Page 187 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“In general? Yeah. But right now, I’m serious. I’ve known you since our freshman year, Sinclair. You don’t look at any girls the way you look at her.”

I keep my eyes on the road. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tank turns toward me, propping his elbow on the window. “Okay. Then look at me and tell me you don’tlovethat girl.”

I snort. “I don’t—”

I turn my head for one second. And that second changes everything.

The impact happens so fast and jerks me so violently that I don’t even have time to react or brace for it as the other car slams into the passenger side. All I can hear is metal crunching. The car skids across the road and spins, glass exploding into the car, cutting my arms and face, and my chest instantly hurts from being slammed against the seatbelt and airbag. It’s so intensethat it knocks the breath out of me. My shoulder feels like it cracks, and pain explodes in my arm.

The entire world goes white.

When everything finally comes back into focus, it’s all blurry, and I don’t really know where I am anymore. I look up and see that the car is turned sideways in the middle of the four-way stop, smoke curling up from the hood. The engine is still running, making an awful sound that worsens the pounding in my head.

My heart is beating so fast that I feel sick all of a sudden.

“Tank?” My voice comes out hoarse. “Tank—”

I try to turn my head and then see he’s slumped sideways. He’s folded over in a way that makes my nausea grow even more. He’s not unconscious. He’s fully awake, and that seems worse. He looks like he’s in so much pain. His chest rises and falls like it’s taking all his effort. It’s like he’stryingto breathe…and can’t.

“Tank,” I choke out, unbuckling my seatbelt, fumbling, and panicking to help him. “Hey—hey, stay with me, man.”

I basically fall out of the car, my legs barely holding me up from the pain and weakness in them. The passenger side is crushed inward, and the handle is barely hanging on from the impact.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” I gasp out, yanking at it anyway.

It does nothing.

Tank wheezes with one hand clutching his side. “Mase…” he manages. “I—I can’t—”

I can see where his shirt is torn, and the flesh from his stomach is ripped open, tendons and bones exposed.

“Fuck. I know—” Emotions start to cloud my throat.

All I want to do is fix this.

I look over my shoulder and see it. The stop sign I missed.

I did this.

Fuck. I didn’t even see it. An overgrown tree hangs over the stop sign, making it barely visible.

I turned my head for a second. For a fuckingsecond.

The guy from the other car luckily gets out, not looking too badly injured as he walks over to us.

I turn back to Tank.

“I’m here,” I say, my hands shaking so badly that I can barely reach him through the broken window without cutting myself more. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

There’s blood everywhere, on him, on the seat, on my hands.

“I’m sorry,” I keep saying, over and over again, like it’ll somehow help. “I wasn’t paying attention. I swear—I swear I didn’t see—”

I start to hear sirens in the distance and want to feel relieved, but they sound too far away. He needs help—now.

Eventually, people start yelling around us, and someone tries to pull me back, telling me to let them help, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to let go. This is my fault. This is onme. He’s hurt because ofme.