Page 70 of What You Left Me

“You gonna have that?” Spencer asks.

“Nah,” Fly answers. “Don’t need it.”

The Caravan revs up with ease. Spencer throws it into drive. Windows down. Warm air. Their town flies by, each passing foot of distance traveled both familiar and brand-new. All of it perfect.

“I used to think I hated this place,” Fly says. “Now I know that I wouldn’t be me without it. I’d have different friends, probably different nicknames. A whole different life.” He tickles the outside air with his fingers. “And I wouldn’t want that.”

Spencer presses his foot harder into the pedal. The White Whale screeches along, trying to satisfy his need for speed and take him into the magical, unidentified something he’s convinced waits for him on the other side of this momentous occasion.

When he looks to see Fly’s reaction, he finds Fly smiling like he’s got a secret. “We had it good, Spitty. Really good.” Fly looks at Spencer. Right in his eyes. “By the way, there’s a car coming.”

It’s nothing but a flicker. A black hole growing by the millisecond, ready to devour them whole. Fly pulls his hand back in from the window and tugs the steering wheel to the left. “Don’t hit the brakes!” he calls out.

That’s right. That black dot is not a gigantic bug or a huge bird or an enormous piece of dirt. It’s an old black Pontiac Grand Am driving steadily along, the man behind the wheel not wearing sunglasses or a seat belt, unable to see the giant white van headed straight for the center of the intersection.

“Fly! Look out! Look out!”

The car doesn’t stop. Neither does the Caravan. Spencer’s foot doesn’t find the brake pedal. They make it across the intersection without a collision, veered so far over they’re in the oncoming traffic lane. Fly corrects the steering wheel, and Spencer lays off the gas, easing onto the brake until the White Whale comes to a puttering stop.

“It worked!” Fly yells.

Spencer pulls his palms to his mouth for a series of screams, needing to release all the pent-up adrenaline of the almost accident. When his tirade runs its course and every curse word has been cursed, he unbuckles himself to get some air. He gets out of the car and walks past the driver’s back seat, staring at his shoes, trying to shake the persistent fear out of his tensed limbs. Beneath his feet, he notices debris. Small, indeterminate chunks of plastic and metal and glass. He looks up.

The scene of the crime roars to life. The Grand Am is pushed away from the Caravan, but the front hood is so scrunched up it looks like an accordion. That would be horrific enough on its own, but what lies on top of the scrunched hood is so unfathomable that Spencer starts heaving up all of the whiskey and some of the cereal he scarfed down this morning. His tender ribs make the whole process hurt so much he fears he might pass out, but he’s incapable of stopping. He empties his stomach, and when nothing but clear spit comes up, he uncurls himself to look again, clutching his broken ribs. Because theyarebroken. It doesn’t matter that Fly moved the wheel and the Grand Am didn’t hit them in the dream.

That doesn’t change what happened in reality.

The front windshield of the Grand Am is shattered, leaving only a jagged outline around the periphery. Most of the glass has ended up on the ground, mixed in with a liquid that’s not quite red. More like cherry-tinged chocolate sauce. The source of it, stretched out like Superman attempting to fly into a wall, is a mangled body, the head of which is turned at such an unnatural angle that it’s facing skyward. Spencer can’t help it. He retches up more clear spit.

The passenger door of the White Whale opens. “Holy shit,” Fly says. He can’t take his eyes off the wreckage. Once he steps far enough away from the van, it twists and crumbles into its proper form. “I didn’t even think about the other car.”

“He’s dead,” Spencer says, pointing to the lifeless man. “I killed him.”

“That’s what Petra meant,” Fly mutters. He shoots a look to Spencer. “I can’t change this.”

“I killed him,” Spencer repeats.

Fly grabs Spencer’s shoulders, shaking him. “Don’t do this. It’s not your fau…well, it’s notjustyour…you made a mistake, but so did I.”

“I killed him.” Suddenly, Spencer remembers the rest. The way it really happened. “And I killed you too.”

“No. Spencer. No. I swear on—on—on—my shoe collection that you didn’t. That was a pathetic thing to say. I don’t know what to say. Shit.”

“You told Petra about the pact. You knew you would die.”

“I thought this would be easier. I’m only making a bigger mess. I wanted to set you free of this.”

“What do I have?” Spencer asks. “Nothing. My car is totaled. Everyone hates me. As they should. I killed someone. He’s dead. Right there. And I killed you. I know I did.”

Spencer starts wailing. His cries are loud and ugly, so invasive that Fly shudders.

“This happened!” Spencer screams. “It’s not a dream. It’s reality. You’re not supposed to be walking. You’re supposed to look like—”

He stops, thinking it instead of saying it, using his memory to change Fly’s body into how it was after the real crash. Fly’s entire right side crunches and curls, not hurting him physically, only altering his appearance.

“Look at yourself!” Spencer screams. Fly checks his reflection against the side of the van. “That’s what I see! That’s what Idid! It’s not okay. It won’t get easier. How could you say that?”

“Spitty, I’m sorry! I wanted to make it better.”