Drop Dead Gorgeous(3)
Outside, the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky. Birds are even chirping. It seems like the sort of day where nothing bad could happen. But I think Mr. Horne would disagree with that assessment.
Maybe Mrs. Horne too. Her overly dramatic wailing echoes in my ears.
Before I get in my car, I go over to pet Rusty on the head, rewarding him for being calm, cool, and collected now that there’s not a stranger in his yard. “Yeah, I didn’t like that guy, either,” I tell the dog, who’s downright purring like a kitten under my palm.
At least dogs like me.
Chapter 2
Blake
Traffic. I hate traffic.
More than 38,000 people die in car accidents in the US each year. And yet, people take it in stride while freaking out over a couple of dozen people choking on gummy bears or something similar. I won’t be one of them—the car accident victims, not the gummy bear chokers—even though I’m running late. But that’s my fault for not expecting an overflow of cars out here on the rural highways surrounding the city.
Are we stuck behind a tractor with a maximum speed of twenty? Or maybe a big truck hauling a double-wide trailer?
I mentally cuss my sister out again, wondering if this crazy idea of hers is truly worth driving all the way out here. But I keep my hands at ten and two, radio on low, and eyes on the cars in front of me, alert for brake lights. I creep along, making barely any discernible progress until . . . finally, the roadway opens up and we start moving.
Pressing down on the gas, I keep my eyes fixed on the Mitsubishi Mirage in front of me, wondering why anyone would drive the number-one most unsafe car on the road. Sure, it’s cute and pink like an adult version of a Barbie car, but no way would I put my wife or daughter behind the wheel of a go-kart on a highway filled with Hummers and monster-truck-sized SUVs.
Not that I have a wife or daughter, but the point remains the same. The Mirage doesn’t even have the safety features of similarly sized cars in its class.
Unfortunately for me, I’m so distracted by the bright pink monstrosity, my mind running through all the facts and figures about the Mirage, that for the first time in my life, I somehow miss something vital.
I forget the fact that while I might be going a safely legal fifty-five, this is a country highway. A highway with turn-ins.
The dark shape comes out on my right side, and I jam my brakes, but not fast enough. There’s just enough time for my heart to jump into my throat before a sick crunch, and time slows down.
I’ve read about this, but time really does seem to stretch into slow motion. I can see my passenger door start to cave inward and can feel my car start to skew sideways. I tell myself to let off the brake, allowing the tires to connect to the asphalt and letting me yank the steering wheel into my slide, trying to regain control.
I feel my seatbelt lock and start to dig into my collarbone, and an instant later, the world goes white as my airbags deploy. My head bounces off the side curtain bag, and my body is jostled around for a moment before I come to a stop.
The bags soften, and I lean back in my seat, groaning. “Shiiiiit.”
My engine’s still running, by some miracle, and I check that I’m in park before looking around, trying to figure out what happened. We’re at an intersection near a gas station, and I look at the other car, a big black sedan.
How the fuck did I miss that thing?
A woman is sitting behind the wheel, her eyes wide and her mouth a huge ‘O’ of shock. Seeing my car, her hands go over her mouth, and I have the odd thought that her hands look delicate, as though her long fingers would be right at home playing the piano.
Her hands drop to her steering wheel, and I can see her mouthing, “No, no, no, no.”
I have an instant and strong urge to reassure her that it’s okay, even though I haven’t any idea whether I’m really okay, she’s injured, or if our cars are trashed. Waving my hands, I get her attention, then point to the gas station she’s exiting, a questioning look on my face. She must get my meaning, and she jerkily nods her agreement.
I find that I can at least put my car into low gear and limp forward, twisting my steering wheel to counter the list I’ve developed. Obviously, something’s twisted in my frame. She does the same, her sedan making an ugly squealing, screeching sound as metal rubs against metal somewhere in her engine compartment.
Once parked at the edge of the gas station parking lot, I do a quick self-check. My hands curl and uncurl without pain, and while my neck and shoulders are sore, nothing’s grating. I’m gonna need a couple of Advil, a long, hot shower, and maybe a visit to the massage chair in the mall, but I don’t think I need a hospital.
I climb out, walking up to the woman’s door. “You okay?”
She blinks, staring vacantly at her hands which are now wrapped around the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. I knock on the window, and she jumps as though surprised I’m standing here.
She seems to be in shock, or at least on the verge of it.
“Do you need an ambulance? Are you okay?” I’m already pulling my phone out to make the call, but the question seems to wake her from her trance and she reaches down to turn the car off. She opens her door, and I step back to give her room and try again. “Hey, you good?”
“I can’t believe I hit you.” The insurance representative in my mind automatically stores away that she just admitted fault. But there’s an undercurrent of something that sounds like fear in her tone. She’s scared shitless over something besides a car accident.