He had that boyish grin, the one that made me feel safe.

“Emmy, your eyes are so pretty. Can I always look at them and talk to you?”

I remembered the way he used to whisper, like he was telling me the world’s biggest secret.

“Emmy, your piano playing is beautiful. Can I come listen to your recitals every day?”

Sometimes he’d sneak into the auditorium after school, sitting cross-legged in the back row, waiting for the music to start.

“Emmy, I like you the most. When I grow up, I want to marry you.”

He’d said it like a vow, all freckles and sincerity, when we were barely old enough to spell the word “love.”

I liked Derek too.

My cheeks burned remembering it—passing notes in class, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the lunchroom. Even then, I thought I knew what forever meant.

We sat together in class.

Our desks were side by side from first grade to graduation. He always lent me his extra pencil when I forgot mine, which was often.

After school, we played together.

We’d ride our bikes down to the creek, skipping rocks until dusk. Those evenings felt endless, like summer itself.

Even when my parents had a car accident, I was in his family’s car.

We were coming home from a county fair. The air still smelled like funnel cake and hay bales. I’d been laughing at Derek’s dumb jokes, my brother grinning in the backseat.

Playing rock-paper-scissors with him.

He always chose paper; I always chose rock. It was our thing. I can still hear the slap of hands, the silly laughter, the way time stopped.

But the two cars were too close.

The world spun in headlights and the smell of burning rubber. Somewhere, a country song was still playing on the radio. I saw the headlights, the glint of metal, the impossible angle as the truck slid sideways into our lane.

I watched as a big truck barreled toward us.

There was a screech, a sickening crunch, and then everything went black.

Crash—

The sound echoes in my mind, sharper than any nightmare. Flames, glass, the smell of gasoline and panic.

My dad, my mom, my brother, even the little beagle I’d raised since I was a child, all struggled in the burning wreckage.

I tried to scream but nothing came out. I could see them reaching, calling, but my own voice had disappeared. The world burned and I was helpless.

For a long time, I couldn’t make a sound.

After the accident, I spent months in the hospital, staring at the ceiling. Words wouldn’t come—just the thud of my heartbeat and the whir of machines. My voice was lost somewhere in the wreckage, buried with the people I loved.

I needed Derek to help me fall asleep.

He’d sneak in those little Jell-O cups from the hospital fridge, always cherry, always with a plastic spoon. He’d drag a beanbag chair into my room, reading to me from old library books until I drifted off. His voice was the only thing that could pierce the silence.

Back then, he was very patient.

He’d draw silly faces on my casts, chase away the nurses when I needed quiet. No one else made me feel seen.

He practiced speaking with me.

He’d hold my hand, make silly faces, coaxing out little sounds, teaching me to hum along to the radio again.

Told me stories all night long.

He’d invent wild tales about pirates and spaceships, just to see me smile. I’d fall asleep to the sound of his voice, safe at last.

If anyone dared call me “mute,” he’d punch them.

He got suspended for a week once, after a fight on the playground. He never apologized, just shrugged and handed me a lollipop with a wink.

Marrying him seemed only natural.

After so many years of shared history, it was like following a well-worn path through the woods. I thought he’d always be my safe place.

The day after I got my college diploma, he leaned over my bed at dawn:

“Emmy, let’s go get our marriage license.”

I laughed, half-asleep, thinking he was joking. But his eyes were steady. He brought me coffee in a mug that said "Best Day Ever."

That day, we became husband and wife.

We stood at the courthouse in borrowed shoes, grinning for the Polaroid. My hands shook, but for once it was from happiness, not fear.

In my dream, red roses covered our new home.

They spilled across the porch, filling the air with sweetness. He twirled me in the living room, promising forever with every spin.

He knelt on the bed and kissed me gently.

It was soft, unhurried, a thousand promises pressed into my skin.

He said, Emmy, let’s be this happy forever.

I clung to those words like a lifeline, even when I should have let go.

But when I opened my eyes, the world was pitch black.

The room was cold and silent. My phone buzzed against the nightstand, harsh and insistent.

I pulled out my phone; Madison had sent another message.

The notification glowed, blue and sharp. My hands shook as I opened it.

A photo.

A messy bed, a stain of scarlet.

My heart flipped. The air in my lungs vanished. I stared at the screen, trying to convince myself it was a mistake, a prank, anything but what it was.

I suddenly felt nauseous.

The bile rose before I could stop it. My stomach churned, a cold sweat breaking across my forehead.

I rushed into the bathroom and retched.

But only tears came out, as if by reflex.

The sobs racked my chest, harsh and ugly. My knees hit the cold tile, the echo ringing in my ears. The overhead light flickered, turning the room into a funhouse of shadows.

In the end, I hugged my knees and sat on the cold tile floor.

I rocked back and forth, searching for warmth in my own embrace. The world shrank to the size of the bathroom, the hum of the fan the only sound.

I must have pressed something on my phone, because in the silent night, a deep male voice suddenly sounded:

“Emily Brooks?”

His voice broke through the static, low and steady. I almost didn’t recognize it at first.

My heart leapt.

It was like a life raft tossed in a storm. I clung to the sound.

I picked up the phone.

“Luke…? Luke Foster?”

The name tasted unfamiliar, but comforting, like a secret I’d almost forgotten.