Of course, he was out in less than four hours. Too much time elapsed between the cops interviewing me at the hospital, before I was rushed into surgery, and them arriving at Greyson’s house. They told my mom that they couldn’t administer a breathalyzer test, even though I swore he was drunk. He got away with it.
As the story goes, his dad made some phone calls and nudged the police chief to drop the charges. Greyson walked—quickly and quietly. I don’t know if they even took his fingerprints.
But there was still a civil suit to deal with. Mom threatened it. Loudly. Greyson’s father came and appealed to my mom’s sensible nature. He pointed at me and asked her if she was willing to drag me through a trial.
I would be questioned.
Why I was out.
What I was doing.
What made me pull into the street then.
Did I check both ways?
Did I try to avoid the car?
Questions I can’t answer. The day leading up to the accident is a blank. Like the slate in my mind wiped it clean. I don’t know where I was or how fast I was going, or if I was even wearing my damn seatbelt. If I didn’t see pictures of my car after the wreck, I wouldn’t have believed it.
And after seeing them, I don’t know how I survived. The front, the driver’s-side door, was all crumpled in. It didn’t look so much like metal but shredded paper. The passenger door of my car was open. The first responders pulled me out that way, my neck braced and head supported. That part is blurry, too.
My memory of that entire day starts with pain and Greyson and blood. I might’ve passed out after that, because it seemed like only seconds later the EMTs were helping a girl out of his car and working to extract me.
And I just remember how wrong that felt. To see her stumble between them, apologizing over and over. He didn’t just ruin me—he almost ruined her, too.
“I signed an NDA,” I tell her quietly. Like the walls are going to lean in and steal my secrets. “So even telling you that he was involved could get me in trouble. If I even so much as admit out loud that Greyson had anything to do with a car crash, or my injury, I’m done.”
Devereux. A powerful name in Rose Hill. And their attorney, Josh Black, is an influential man in the community, too. He has friends in high places—and by high, I mean rich. Infamous. They’ve carved out their spots in Rose Hill, been there for decades. Everyone in the county knows their last names—they’re that sort.
It’s Greyson who hit me, but somehow, I was paying the price.
And then the media got wind of the story. Suddenly, they had something to use against me. The defamation countersuit would’ve buried my family.
I signed the NDA so I wouldn’t have to deal with any of it. Signing it meant my mother couldn’t keep pushing. It meant that I could sleep without guilt. Yeah, because I was guilty. Somehow. Mr. Devereux painted it as my fault, and I let myself believe it.
It was a mistake. I should’ve tried harder. Should’ve refuted the defamation suit, should’ve sued Greyson for personal injury. Insurance only goes so far.
“Oh, Violet,” Willow whispers. She closes her eyes. “Fuck.”
“It could be worse,” I offer.
That’s a lie. And even worse, Greyson isn’t going to let this go.
That means I can’t either.
“What are you going to do?” Willow asks. “What do you need?”
I sit up and brush my hair out of my face. I look down at my best friend. She’s willing to go to bat for me. She’s willing to put everything on the line for me. I know that as surely as she knows I’d do the same for her. We’re more than best friends. More like sisters.
“I’m going to ignore it.” I nod. Yeah, it’s a great idea. Ignore Greyson Devereux. No problem. “It’s a big enough campus.”
She snorts. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me. But okay. Fine. We’ll play it your way, Reece.”
I grimace when I stand. Today is a bad leg day, I can already tell. I put my knee on the bed and rub my hand down the back of my calf. The scar is neat and precise down the front, starting a few inches under my knee and ending above my ankle. A plastic surgeon had a hand in it, making sure it was the least ugly thing I’d be walking away from the accident with. （Or, in this case, wheeling away from it.） It almost blends into my shin bone.
There was a time when my calf muscles were strong. When I could rotate on a pointe shoe, and my leg would hold me.
Not anymore.
My muscles have gotten weak. It would take a lot of work to get the strength back, if the pain wasn’t a factor.
My mother came to one of my physical therapy appointments. She sat in a metal chair in the corner and watched, and at the end, she said, “You still move like a dancer.”
It wasn’t the compliment she thought it would be. On the inside, I still felt like a dancer, too. I still had a phantom sensation of spinning, leaning, curving my body in specific ways. Rotating my hips, my feet, my knees. My toenails are all but destroyed from years of training. Walking like a ballerina is a hell of a lot different than walking like someone with a broken leg.
“I’m thinking a thriller,” Willow says, drawing me back to the present.
“I’m thinking I need water and Tylenol,” I mutter.
She laughs and hops up. “Did you want me to cut off your drinking?”
Trick question. When has either of us ever listened to the other when we’re in that sort of mood? When Willow broke up with her boyfriend, we went to Haven and got plastered. I got us home and held her hair while she puked all night.
It’s that sort of purge that tends to be necessary.
She gets me the Tylenol while I slowly get dressed. I brush out my hair and pull it up. My bangs, which Greyson oh-so-rudely pushed aside to gawk at the scar, stay down. I’ve got a limp in my walk today, but Willow doesn’t comment on it when we head to the theater.
Willow buys the tickets on her phone. Some thriller, but I couldn’t tell you the name. It sounds up my best friend’s alley… something with one of the Chrises as a lead, and a train.
We stand in line to buy our popcorn.
“Willow!”
She glances back, then tenses. Her back goes rigid, and she makes a face. Just a subtle one, her lips flattening and her brows drawing down. And then her eyes move to me, and she lets out a quiet, “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
She grips my arm before I can turn around. “Um, sorry in advance for not telling you that I slept with Knox while you were gone. A few times.”
My eyes bug out of my head. Willow and Knox? I make a mental note to interrogate her about that. But it’s too late now because someone steps up beside us.
“Hey.” Knox’s dark hair curls down, almost long enough to get in his eyes. He pushes it back and grins at Willow. He looks at her like he’s ready to devour her. Makes sense, since he’s seen her naked. He steps close, tilting his head down to meet Willow’s gaze. “Thought I recognized you.”
“By the back of my head?”
Seeing my best friend flirt is nothing new—but it is surreal to see her flirt with Knox Whiteshaw. Her fascination with him isn’t a big deal, but it is surprising that she acted on it. We used to whisper about him. Gossip, try vague moves to catch his attention. As previously discussed, he’s one of the all-stars on the hockey team.