Page 38 of Drive
It wasn’t yourfault.
It wasn’t yourfault.
Everyone she knew — and even people she didn’t — had told her again and again. Her parents. Holi. The police at the scene. Her friends at school. Chase, her high school boyfriend. And, later, Anne Marie, hertherapist.
And Rainey knew the accident wasn’t her fault. She had come to a full stop at the light on Pinhook Road and Evangeline Thruway. She remembered the light turning green. She remembered checking to make sure the intersection was clear. She remembered John Lee’s gasp before an explosion of glass andairbags.
And thennothing.
And then nothing was ever the same. Not after her little brother died right besideher.
So how could she even speak the word “accident” with Jacques one minute and kiss him the next — her whole being, body and mind, focused entirely on that kiss? Nothing like that had everhappened.
Was it wrong? And was it wrong that when he said,“I like where I think this is going,”she’d let herself wonder where that mightbe?
As she stood against the pillar in Artmosphere, her eyes on the stage where Jacques was picking up his acoustic guitar, she also wondered why he was different from everyone else. Why he said exactly what he was thinking but let her keep her thoughts and secrets toherself?
She watched him lift the guitar strap and pull it over his head, and as he did, his eyes met hers, and he winked. A tummy flutter that probably registered on the Richter scale ran throughher.
He absolutely was different from anyone in her life. And from anyone who used to be in her life. The thought both thrilled and terrifiedher.
Jacques stepped up to the microphone. “Everybody feeling good now?” he purred. His voice — that deep, resonant, captivating voice — poured over the crowd, touching every singleperson.
But it did more than touch Rainey. It invadedher.
The crowd, which had grown since Jacques’s first set, cheered in response. How could they not? Clearly, theywerefeeling good, and his voice that brimmed with seduction and easy confidence told them they were about to feel evenbetter.
“Alright,” he said, looking so at home on stage — something she could never imagine. “Let’s go. Here’s something I wrote not too long ago. It’s called “Back to Mine.” It sorta fits the mood I’ve beenin.”
Rainey drew in a surprised breath as Jacques strummed an up-tempo rhythm. He leaned into the microphone in a way that drew her eyes to his tapered waist. To his fitted gray T-shirt and his faded jeans that hung on his leanhips.
She dragged her eyes up to lock with his as he started singing, and her mouth driedup.
The mirror saysyou’re still a youngman,
But you’re not getting anyyounger.
What of your dreams and all those grandplans?
Have you let them steal yourhunger?
Mine’s just a whisper in a darkwell
No other voices rising withit.
How will it reach up to thesurface?
How will it overcome thedistance?
These questions haunt me when it’squiet.
Like monsters only I cansee.
I should be strong enough to slaythem,
But they’re already eatingme.
Rainey feltthe song grab her and hold tight.Like monsters only I can see… I should be strong enough to slay them… But they’re already eating me.She thought she could have written those lines. She lived them every day. Did Jacques live themtoo?
