After the Crash Page 3

  “Fine.” She shut the door.

  When she was gone, Fox stayed in bed a while longer, his eyes fixed on an unseen point beyond the window while he relived memories he’d never escape. No one would ever understand. Not his mother, not his father, and not any of the well-meaning people in Bulrush.

  He was no hero, and it hurt like hell that none of them could see it.

  “Why, if it isn’t Frederick Fraser!”

  A hand collided with Fox’s back, knocking him forward. Instinct reared up inside him, and Fox had to fight to keep himself from spinning and incapacitating his attacker—which wouldn’t have gone over too well, considering he was in the Wilders’ backyard. His restraint proved to be a blessing for Kevin Acton, Bulrush’s resident widower. For as long as Fox could remember, Kevin had been living off his wife’s life insurance payout, and he doubted that whatever was left would cover a broken arm.

  In an effort not to look like he’d been about to throw down, Fox tucked his hands into his pockets and straightened his back. Not that he needed to. Kevin had never been the type of guy who gave a shit about how other people appeared, and by the looks of it, he gave even less of a shit now. With his stained Hawaiian shirt stretched unflatteringly over his beer belly, the lit cigarette dangling between his fingers, and his sparse, messy nest of wiry hair, he looked one couch short of a Baywatch marathon—which would have been fine, had it not been for the beady, unscrupulous look in his eyes.

  Fox didn’t like what that look made him feel, but he minded his manners anyway. “Hi, Mr. Acton. It’s nice to see you.”

  “Nice to see you, too, boy.” Kevin scratched the patchy stubble on his chin and gave Fox a once-over like he was livestock yet to be appraised. Ashes tumbled from the end of his cigarette. “Looks like the desert stole your baby face. You see that, Sam? That’s what a real man looks like. When you graduate, we’ll ship you out and man you up just like this.”

  The Sam in question was Samuel Acton, Kevin’s son. When Fox had left Bulrush for basic training, Sam had been seven years old, wide-eyed, and innocent. The teenager he’d become was a far cry from the boy Fox remembered. Sam’s brown hair was black now—maybe dyed—and his face had lost its roundness. Like his hair, his wardrobe had gone dark. Apart from his black jeans, which were a little too tight, and his oversized Black Veil Brides hoodie, he wore plain Converse shoes whose white sides had been stained green.

  “You think the military could make something out of my boy, Fraser?”

  Sam’s eyes, tired instead of innocent, dulled. “C’mon, Dad. Don’t be like that.”

  A wraith of a woman Fox didn’t recognize passed behind Kevin and tapped him on the back of the head. “Cut the kid some slack, babe. At least he’s got ambition.”

  “To do what? Play video games? Spend his life online?” Kevin shot her a look as she cut through the crowd toward the banquet table. “Women.”

  When she was gone, Kevin rolled his eyes and shook his head, turning back to Fox like he expected him to laugh along. Fox didn’t. Seemingly unperturbed by Fox’s lack of support, Kevin shrugged and changed the topic of conversation like nothing had happened. “So, they put you through school while you were serving?”

  “No.” Fox glanced past Kevin at Sam, who looked like he wanted to escape as badly as Fox did.

  “Yet you turned out fine. See, Sam? All colleges are gonna do is steal your money. Fox turned out fine and didn’t sink hundreds of thousands of dollars into debt while doin’ it. Anyway, it’s good to have you back in town, son.” Kevin clapped him on the shoulder, causing Fox to flinch. “Good to see one of our own out there and doing something with his life.”

  “Like Marshall isn’t,” Sam muttered.

  The name took Fox by surprise. “Marshall?”

  “Marshall Lloyd.” Sam lifted his chin and came out of his shell just a little. “From your graduating class. All the teachers at BHS talk about him. He went out and—”

  “Sam, shut it,” Kevin snapped. “No one gives a fuck about Marshall Lloyd.”

  Except that wasn’t true, because Fox did. Memories flooded back to the surface. Long hair. Thick-rimmed glasses. Gunmetal-blue eyes. After Fox had stepped in to get Hayden and Peter off his case, Elijah and his little gang of delinquents had lost interest in making his life hell, and Marshall had faded into obscurity. From time to time Fox had passed him in the halls, and every time Marshall had looked at him with wide, earnest eyes, like…

  Like…

  Fox swallowed and pushed the memory aside. It didn’t matter. It’d been weird at the time, and it was weird now. It wasn’t worth thinking about. “What happened to him?”

  Sam beamed. “He moved to California and made a name for himself in the tech industry. He’s worth billions. This week, he’s—”

  Kevin rounded on Sam and grabbed him by the shoulder, cutting him off with a squeak. Sam’s whole body went rigid, which made it easy for Kevin to steer him around and shove him between the shoulder blades, sending him flying toward the banquet tables. “Go get yourself something to eat before you embarrass yourself. We ain’t here to talk about Marshall.”

  Sam didn’t fall, but he did have to windmill his arms to keep his balance. When he’d recovered, Sam looked over his shoulder once, mixed emotions rife in his eyes, then shook his head and disappeared into the crowd.

  Fuck that. Fuck Kevin. Fox turned on Kevin, ready to grab him by the front of his stupid hibiscus-print shirt, when sense got the better of him. If he started a fight in the Wilders’ backyard, his mother would make his life miserable until he found a way to move out. With how slim his prospects were given his condition, Fox couldn’t risk it. What he could do was catch up and make sure the kid was okay.

  “So, Fraser—”

  “You know, I’d love to stay and chat, Mr. Acton, but I’ve gotta go.” Fox offered no further explanation. He cut past Kevin and into the crowd in pursuit of Sam, but like a dream interrupted by an alarm, he was gone. With him went something of Fox’s—a feeling he knew was missing, but that he couldn’t hope to explain. It was like a hole had opened up inside him, different from the darkness he’d struggled with earlier that morning. It was a lack of something that had once been rather than the arrival of something new, menacing, and endless.

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. If he was going to keep his dignity, he needed to get out before it got worse.

  While Sam had disappeared, the Wilders were easier to find. Fox thanked them for organizing the event, then left to sit in his truck, where he thought about Sam and Marshall Lloyd.

  Marshall. Shit. It’d been so long ago. At the time he’d been so quiet and broken that Fox had assumed he’d disappear into the world and never be heard from again. It was what had happened to the other guys from high school—and what had happened to him. But the way Sam had spoken made it seem like Marshall hadn’t just survived, but thrived.

  Had he really made it? After everything he’d been through, he deserved his success.

  For all the shitty things he’d done in life, Fox had gotten what was owed to him, too.

  He rested his head on the headrest and ran his palm over the leather cover on his steering wheel, imagining Marshall as he remembered him, only grown up, his hair tied in one of those ridiculous buns while he rubbed elbows with Elon Musk and made plans that would shape the future.

  For the first time since he’d come back to Bulrush, Fox smiled.

  Marshall was an unlikely warrior, but he’d won the battle all the same.

  3

  Fox

  An hour after Fox made it home from the Wilders’ brunch, the front door slammed and the sharp click of angry kitten-heeled footsteps hurried their way down the hall. The abrupt noise set Fox on edge, and he flinched and tensed despite his best efforts to remain calm. Those efforts were dashed when his mother knocked three times in frenzied succession on his door, then wrenched it open and stepped into the room. Her face was twisted with rage. “Frederick Michael Fraser,
what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know. Kevin Acton told me how rude you were to him—how dismissive.” Even through her foundation, his mother’s cheeks burned red. Fox had never seen her so angry. “And apparently you said all of five words to poor Jean before leaving? You know better. We raised you better than that.”

  “Mom—”

  “Don’t ‘Mom’ me, mister.” She took a threatening step into the room, which only served to spike Fox’s pulse. No matter how he tried to calm himself and convince his psyche that there was no threat, he couldn’t stop himself from panicking. Trapped, he pressed himself into the corner until his back was flush with the wall. At least there he was safe from two sides. “Your father and I have been doing everything we can to help you feel welcome since you’ve come back, and this is how you act? I understand that you went through a hard time when you were in service—”

  “Shut up.” Fox bared his teeth. His head pounded and his heart lodged itself in his throat, where it worked hand in hand with his pulse to choke him. “You need to shut up.”

  “You will not tell me to shut up! I am your mother!”

  “And I’m your son.” Fox fisted his bedding in an attempt to ground himself, but the precipice inside was opening back up, and no matter how he fought for solid ground, the universe was starting to shift. Before long he’d lose balance and tumble into nothingness. “Don’t talk about what happened. Don’t tell me who I need to be.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever I want, because you need a reality check. What happened was awful, but it’s over. You went to therapy and you’re home now. You have no reason to keep acting like everyone should pity you. You need to go on and live your life and be a productive member of society. Even if the plane hadn’t crashed—”

  No.

  No. No. No.

  The universe tilted on its axis, knocking Fox into the darkness.

  Shifting pressure. The earsplitting screech of metal pushed beyond its limits. Pain. Pungent smoke. The smell of it flooded Fox’s nostrils until it was all he could smell. Scorched hair. Burning chemicals. Fuel.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was on his feet and had backed his mother into the hall. Her eyes were wide and her face had drained of color. Unable to form words and terrified over what he’d just done, Fox grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door shut before anything else could happen.

  Breathe, he told himself, letting the command echo through his head so it could drown out the voice telling him to fight. Breathe.

  “You need to leave,” his mother uttered from the other side of the door. Her voice was steel—cold and hard, unwilling to bend. “I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here.”

  Fox squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, but not even that could keep his lips from trembling. It was his fault and he knew it. The mistake, the crash, the fucking impulses that had turned him from a man into a slave. He wanted it out. All of it. Every last horrifying memory that festered in his mind like cancer. But all he knew how to do was breathe and talk himself down, and even that didn’t do shit half the time.

  There was no point in saying sorry when it would happen again.

  “I will not have you threaten me in my own house,” his mother seethed from the other side of the door. “If you’re not gone in half an hour, I’m going to call the police.”

  Tears of frustration leaked from the corners of Fox’s eyes, spilling messily down his cheeks. All of this was fucked up and there was nothing he could do to fix it—not unless his mother decided she wanted to listen. It was more likely he’d be hit by a meteor.

  When he said nothing, she continued. “When you’ve decided that you’ve calmed down enough to come home, then you can come back.”

  Only Fox didn’t think he wanted to.

  Ten years ago, he’d left town for a reason. Time had made him forget why, but he had no trouble remembering it now.

  While the darkness tugged at his ankles and begged him to come back, Fox gathered the few things that meant something to him and set out on his own.

  Behind the wheel of his Chevy, Fox had expected to find solace, but it never came. By the time he’d pulled down the driveway, his palms were sweating so badly he struggled to turn out onto the street. No more than five minutes later, in the heart of Bulrush’s downtown district of all places, the inside of Fox’s skull tightened. The world wobbled. With an airy gasp and a forced exhalation pushed between his teeth, Fox struggled to fight the pain and stay alert.

  He couldn’t drive like this. Hell, he could barely see straight. What he needed was somewhere safe—somewhere he could hide and not worry about what anyone thought of him—but without his bedroom to fall back on, he’d run out of options. There was nowhere left to go.

  Another second ticked by. The python squeezing his brain constricted again. The world blurred, then sharpened.

  Left without a choice, Fox pulled to the side of the street, left his car, and did what he needed to do.

  4

  Marshall

  In news that surprised no one, doing nothing in Bulrush was every bit as boring as doing nothing in Silicon Valley. To keep himself from going insane, Marshall spent the first couple of days after the move sweeping up errant sawdust and repositioning his furniture until it looked just right, but there was a limit to how many times he could drag an end table across the room, even in a five-bedroom house. When the art of distracting himself lost its appeal, Marshall left his meticulously swept floors and perfectly placed furniture to head into town, where Main Street was sandwiched by brown brick businesses with old-school awnings that turned the downtown core into a relic of the fifties. Marshall parked not all that far from the local florist’s shop, then strolled down the sidewalk to see what had changed.

  Not much, really.

  The same family-run businesses that had been doing well when he’d left town ten years ago were still there today. Some of the ones that had been struggling had closed—notedly Albert Parker’s travel agency, the athletic footwear business owned by an out-of-towner Marshall knew little about, and Cristine Larue’s women’s fashion boutique—but new businesses had arrived to take their place. Marshall was set to investigate one—a coffee shop called Bean There that reminded him of some of the quirkier businesses in California—when one of the nearby bushes dividing the sidewalk from the street sneezed.

  “Bless you,” Marshall told the bush.

  The bush didn’t answer, but it did rustle a little bit, which might have been its way of saying hello.

  Perplexed by what was going on, Marshall abandoned his quest to familiarize himself with the changes in town to investigate what was going on. A few passing pedestrians looked at him strangely as he stepped off the sidewalk and into the foliage, but it was their loss. Very few adventures started with sticking to the well-worn path.

  The sneezing bush didn’t object to being stepped in. It rustled again, then fell still. Marshall smoothed back several of its branches and unveiled its secret—the bush had swallowed a man. Not that Marshall could say he wouldn’t do the same if he’d been in its place. From what Marshall could see of him, the man wasn’t just a snack, but a whole meal. The main course was composed of a rugged jawline; crew-cut blond hair; a proud, almost hawkish nose; and a narrow but muscular build that suggested he was more than capable of fighting off a man-eating plant. Which made the situation all the more perplexing.

  When the man refused to meet his eye, Marshall dropped into a squat and let himself be swallowed, too. That way they both had something in common. “Hey.”

  No response.

  Marshall bit his lip and decided to risk making contact. He had every reason in the world to expect things to go poorly, but if he didn’t try, he’d never know. Using minimal pressure, he laid a hand on the man’s calf. “Hey?”

  The man blinked, but didn’t speak.

  Perhaps he was being digested.
r />   How unpleasant.

  “Um, hey. So. I don’t really know what’s going on, but I have a feeling you’re not in a good place right now, so I’m going to sit here and make sure you’re okay until you tell me to go away.” Marshall folded into a cross-legged position next to the man, and for a while, they sat in the bush together. No digestive acid rose up through the soil, which was a plus, but Marshall did notice a few other troubling things. For one, the way the man was breathing. Between periods of deep, mindful breaths he was hyperventilating. In conjunction with his refusal to acknowledge Marshall’s presence, Marshall figured out what was going on—Mr. Plant Chow was having a panic attack.

  Marshall’s typically cheerful demeanor sobered. He took a moment to compose himself, then sucked in a breath and committed himself to what his heart urged him to do.

  “How about we breathe together?” Marshall asked. He kept his hand on the man’s calf, establishing an anchor point. There was no way to tell if it was helping, but Marshall knew it was what he would have wanted were he the one being digested, so he persisted. “I see you trying and you’re doing a great job, but we need to take it an extra step. Focus on me and let’s get through this together, okay? We’ll take it one breath at a time.”

  Marshall counted out loud to guide his bush-sitting partner through an inhalation, then counted again when he was supposed to let it out. He repeated the process a few times, but it wasn’t until his fourth repetition when he heard the man start to breathe alongside him. They sat together in the bush and breathed until the man’s shoulders relaxed and his posture loosened.

  “You feeling a little better?” Marshall asked.

  “Yeah.” The man’s gaze flitted up to meet Marshall’s, and with it came a crashing wave of familiarity that swept Marshall away.