We got out of the water and we were lying naked on the dock under the moonlight, the world spinning above our heads.
“I want meatloaf,” you said.
I laughed at you, because it was such a random thing to say. “Meatloaf?”
You grinned and said, “Yeah. Doesn’t that sound good? Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” You sat up on the dock and handed me my dry shirt. “Let’s go to the diner.”
You’d had more to drink than me, so you asked me to drive. It wasn’t like us to drink and drive, but I think we felt invincible under that moonlight. We were young and in love, and surely no one dies when they’re at their happiest.
We were also high, so our decisions were slightly more impaired that night, but whatever the reason, you asked me to drive. And for whatever reason, I didn’t tell you I shouldn’t.
I got in that car, knowing I had tripped on the gravel as I reached for the door. I still got behind the wheel, even though I had to blink really hard to make sure the car was in drive and not in reverse. And I still chose to drive us away from the lake, even though I was too drunk to remember how to turn down the volume. Coldplay was blasting so loud over the radio it was making my ears hurt.
We didn’t even get very far before it happened. You knew the roads better than I did. They were gravel, and I was going too fast, and I didn’t know the turn was so sharp.
You said, “Slow down,” but you said it kind of loud, and it startled me, so I slammed on the brakes, but I know now that slamming on brakes on a gravel-top road can make you lose complete control of the car, especially when you’re drunk. I was turning the wheel to the right, but the car kept going to the left, like it was slipping on ice.
A lot of people are lucky after a wreck because they don’t remember the details. They have recollections of things that happened before the wreck, and after the wreck, but over time, every single second of that night has come back to me, whether I wanted it to or not.
The top was down on your convertible, and all I can remember when I felt the car hit the ditch and begin to tilt was that we needed to protect our faces, because I was worried the glass from the windshield might cut us.
That was my biggest fear in that moment. A little bit of glass. I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes. I didn’t even see your life flash before my eyes. All I worried about in that moment was what would happen to the windshield.
Because surely no one dies when they’re at their happiest.
I felt my whole world tilt, and then I felt gravel against my cheek.
The radio was still blasting Coldplay.
The engine was still running.
My breath had caught in my throat and I couldn’t even scream, but I didn’t think I needed to. I just kept thinking about your car and how mad you probably were. I remember whispering, “I’m so sorry,” like your biggest concern would be that we would have to call a tow truck.
Everything happened so fast, but I was calm in that moment. I thought you were, too. I was waiting for you to ask me if I was okay, but we were upside down in a convertible, and everything I’d had to drink that night was flipping over in my stomach, and I felt the weight of gravity like I had never felt it before. I thought I was going to puke and needed to right myself up, so I struggled to find my seat belt, and when I finally clicked it, I remember falling. It was only a couple of inches, but it was unexpected and I let out a yelp.
You still didn’t ask me if I was okay.
It was dark, and I realized we might be trapped, so I reached over and touched your arm to follow you out. I knew you’d find a way out. I relied on you for everything, and your presence was the only reason I was still calm. I wasn’t even worried about your car anymore because I knew you’d be more worried about me than your car.
And it’s not like I was speeding too much, or driving too recklessly. I was only a little bit drunk and a little bit high, but so very stupid to believe even a little bit wasn’t too much.
We only flipped over because we hit a deep ditch, and since the top wasn’t even up, I thought surely it would be minimal damage. Maybe a week or two in the shop, and then the car I loved so much, the car that felt like home, would be fine. Like you. Like me.
“Scotty.” I shook your arm when I said your name that time. I wanted you to know I was okay. I thought maybe you were in shock, and that’s why you were so quiet.
When you didn’t move, and I realized your arm was just dangling against the road that had somehow become our ceiling, my first thought was that you might have passed out. But when I pulled my hand back to figure out a way to right myself up, it was covered in blood.