He might run back to Summer.
And he was more afraid of Summer than he was of the washed-out bridge.
Wasn’t that bitter irony.
That soft, sweet puppy of a man...
Terrified Fox beyond all reason.
He closed his eyes, resting his brow to the steering wheel.
Then breathed in deep, slowly pressed his foot down on the gas, and inched forward.
The strength of the current hit him as the Camry edged onto the bridge; the water might look slow, but he could feel it rocking against the car and pushing with a terrible force. Gritting his teeth, he picked up speed, forcing the Camry forward; it was barely more than a hundred yards, just a short hop to the other side, he could make it, he could make it, he just had to remember he was safe inside a two thousand pound vehicle and the water wasn’t touching him and he wouldn’t hyperventilate, black out, lose control...
He had one bad moment as he hit a bump in the concrete on the bridge—and for a moment it felt like the car was about to lift off and float away, pitched over the side and sinking down, down, as water under the wheels left him drifting, skewing. Barely breathing, his lungs caving in, he wrenched the steering wheel, floored the gas, lurched forward. He heard the water sucking up into the engine, heard it coughing, sputtering, but he kept his foot on that gas pedal and made the Camry move, spraying up water to either side of him as he went tumbling in a clumsy skew of tires off the foot of the bridge and onto the highway on the other side.
Right as the engine started choking, grinding, wheezing.
And he barely managed to get free of the waters spilling over the riverbank, hauling the steering wheel to one side, and swerving himself off the road onto the shoulder before the engine died.
Fox just...sat there, staring through the windshield blankly, his heart hammering. For half an instant he thought to check his phone to call for roadside assistance or 911, but of course it was dead. Of course. He let it drop into the cup holder.
Before he let out a broken, raspy “Fuck!” and thudded his forehead against the wheel.
What was he doing?
He could have just...just damned well killed himself, being reckless, acting like some melodramatic asshole because he just...because he just...
Fucking hell.
His eyes were leaking.
And they wouldn’t stop, no matter how he tried, searing past his tight-closed eyelids while he tried to breathe past the adrenaline closing his throat and the rage clotting up inside him.
Rage.
At himself, at...at her.
“Why did you do this to me?” he demanded, gasping out wet, hoarse breaths, clawing his fingers against the wheel. “Why...why is it so hard...why did you get to leave and I had to stay here with this and I can’t even let myself feel anything or I’m terrified I’ll fall apart, and I just... I’m so... I’m so tired of grieving and you left me and now I’m leaving him when I want... I want...”
He didn’t know what he wanted.
That was the worst part.
He didn’t know what he wanted, and he didn’t know how to reach for what he didn’t know.
He just knew he didn’t want to be stuck here on the side of the road in a washed-out car, choking on his own tears after he’d done possibly the most reckless, ill-considered, childish thing of his life.
No...he knew.
He wanted to be back in Omen.
He wanted to be back at Albin Academy.
He wanted to be curled up in bed with Summer, watching the rain fall and listening to him talk about whatever troubles the boys laid at his feet today.
But instead he was alone.
Shaking.
Sobbing.
And only hoping the headlights glowing hot in his rearview mirror from across the river were someone with a truck powerful enough to drag him out of this mess of his own creating, and take him back to Summer.
Take him home.
Summer couldn’t believe he’d found him.
And there were over a hundred yards of rushing water standing between them, the Mystic completely overrunning its banks and washing out the bridge.
With Fox’s car on the other side, the tail lights glowing red.
He must have stalled out, but...but...
Fuck.
He was right there, and so far out of Summer’s reach.
And if Summer waited, waited until the bridge was passable again, waited until he could cross over to the other side...
Fox would be gone.
Summer just...just knew it.
He stared through the windshield at those tail lights, pressing his lips together, asking himself. Asking himself if he could really risk it. If the Acura would make it through the flooding waters over the bridge without getting swept over the side, or stalling in the middle and leaving him stranded.
He didn’t know what to do, was about to do something so goddamned risky...
When the Camry’s driver’s side door opened, and Fox stepped out into the drenching rain.
He stood there for long, silent moments, and even if he was so far away Summer couldn’t see his expression...
Everything in his body language, miserable and stiff, said he knew.
He recognized Summer’s car.
And he gestured broadly, arms cutting through the rain, his mouth moving, a dark O against his pale face.
Summer couldn’t hear him. And he bolted out of the Acura, stepping out into wind that whistled over him, snapped through his hair, drove the rain into him like needles of ice.
Fox was shouting something.
Shouting across the river, over the storm, and Summer couldn’t quite make out what it was...
But he thought it just might be go back.
No. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. His heart beat sick at the very thought, lurching and colder than the rain sluicing over him could ever be, dark and heavy with dread certainty.
If he turned back now...
He would never know where Fox ran to.
And he knew—
He could call and call and call again, beg, plead, but that phone would never answer, voicemail picking up and then going dead without
