One Eighty (Westover Prep Book 1) Page 4

  I’ve ended a life, and there are serious repercussions for doing something like that.

  Maybe the police will believe me when I tell them that Dalton grabbed the wheel. He caused the wreck, not me. But it’s my luck that they’ll still handcuff me and take me to jail. It’s honestly where I belong. If I hadn’t let him make me angry, if I had paid more attention to the road instead of the horrific things he was saying, we’d both be home right now. I wouldn’t be in a hospital bed, and he wouldn’t be in the morgue.

  “Piper?” I don’t recognize the voice calling out to me, but my eyes flutter again.

  When they open fully, the overhead light blinds me, and I’m forced to squeeze them shut again.

  “Can you dim the lights?” the unfamiliar voice says. “She’s going to be sensitive to light for several days.”

  “Piper?” That’s Mom’s voice, and just the sound makes tears form in the corners of my eyes. “Can you hear me?”

  I nod my head, just a quick up and down because my body is screaming from pain. Every movement is like getting pelted with rocks.

  “Wh-where am I?” I manage.

  “You’re in the hospital,” the person other than my mom answers. “I’m Dr. Columbus. You were in a motor vehicle accident. You sustained a pretty serious concussion. You also have a severe sprain to your left wrist and several fractured ribs. You’re pretty banged up all over, but you’ll make a full recovery.”

  It’s not fair. I shouldn’t be whole. I shouldn’t be good as new after a few weeks of healing. Not while the other person in the car with me is…

  I try not to let myself think of him again, but the memory of wondering what it would be like to drive us over the ravine hits me hard. A choked sob escapes my lips, and warm fingers wrap around my right hand.

  “Shh, baby. It’s going to be okay.” Emotion clogs my mother’s throat, and I wonder how she can make promises right now.

  She should be well aware of what I’m facing. I can only hope that they will let me heal before they cuff me and cart me off to prison.

  “What’s your pain level?” Dr. Columbus asks. “On a scale of one to ten?”

  “Thirty-five,” I groan because it’s true. I think even my hair follicles hurt right now.

  “I’ll get the nurse in here with some meds to ease that,” he assures me.

  What seems like hours later, a soft voice tells me that she’s administering pain meds into my IV, but I don’t have enough time to thank her before I slip back into my nightmare.

  The wreck is on constant replay in my head. The guilt hits me when I’m awake, and the sight of Dalton being carried past me by the rescuers invades my dreams. Even in my mind, I correct that they’re not performing a rescue at that point but a recovery. A lump lodges in my throat at visualizing his gray, ashen face covered in blood. His sandy-blond hair is so saturated with blood that his matted locks look black. He’s motionless, his once hostile mouth slack and not showing any sign of the trauma he’s suffered.

  In my dream, I sob. I cry for the man he’ll never become. I grieve for his family and the pain they must be feeling with his loss. And as much as I hate to admit it, I weep at the knowledge that the boy that had made it his life’s mission to ruin me still has the ability to do so from the grave.

  Each time the accident and the aftermath replays in my head, the regret and anguish only multiply. It doesn’t diminish or dilute as I relive it over and over. If anything, it gets worse. It doesn’t change, even when I want to reach out for him as they carry his body away. Even as I have the foresight of what’s going to happen while still driving the car. I still get angry at his hateful words. I still pay more attention to him than the road in front of him. We still go over the edge, and he still dies.

  I suffer through this over and over and over, and by the time I wake up again, my body hurts more than it did the very first time I woke up to face my new reality.

  When I whimper, the hand I didn’t realize was holding mine clenches tighter. Rather than open my eyes and beg for more meds, I focus all my attention on that single contact. From the size and the warmth, I’m certain my mother is the one holding on to me. She’s tethering me to the here and now.

  “We just don’t know yet,” a defeated woman says from the other side of the room. “The doctors said all we can do is wait. The swelling hasn’t shown any sign of diminishing. How is Piper doing?”

  My already dry throat turns into a desert when my brain allows me to recognize the woman talking. How is Dalton’s mom so calm, asking about the girl who killed her son?

  “She’s in and out,” Mom whispers.

  “Will she be okay?” Mrs. Payne asks.

  My mother’s fingers tighten on mine, and I wonder if it’s guilt that makes her pause for a long moment before answering. She waits so long, I begin to think the doctor was lying to me about my recovery prospects.

  “She’s going to be fine,” Mom finally says.

  “Oh, thank God,” Mrs. Payne answers. “I don’t know what I’d do if things were any worse.”

  Tears burn my eyes once again. What grace it must take for this woman to be relieved that I’m not going to die. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d think she was happy that I’ll live just so she can see me suffer for what happened to Dalton, but Cynthia Payne is never one to say something she doesn’t mean. The woman is the epitome of no filter and opinionated. More than once over forced family dinners, she’s openly asked Dalton and me why we haven’t started dating yet, so sure that our once-in-a-lifetime love was already written in the stars and destined for forever.

  Dalton, of course, just grunted his response, and I know it took everything in his power not to get sick at just the suggestion of willingly touching me or having any feelings for me other than the hatred that would swim in his eyes when our parents weren’t looking.

  “Have they spoken to you about what to expect?” Mom asks Mrs. Payne.

  “The induced coma will help the rate of swelling, and with any hope and a million prayers, they won’t have to do surgery. His left arm is broken, but we won’t know the full extent of his injuries until he wakes up.”

  What?

  “Well,” my mom says with a sigh, “Dalton is one of the most determined, strong-willed young men I’ve ever met. I’m certain he’s going to be fine, but we’re constantly praying. Let us know if you need anything.”

  What?

  The machine beeping near my head changes tempo, the annoying cadence nearly tripling in rhythm.

  He isn’t dead? I didn’t kill Dalton Payne?

  He isn’t dead, yet. My brain chooses now to lean toward pessimism. Which means I only have a slight reprieve until Mrs. Payne changes her tune. There’s only so much decorum a woman can maintain in the face of her worst nightmare coming true.

  “D-Dalton,” I grumble.

  “Shh, sweetheart,” Mom coos near my ear. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

  Even her assurance, something that’s always calmed me when I’m upset, doesn’t help right now. Nothing can help me right now.

  But if Dalton is alive, even if he’s in an induced coma, I need to see him. I need to tell him I’m sorry for what I’ve done that landed us both here. I need to let him know that I forgive him for all the hateful things he’s said to me, for all the tricks he’s played, and all the times he’s made me cry.

  I don’t care about any of it anymore. The only thing that concerns me right now is coming clean. I can live with the stain of hurting him on my conscience, but the agony of him slipping away before he knows how apologetic I am is enough to burn a hole through my soul. I’m already facing hell on earth. The last thing I want is an eternity of the very same.

  “D-Dalton,” I repeat. “I n-need to see him.”

  “Shh,” my mom says again. “Get some rest. You can see him when you’re strong enough.”

  I struggle against her hands as they clamp on my shoulders. She doesn’t understand, and there’s no wa
y for me to explain. My confession isn’t for her to hear. It’s only meant for one person, and she’s in my way of making that happen. But my body is weak, too unsteady even to manage to keep my eyes open while she holds me down.

  I don’t know how long I fight to get out of the hospital bed, but it couldn’t have been long. By the time I collapse against the thin mattress, I’m breathing hard and crying uncontrollably.

  As if he can hear me from here, I repeat I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, over and over until blackness claims me once again.

  Chapter 6

  Piper

  My time spent in the darkness transforms after hearing that Dalton is still clinging to life in a coma. Although still ashen gray when the rescuers carry him past me at the scene of the accident, he no longer has his eyes closed. Sometimes he merely watches me until the angle of the rescue basket prevents him from making eye contact. During more vivid dreams, Dalton accuses me of ruining his life. He threatens me with more pain than he’s ever administered before, and during the worst times, he glares at me with confusion, asking me with his eyes why I had to do something like this to him.

  It’s these moments that bring me the most heartache. Even with the years of torment, I wouldn’t wish any of this on my worst enemy, and that person just happens to be Dalton Payne, by his choosing not my own.

  I have more episodes of wakefulness, but I’m still unable to understand how much time has passed since the accident. Mr. and Mrs. Payne stop by to visit regularly, each time asking how I’m doing, and every time they arrive, I close my eyes, so I don’t have to interact. It’s the coward’s way out, but I have no other recourse. At least not one I can think of during the minimal times when my head isn’t throbbing.

  Today, however, I’m unable to close my eyes fast enough.

  “How are you feeling, Piper?” Mrs. Payne asks as she steps inside my hospital room.

  My dad has returned to work, but as a local pediatrician, his office isn’t far from the hospital. My mom stepped out, claiming to need to make a few calls, but I don’t doubt that she’s growing restless just watching me lie in bed for days on end. I, too, want to escape this place, but the doctors treating me haven’t mentioned a discharge yet.

  “I’m okay,” I croak.

  “Your mom tells me that you may get out of here in a couple of days.”

  I merely nod. What else can I say right now? I want to tell her I’m sorry. I have this gut-turning need to explain what happened. Even as crappy as it would be to place blame on Dalton for grabbing the steering wheel, he’s at least partially responsible for what happened. Had I wrecked just from the vitriol he’d spit in my direction on our way home, he’d still be partially culpable for the end result, honestly.

  But her son is clasping on to life, and that doesn’t seem fair.

  No doubt Dalton would point fingers and blame in my direction all day long, even if he was one hundred percent responsible, but I just don’t have it in me.

  “Do you hurt?” Mrs. Payne asks when my face screws up when I try to re-situate my lower half on the bed.

  “I’m okay,” I tell her.

  As much as I’d like the physical pain to go away, it’s the torment in my dreams that had prevented me from asking for pain meds today. Plus, the sooner I can get up and move around, the sooner I can go home. I’m tired of the hospital, disgusted by the sterile smells surrounding me. It’s going to take weeks to get the scent of this place off my skin.

  “I wanted to apologize for what Dalton did.”

  Despite the debilitating pain in my body, my head snaps in her direction. My eyes go fuzzy from the sudden movement, but when my eyes refocus, I find her at my bedside with her head hung low.

  “I’m sorry?” It’s a question, not an apology on my part.

  Confusion forces my brows together when her shoulders begin to shake with tremors.

  “He shouldn’t have been drinking. He shouldn’t have been driving.” Her head lifts, eyes rimmed red and overflowing with tears. “Why did you get in the car with him?”

  My head shakes, the back-and-forth motion making it feel like I’m swimming in a murky pond. My confusion before has nothing on how I’m feeling right now.

  “I don’t understand,” I manage when it’s clear she still wants answers.

  “He’s so strong-willed,” she says, her chin quivering in a way that makes me wish I could reach out and hold her.

  Her pain is clear in the forward slump of her shoulders and the wary look in her emotion-filled eyes.

  “I know he wouldn’t let anyone drive that stupid car, but I wish you’d have gotten a ride with someone else at the party. At least you could’ve avoided all of this pain and suffering.” She sobs again as she lowers her face into her trembling hands. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had…”

  She doesn’t complete her sentence, but the intent is clear. Does she think Dalton was driving? I guess it makes sense. Even I was shocked when Dalton climbed into the passenger seat after I insisted he wasn’t going to drive home intoxicated. Someone else driving his car is unheard of, but she doesn’t have a true account of what happened.

  I swallow, needing to tell her the truth, but instead of the words leaving my lips, I keep them clenched tight.

  I blame my own weakness, my fear of dying in prison if Dalton doesn’t make it, but I know that the guilt that settles in my stomach will eat a hole in it the size of the seventeen-year-old boy that’s hidden somewhere else inside the hospital.

  The truth will come out eventually, and I’m a coward for not confessing now, but I have no idea how everyone will react. I don’t want to face this alone without my mom and dad here, even though their own disappointment is something I’ve been avoiding the last couple of days as well.

  “How is Dalton?” I ask, rather than answering her questions.

  “He’s…” She sobs again, and I wait for her to tell me that his condition is deteriorating. “They’ve weaned him off the drugs that put him in a coma since the majority of the swelling has diminished. He’s woken up a couple of times, but he’s disoriented. He didn’t remember us when he woke the last time. Dr. Columbus is confident that he’ll get his memory back soon, but there are no guarantees.”

  As she begins to explain that a specialist has been called in and should arrive sometime tomorrow, I let my mind wander.

  He doesn’t remember?

  That could work in my favor, but holding on to the truth with the hope that he never gets his memory back is like pulling the pin on a grenade and praying it doesn’t blow your hand off when you get distracted. There’s no way this could work.

  The repercussions of letting everyone believe Dalton was driving will only multiply and be exponentially worse when they find out the truth.

  But I don’t open my mouth. I don’t confess. I don’t take the opportunity to tell Mrs. Payne that I was driving. I don’t tell her that I’m sorry for my own actions. I let her walk out of my room fifteen minutes later with tears still streaming down her face believing that her son wronged me, not the other way around.

  I don’t even open my mouth to clear up the confusion when my mom returns, or when my dad gets off work and comes to sit by my bedside. I keep my lips sealed and my wishes in my head. I don’t reach for God. I don’t pray that Dalton never remembers. I feel like that’s an even faster way to end up in Hell. Surely sinning, then praying that the sins stay hidden would be frowned upon by not only God but anyone who’s privileged to hear the wishes.

  The next day, I do my best to ignore the conversation Mr. Payne and my dad have on the other side of the room, but it’s impossible to distract myself with anything else. Due to my severe concussion, I’m not allowed to do much of anything. My phone has been taken away. The remote to the tiny TV mounted on the wall has disappeared. I’m not allowed to read. Dr. Columbus told me to rest and to avoid thinking at all, if possible. He’s reiterated more than once that my symptoms are acerbated by anything that reall
y requires brain function. I snorted with derision when he told me that last part. He doesn’t have any idea what I’d give to never think of the things that have been plaguing me over the last couple of days, but without anything else to do but lie here, all I think about is the accident and how I could’ve done a million things differently to have prevented it.

  “I don’t even know how this is possible,” Mr. Payne tells my dad. He has the same slump to his shoulders that his wife had yesterday. They’re both defeated and frustrated. “He doesn’t have a clue who he is or who any of us are. How do you forget your entire family?”

  “I thought you said he remembers you, but he doesn’t have any recollection of the last decade or so,” my dad responds.

  “All he remembers are flashes of early childhood,” Mr. Payne clarifies. “He doesn’t know who Preston is, and he freaked out to the point he had to be sedated again when Peyton showed up. His last memory of her was when she was a baby.”

  “The brain is a complex thing, Devin. Things will get better with time. Many patients with amnesia get some, if not all, of their memories back. Dalton is young and strong, and if I had to bet on his recovery, I’d put my money on his memory loss being temporary. The swelling in his head isn’t completely gone, but things will change drastically when it is. You just have to have faith.”

  “How is Piper doing?” Mr. Payne asks. I don’t know if he’s genuinely concerned or if he needs a change of subject.

  Thankfully, I have my eyes closed. The sun went down several hours ago, but time doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Sitting in a hospital bed with nothing to do makes everything run together.

  I feel both sets of eyes on me, so I do my best to keep my breathing rhythmic.

  “She’s doing loads better. Dr. Columbus said he’ll discharge her tomorrow if her scans look good. She’ll still be in the soft cast for a few more weeks, but they expect a full recovery.”

  “Thank God,” Mr. Payne says, relieved.

  They exchange a few more minutes of conversation, but eventually, Mr. Payne says goodbye and leaves.