Later I would learn that we’d spun out until my side of the car made solid contact with a telephone pole, caving in my side, though Dean’s half of the car got it far worse.

I was still staring at him, at his crushed, bloody body, his blank, empty eyes, when my side hit.

No one ever had to tell me.  I saw Dean die.

I never so much as asked about him after that.

I remember that my head smashed onto the dashboard.  I remember the windshield breaking, bits of glass embedding itself into the skin of my face, chest, and arms, but that was but a taste as it was followed almost instantly by a burning pain in my stomach that I’d never forget, as the frame in my hands broke into pieces and stabbed into several vital parts of my belly.

I don’t know to this day if I screamed out loud, but deep down in my soul, in the place inside of me that was bursting to be a mother, that pined for it, that lived and breathed for the day that I could give birth to my own child, my own flesh and blood, that part of me screamed, “Nooooo!”

It was quite possible that, somewhere deep down, I never stopped screaming it.

That pain was profound and unforgettable, but the agony of my leg being crushed was what finally, blessedly, made me black out.

When I woke again in the hospital, recovering from multiple surgeries, I didn’t have to ask.

I knew.

I’d lost everything in that car.

Only, even I didn’t know what all that loss entailed.

TRISTAN

I woke with a start.  My head was killing me, bile rising in my throat before I’d even opened my eyes.

I kept those eyes closed for a moment longer, my hands reaching out to feel the naked body beside mine, and then, with something akin to horror, another one, on my other side.

I recoiled when my hand skimmed over one plump breast.

I stumbled out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I began to wretch.

I emptied the contents of my stomach in huge, racking heaves.

I had no idea who it was in my bed, but I knew who it wasn’t, and that was enough to scare me sober.

She can’t find out, she can’t find out, she can’t find out, ran like a mantra in my head.  We’d broken up, and she’d stopped taking my calls over a month ago, had in fact divorced me without so much as a phone call, but still, I’d been faithful before this.

I knew that this was unforgivable.  It felt unforgivable.

I was in the shower, washing away the night’s sins, when pieces of the evening started coming back to me.

I remembered the fucking speedballs, the shots, and a whole lot of fuzzy details in between.  The fucking morbid tribute to my brother, remembered not caring what happened to me, maybe even hoping that something bad would.  Maybe I’d wind up in the hospital, and she’d feel so bad for me she’d take me back, I remembered thinking.

She’d been at the apartment, I recalled, in horror.  Said she’d needed to tell me something, but I couldn’t remember what it had been.  Had she told me and I’d forgotten, or had she not told me at all?

Of all of the nights for her to come and see me…things couldn’t have turned out worse.

Had she come back to reconcile?  I felt so sick with guilt that I couldn’t bring myself to call her with two sluts still in my bed, but I had to find out why she’d come.

When I was clean again, my body, if not my soul, I walked with dread back into my bedroom.  The two naked women were awake now, one calling out my name as she sat up to lean on her elbows.

I barely saw her, barely saw either of them, my eyes fixed on the spot above my bed where a picture should have been.

My gut twisted with dread.

Had she just come to get it?  If so, was that a good sign, or a bad one?  Had I given it to her, or had she taken it?  I needed answers, but first, I needed to empty my bed, and burn all of my sheets.

I told the girls to get dressed, visibly cringing every time they made mention of the night before.  I didn’t recognize either of them, and doubted I could have picked them out of a lineup.  One had dark hair, one had light brown, both had fake tits.  That was about as much as I noticed.

The dark haired one approached me, trying to get close.  My arm flew out, warding her off.

She smiled, unfazed.  “You were amazing last night.  Even with two of us, we couldn’t keep up with you.  You were a fucking stud.  Fucked us silly.”

I ran my hand over my face, wondering if I was going to throw up again.  “Go, please.  I was trashed last night, and I don’t particularly want any reminders about all of the fucked up shit I did.”

They didn’t move, just staring at me.

“Get the fuck out!” I roared at them.  “Just get the fuck out of my room!”

Finally, thankfully, that got results.

I cleaned my room, top to bottom, disinfecting every surface.  I gave my bathroom the same treatment, since I was fuzzy on all of the sordid details from the night before.

I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or further horrified when I saw that my wastebasket contained several used rubbers, but least I’d used some form of protection.

I threw up again.

I threw out my sheets.  I only had one other set, but I didn’t care.  I took them out to the dumpster like the trash they were.

I showered again, brushed my teeth, then went to work some more with the disinfectant wipes.

It was three in the afternoon when I called her.

It went directly to voicemail.

I took another shower.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Would she ever forgive me?  Was there any way I could keep it from her?  I hadn’t been unfaithful.  Not technically, since we’d been very clearly broken up, but a technicality did not alter the way I felt, and the way I felt was wretched.  In my heart, I was still married to her.

Would I be able to forgive myself if she’d come here to reconcile, to give me another chance, and I’d trampled over it in my hell-bent path of self-destruction?

That answer was easy to find.  No.

I called her, got her voicemail, and cleaned my room again.

This went on for days.

Five days later, I got a phone call from Dean’s mother with news that would change my life.

She threw the details at me too fast for me to understand, her tone almost blank.

“Dead?” I repeated back to her.  I hadn’t seen him in days, but that was hardly unusual.  I was shocked beyond all comprehension.

Even so, I was not prepared for what came next.

“He had a passenger in the car, too,” she continued, and I thought she must truly be in shock to be acting so calm when her son had just died.  “Some girl that worked for your manager, Jerry.”

I was in my room, back to the wall, and I fell against it, sliding to the floor, nearly dropping the phone.  “Wh-what did you say?” I asked her, my voice a terrified croak.

“There was a girl in the car with him.  The car is totaled, by the way.  He’d have had a serious drunk driving charge on his hands, if he’d survived.”

“What happened to the girl?  Is she okay?”

“The girl?  Oh…did you know her?  I’m not sure what happened to her.  I didn’t ask.”

I hung up, calling Jerry.

Thankfully, he answered on the third ring.

He answered with, “She’s okay, Tristan.”

Following panic came fury.  “Why didn’t you tell me?  This was days ago!  How could you keep this from me?”

There was a long pause on the other end.  “Listen…Tristan…she doesn’t want to see you.”

My free hand reached over to my arm and began to scratch mindlessly at the skin of my other forearm.

Gut roiling, heart twisting, I asked, “She said that?”

“I’m sorry, man.  Have to respect her wishes.  She seems very resolute.”

“What hospital, Jerry?”

He sighed audibly.  “You don’t want to come here, Tristan.  It’ll be better if you don’t.”