All In (22 page)

The cloud settles just in time to see
Andrew shoot past Gregory, the rumble of my engine being pushed
hard roars as the car crosses the invisible finish line. Andrew
raises his fist in the air before I hear the sound of him shifting
into fourth and then disappearing around the bend.

I jump with excitement, pumping my own
fists in the air right before I hear the sound of tires squealing
against the pavement, immediately followed by the sound of two loud
booms, then the sickening crunch of metal and shattering glass. I
look up and see in the dark sky a blackish gray cloud start to rise
above the trees around the bend.

Andrew.

I take off on a dead run, my legs
moving faster than I’ve ever pushed them in my life, but I still
feel like I’m running in quicksand. I thrust forward until my legs
are burning as badly as my lungs. They feel ready to explode if I
don’t stop and take a breath, but I can’t. I keep
pushing.

I pass Gregory and his car in a blur.
The faint sound of him shouting fills my ears, but his words are
jumbled in my frantic state. I have to get to Andrew.

I turn the corner at the fork, and my
vision goes hazy. Smoke billows off my car, a crumpled mess of
metal and glass, as Andrew lays slumped and unconscious in the
driver seat. His face is covered in blood and flames flick out of
the engine block, dangerously close to engulfing him
completely.

‘Andrew
,’
my mind whispers, but his name is
barely discernible over the sound of screaming that’s filling my
ears.

My screams. Then black.

Ashley

I sit on the edge of my bed fighting
to not explode again when my parents barge in.

“Ashley Elizabeth Whitmore. I cannot
believe how incredibly disrespectful you were to Richard and
Gregory. What in the world has gotten into you?” my father spits,
the party upstairs clearly over.

Narrowing my eyes at him, I cross my
arms. “What’s gotten into me?” My tone drips with frustration and
my anger simmers right on the surface, raw from the pleasure
Gregory and Richard had denying Lane help.

“It’s that boy,” my mother chimes in
from the doorway, a wine glass in one hand while the other rests on
her hip. “He’s to blame for this. Ever since you met him you’ve
been a totally different daughter than the one I
raised.”

“His name is Lane, Mother, and this is
not his fault. None of it is,” I say, raising my voice. “When will
you, and everyone else for that matter, stop blaming Lane for
everything, including my behavior? It’s not his fault I finally
stood up for myself, Gregory and Richard deserved what I
said.”

“Young lady, I don’t care
what
you
think
they deserved. They are guests in our house and you were out of
line speaking to them in that manner,” my father says sharply. “And
to one of my biggest donors.”

“Oh that’s right, I’m to be seen and
not heard. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of the head of
your Super PAC. I’m so sick of being nothing but a campaign prop to
you two. I can’t take it anymore.”

“That is ridiculous,” my mother huffs
after taking a sip of her wine.

I shake my head as tears fill my eyes.
“No, it’s not. I’ve always done as I was told, ‘smile nice for the
reporters, support your father’s positions, wear this, do your hair
like that,’ I’ve never disobeyed, afraid to be anything less than
your perfect daughter. I’m exhausted. I’m not perfect. That’s
what’s gotten into me,” I say, holding up a strand of my hair to
emphasize my point, my wild, untamed, imperfect hair.

“Ashley,” my father starts.

“No,” I cry. “I feel like
I can’t be myself because it might not poll well, or will embarrass
you at the club or not line up with
your
goals for
my
life.” I pull in a shallow breath
then let the truth tumble out. “Do you know I don’t even want to go
to Yale? I want to dance, professionally.” I wipe a tear off my
face. “But I knew you would never allow it, so I’ve never told
you.”

“You, by no means, showed true
interest in becoming a Prima ballerina, otherwise we would have
been open to discussing that,” my mother says, actually seeming
offended by my charge.

“That’s because I don’t want to be a
ballerina, I want to be a contemporary dancer,” I say, biting the
inside of my cheek.

My mother rolls her eyes. “And you
don’t think he’s pulling you down? You no longer care to get an
education but would rather flit away your potential, for what? To
be some bohemian starving artist? With that boy?” she asks, her lip
curling around the words like they’re dirty, making my stomach
pinch.

“See what I mean!” I yell. “I’ve
wanted to be a dancer long before I met Lane, but yes, he’s
encouraged me to follow my dreams if that’s what you mean by
‘pulling me down.’ Just admit you don’t like him because he doesn’t
own waterfront property, or have a prestigious last name, or
lineage like Gregory,” I accuse, my fists balled so tight my finger
nails cut into my palm.

My mother looks genuinely shocked by
my assertion as my father wraps his arm around her shoulders,
leveling me with his eyes. “Honestly, Ashley. Lane’s means or lack
thereof has nothing to do with our objection of him. You need to
look at it from our perspective. He has made a number of poor
choices, as have you, since you two began dating. Choices that make
us question his character. The way you behaved tonight just proves
our point; his influence is leading you down the wrong path. There
is nothing good that can come from him being in your life or this
family’s.”

“You’re wrong!” I cry. Tears stream
down my face as my insides churn that the same reasons Gregory
spewed at Lane for being in his current predicament, is the same
rationale my parents are using against Lane now.

I just wish they could see him the way
I do; loyal, hardworking, kind, protective, and mine. And nothing
will ever change that. Ever.

“There’s no use in speaking with you
right now if you cannot be reasoned with. Your mother and I will
speak to you when you are no longer acting like a child,” he
finishes, shutting my door with a heavy click, leaving me
alone.

Finally.

I grab my phone from my dresser,
relieved they didn’t take it away, and check for any messages from
Lane. Nothing but a missed call. I hope he’s not mad, although he
has every right to be.

I need to see him. To apologize. To
figure out what we’re going to do in the fall. But more than
anything what I need is to be in his arms.

I change my clothes and start to text
Lane when I hear a blood curdling scream come from upstairs. My
mother.

I drop my phone to the floor and run
up the stairs taking them two at a time. My heart is pounding by
the time I make it into the living room, where my mother is
clutching the phone, her face pale, her body stiff. My father, on
the other hand, is her exact opposite. He’s frantically running
around the room gathering up miscellaneous items and tossing them
into my mother’s purse. He grabs the car keys and clutches them
tight in his hand before looking up at me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, even though I’m
not sure I really want the answer. Whatever it is, it’s not good by
the look on their faces.

“It’s your brother. He’s been in an
accident.”

…

A haze of red and blue flashing lights
cut through the thick gray smoke that’s filled the air and is
raising high above the trees.

When we reach the barricade, hastily
set up to keep the accident site clear, I jump from the car and run
across the road to where Andrew is being hoisted into an
ambulance.

“Andrew!”

Straps hold him to the gurney while
bright red blood soaks through the bandages that are wrapped around
his head. His eyes are closed, his body lifeless.

“Andrew,” I scream again, hoping he’ll
open his eyes at the sound of my voice, proving he’s alive.
Nothing. He remains motionless as the doors of the ambulance slam
shut. The wail of sirens pierce my ears then fades further and
further away as it disappears down the dark road headed in the
direction of the hospital.

I spin around and see my parents
speaking with a cop. My mother’s crying while my father nods, his
arm wrapped tight around her body, Gregory standing next to them.
Why is Gregory here? What the hell happened?

I scan the accident trying to make
sense of the wreckage, but it’s nothing more than a heap of crushed
burnt metal and glass. The smell of gasoline and smoke burns my
eyes. I blink away the tears obstructing my vision and gasp at the
barely recognizable cherry red car that’s in front of me, mangled
like a child’s toy and charred black from fire. I feel my heart
stop instantly. I can’t seem to pull in the air I need as I gape at
the wreck, my breaths clipped and shallow.

Everything is moving in slow motion
and at the speed of light all at once. I think my parents are
calling my name, but it’s muddled like I’m underwater. I follow
their voices, but it’s hard to move my body it’s so heavy. I push
to keep going forward refusing to stop until I find out what
happened. I need to know if Andrew and Lane are okay.

I take one last look over my shoulder
when I reach the yellow caution tape strung across the road, trying
to decide if anyone could have made it out alive, let alone two
people, when I stop dead in my tracks.

Lane.

My world stops as I watch a police
officer, holding Lane by the arm, open the back of the patrol car
and place him inside.

The whole scene tilts sideways as I
fall to the ground, my legs no longer able to hold me up, breathing
impossible.

People talk to me, around me, and at
me, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. All I can do is lie
silently on the cold hard ground and attempt to keep the fuzzy
black edges of my mind from closing in on me.

Lane’s getting arrested.

This is his fault.

Lane

“Try to sit still,” the gruff nurse
says, looking down at my legs.

Am I moving? I glance down at my body;
my clothes covered in black soot and blood and realize she’s right.
I’m shaking. I try to stop, but it’s impossible with all the
adrenaline still pumping through my veins.

I look at her helplessly. “I
can’t.”

“Shhh, it’s okay.” She takes a long
look at me before getting up and leaving the room. She returns a
moment later with a heated blanket and wraps it around my shaking
frame. It doesn’t help. Even under the warmth of the blanket I’m
still freezing and can’t figure out why I’m so cold when I’m
pouring sweat. I feel weird. Alert and sluggish. The details of the
night both crystal clear and foggy at the same time.

“How you doin’ now?” she asks,
continuing to dress my burns.

I want to tell her I’m fine, but it’s
hard to speak between my teeth chattering and the taste of blood in
the back of my throat from screaming, or maybe from inhaling so
much smoke, but probably both. I want her to quit asking me how I’m
doing and tell me how Andrew’s doing.

My mind flashes to Andrew’s face,
bloody and pale and I slam my eyes shut, but I can’t stop the
images from coming. I relive it like it’s happening again, right
then and there.

Everything is black. I can hear myself
screaming as I run to pull Andrew from the wreckage. The fire is
spreading so fast I have to squint to see through the heavy smoke
engulfing the car. I bury my nose in the crook of my elbow, but the
smell of gasoline, smoke and burning flesh is so overwhelming it
makes my stomach roil, and I don’t know if it’s me or Andrew who’s
on fire.

My body feels numb, like it belongs to
someone else while I watch from the outside. I reach Andrew, fire
licking at my skin as blood pours down his face and suddenly my
mind and body slam back into each other and I can feel every
blazing flame searing my skin.

I climb over the crumpled passenger
side door and fumble with the seatbelt until it comes undone, no
longer trapping Andrew’s limp body in this inferno of burning
metal. Propping my hands under his arms, I drag his unconscious
body out of the car and a safe distance away in case it blows. On a
small patch of grass at the edge of the road I collapse with Andrew
then check his vitals the best I know how. He’s still breathing,
but his breath and pulse are faint.

“Come on man, stay with me,” I shout,
wiping the blood from his ghostly white face, his body cold to the
touch. I search frantically for the cut, to apply pressure, but
can’t find the source, there’s just too much blood matting his hair
and running down the side of his head, soaking his shirt almost
completely.

The sound of ambulance sirens blare in
the distance. “Help’s on the way, man. Just hold on. Okay?” I say,
feeling something hot and wet run down my cheeks, and I don’t know
if it's blood or tears or both. “Just hold on a little
longer.”