First and Last (12 page)

“Yeah, I guess so since I’m just a dumbass who doesn’t want to go to college. That’s what this is all about. You want some guy who works nine to five to bring in the big bucks, right?”

Her head jerks back like I’ve slapped her. “Don’t be an ass. That’s not it at all!”

“Then what? Tell me!”

“Because I don’t want you to die like your dad!”

We’re both silent, hardly breathing even, as what she blurted out registers to us both. Tears well up in her eyes, showing the fear and pain she’s trying to hold back.

My shoulders sag and I reach out to hold her, but she pushes me away. “No, I’m not your mother,” she says in a shaky voice. “I can’t handle it. I can’t watch the man I love walk out of the house every day and wonder if he’s going to come home to me. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

“I was made to do this, Mia. Don’t you understand that? I want to help people who need it. Remember when I pushed you out of the way before you got hit by that car? This is who I am, who I’ve always been.”

She swallows hard and looks back up at me, and I see it. I’m watching a car crash in slow motion, powerless to avert my eyes. I see it coming, but can’t do a damn thing to avoid it. That’s what this feels like as I watch her slip through my fingers.

“Then we can’t be together.” The finality in her tone sends a chill down my spine. She might as well have kicked me in the balls. It’s hard to think, hard to breathe. My chest hurts and all that goes through my mind are those five words.

Then we can’t be together.

Avoiding eye contact, I back away from her. “I guess not,” I barely get out before spinning around and going home.

I don’t say anything to Mom as I walk through the front door and head upstairs to my bedroom. Turning on my stereo, I crank it all the way up hoping to drown out the pain I’m feeling right now. I was absolutely devastated when Dad died, but I’m crushed right now.

I’ve weighed the dangers of the job. If anyone knows the sacrifices that are sometimes required, it’s me. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him. Still, it hurt to have her throw it in my face. To see her walk away from me so easily was a punch to the gut and a stab to the heart.

Three days have passed since Mia and I broke up. I haven’t left my room much and have turned my phone off. Every time it rang served as a disappointment when I’d look and see it wasn’t her.

I know Mia better than I know myself. She never throws out words for the sole purpose of wounding. No, if she says it, she means it. Even with that knowledge, a small part of me hoped she regretted it and would come talk to me. But as I sit here watching T.V. late Sunday evening, I’m realizing that’s not going to happen.

“Hey, you hungry?” my mom asks.

“Not really. I just ate something,” I mutter from the couch.

“Okay, I’m going to throw some chicken in the oven, so if you’re hungry later it’ll be here for you.”

“Thanks.”

I’m making my second round through the channels when there’s a knock on the door. “Can you get that? I’ve got raw chicken all over my hands,” Mom says from the kitchen.

With a sigh, I get up off the couch and walk to the front door. When I open it, no one is there, but sitting on the ground is a box. Puzzled, I pick it up and bring it inside.

“Were you expecting something in the mail?” I ask Mom.

“No, and it’s Sunday. The mail doesn’t run today.”

“Hmm.” Opening it, there’s a small basket, so I pull it out and inspect the items inside. As soon as I see what they are, I immediately know they came from Mia. There’s a new razor, some shaving cream, aftershave, cologne, mouthwash, and my favorite gum. Sitting in the front is a folded up piece of paper, and I’m transported back in time when I sent her a basket of girly shit with a note that said I’m sorry. I grab the piece of paper and prepare myself for what it might say.

Blake,

I really should be saying this to your face, but you know how I am with making sure each word is perfect, so this is the best way for me to do that. Because there are no redo’s when words are spoken and I’m realizing that now more than ever.

I want to start by saying I’m sorry. I think about our conversation constantly and wish desperately that I could go back in time and change my reaction. After all, my reaction was the whole reason you hadn’t told me the truth in the first place. You’ve always supported me in my goals and ambitions, and I turned my back on you the first time you looked for that support in me. You don’t know how awful I feel not only as your girlfriend, but as your best friend. That was shitty of me and I regret it so much.

I love you. You know that. And caring for you in that way brings about new emotions like fear. I’m afraid, Blake. Your dad’s death shook all of us and I don’t think I’m strong enough to endure that. My fears are yelling at me to run fast and far away, but my heart won’t listen and is begging me to stay. I can’t let my fears win because then we both lose.

You’re right; you were made to do this. You’ve been protecting me ever since you punched Josh in the nose at lunch for picking on me. You should follow whichever path you feel is right for you, and know that I’ll be by your side supporting you the whole way. If you still want me to.

Love you,

Mia

With the note still in my hand, I walk out the front door, through the front yard, up the steps on Mia’s porch, and knock on the door. Several seconds later, she answers.

“Hey, I see—”

I cut her off by holding her face in my hands and kissing her. I kiss her like it’s the first and last time our lips will ever touch. Like a starved man savoring his final meal. She clings to my shirt and holds on for dear life as we make up for the time we lost and the hurtful words we said.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I tell her when I finally pull back.

“It was only three days,” she teases.

“Felt like an eternity.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and rub her jaw with my thumb.

“Yeah, let’s not do that again, okay?”

“Agreed.”

Present

I
try to swallow to soothe my raw throat, but my mouth is as dry as this drought-ridden forest. The taste of smoke sits in the back of my mouth, making it impossible to escape.

What remains of my clothes are a tattered mess. The long-sleeved shirt that I wear under my jump suit is almost unrecognizable. Between the drop off the cliff and rolling down this steep hill, there are holes all in it. As my body continues to ache, I know that’s the least of my worries. All that really matters right now is that my beacon is still flashing. I don’t care what my clothes look like.

I’m so tired as the spike of adrenaline starts to wear off. My fight instincts have taken a toll on my already-battered body, and holding my eyelids open becomes work. I know I need to stay awake and alert. Help could be here soon and I won’t improve my chances if I’m snoozing.

My head rocks back and forth in an attempt to keep myself awake. Glancing down at my legs—legs I’m learning to despise—I see a large gash in my thigh. It doesn’t hurt, which is probably why I’m just now noticing it.

Shit, I need to find a way to at least slow the bleeding before I bleed out. The ground around my leg looks a little saturated, so who knows how much blood I’ve already lost. That could be why I’m feeling tired too.

Ripping off a piece from the bottom of my shirt, I know I need to tie it around my upper leg. I might not be in a position to make it as tight as it needs to be, but something is better than nothing.

I’d like to say all of my training has me on autopilot, but my injuries make it hard. My mind knows what I need to do and the steps to take to help myself, but my body won’t cooperate. Leaning to the side, I try to shove the rag under my leg, but with no help from my lower body, it proves to be impossible. I suck in air through my teeth as I lean to the side as much as I can, trying my hardest to make this work.

After several minutes, I’m not any closer to getting this wrapped around my leg than I was when I started. Leaning back out of breath, I try to think of a different way to make this work. Then it comes to me. I lay the piece of cloth out beside me at about my waist. Using my shoulder blades and elbows, I move myself backward a millimeter at a time. Sharp stabs up my back radiate through my whole body, but I do my best to block it out.

My elbows are raw, but I keep digging until my thigh is lined up with the rag. Air rushes out with each labored breath, and I’m becoming weaker and weaker by the minute. Fisting the front of my pant leg, I use all my strength to move my leg to the left.

“Argh!”

I’m panting from the exertion; even small movements are proving to be a challenge. I repeat the process with my other leg. My spine protests at being arched to the side, causing me to sweat more than I already am. Using my shoulder blades and elbows again, I shift my body to the right. I keep doing this until my leg is on top of the strip of fabric.

With a clenched jaw, I push up on my elbows and crunch up as far as my broken body will allow. It’s just enough for me to reach between my thighs to grab the cloth with the tips of my fingers. Once I have it, I lie back, trying to clear the white dots from my vision before I tie the two ends together as tight as I can.

Once it’s knotted, I lie spread out lifelessly on the forest floor, not an ounce of energy left in me.

Glancing down my body to the side of my leg, the blood coming from my wound seems to have slowed significantly. As I stare at the fabric, I watch the red dot slowly expand, tinging the cloth one tiny fiber at a time.

While the sight of red right now signifies life leaving my body, there was a time when it stole my breath away and made me feel like the luckiest bastard around.