65. I Should Have Seen This Coming
Nicole was not a person I’d ever felt affection for, yet there was this lump in my throat at the thought of her hurt. A bigger swell of emotion for Clarke. I didn’t know why he loved that rotten woman, but he did. If she was hurt or dying … I didn’t know how he would react. I stared at the carnage that was our vehicle and started to shake. The front hood was smashed, nothing incredibly major but enough to have stopped the Escalade in the middle of the street. It was the giant truck stuck into the back of the vehicle that was the problem. A collision that had eaten Nicole’s seat in the crunch.
“She doesn’t wear a seat belt.” I looked up into the EMT’s face. “Nicole doesn’t wear a seatbelt.” Clarke used to get on to her about it, all the time, an old argument played on repeat between them.
“Do you know what day it is?” The woman held my chin and shone a light in my eyes.
“Wednesday.” I pulled away from her. “I’m fine. Do you know anything about Nicole?”
“No. I’m sorry.” She didn’t look sorry. She looked irritated, her hand quick and impersonal when she yanked the cuff off my arm. I looked for Dante, pushing off the hood of the car, a stranger’s car, and she held me down. “Don’t move.”
“Chloe.” Dante was there, a burn on his face, blood across his cheek but he was okay and I hugged him tightly. “They’re getting Nicole out now.”
“Is she okay?” I thought of when it hit. Her face. Her eyes on mine.
“I think she’s okay. Be glad she was sitting behind me, your side got the worst of it.” His eyes held mine, and I almost cried with relief. “Do you have your cell? Mine’s still in the truck.”
My cell. I reached into the pocket of my blazer. “Here.”
“Thanks. I’m calling Clarke now.”
I nodded, numbly noticing the cameras that had already shown up, the crowd starting, a few paparazzi present. Nicole would be crushed that she missed it, this opportunity in the spotlight. No … not crushed. I swallowed hard at my slip.
“Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?” the woman asked, and I shook my head.
“Is there a chance you are pregnant?” I shook my head again, my birth control shot the one appointment I never missed.
She dabbed a cut on my arm, and I flinched. Then, above the blare of a siren and the sounds of the city, I heard the most perfect sound: Nicole bitching.
I pushed to my feet, ignoring the EMT’s protests and ran through strangers, toward Nicole’s voice. She was strapped onto a stretcher and yelling, one arm waving, a man grabbing the wrist and securing it down. I came closer, and her eyes zeroed in on me.
“You!” I swear there was an accusation in her voice, and I raised my hands in innocence, my eyes darting over her. She looked filthy, her white sheath covered with air bag powder and dirt, her hair coming out of her ponytail, her makeup a mess. Combine all that with the panic on her face and she looked deranged, but, thankfully, very much alive. She jerked her head toward me. “Come here!” she hissed, and I stepped forward cautiously, her voice dropping and eyes darting, like she was about to share a secret. “I need you to go to the car, right now, and get my handbag. It was on the floorboard. These IDIOTS—” that word screamed at full force in the direction of the medics—“won’t get it for me.”
“Your purse?” I asked blankly, glancing over my shoulder at the remains of the SUV, which seemed likely to burst into flames at any second.
“Yes. It’s a black Birkin. Get it and keep it with you. Do you understand?” She pinned me with a look, as if her ten-thousand-dollar purse contained the cure for cancer.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Yes,” I corrected.
She stared at me blankly. “NOW!” she screamed, her good arm jerking.
“Sorry.” I nodded to Nicole, and turned back to the car, dodging my overbearing EMT and carefully approaching the wreck. I was stopped five feet away.
“Where are you going?” It was a cop, his face no-nonsense, no pity given to my injuries.
“I was in the crash.” I gestured toward it, in case he was confused. “I just need to get my boss’s purse.”
The guy’s head was already shaking before I finished the request, and I swallowed any explanations of a Birkin’s expense or the heights of Nicole’s fury before I looked like an idiot. “It has her insulin shots in it,” I bluffed. “The medics need it. If I could just have thirty seconds.” I did the begging hands, jumping up and down routine and felt the edge of my bandage pop off. His eyes darted to the stretcher, Nicole’s curses audible. “Please.”
“Thirty seconds,” he said gruffly. “Go.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, moving as quickly as I could, and pulled open the front door, the back one too mangled, and crawled over the center console, my eyes scanning the backseat floorboard. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw her purse, lying on its side. Its contents had spilled everywhere, and I leaned farther in, trying not to bump against anything, my hands grabbing at items and stuffing them quickly inside. Her iPhone, the screen cracked. Her moisturizer, then her keys. A few items had rolled under the seat and I stretched my arm, my nails digging into the edge of something plastic and I grimaced, sliding the object closer to me until I could finally get my fingers around it.
As soon as I saw it, I dropped it, a gasp slipping out, the stick rolling and I grabbed it before I lost it again.
So many memories, so many personal emotions tied to that simple white plastic piece, its window facing away. Just holding it felt like such a violation.
“Just do it already.” Vic banged on the bathroom door, his voice irritated. I said nothing in response, my butt bare on the porcelain seat, the expensive tile of his parents’ bathroom stretching before me. “It’ll be fine, whatever it is. Just do it.”
It didn’t feel fine. It felt like a war of emotions. It felt like I was between two different life paths and whatever was on that stick would, literally, change my life. I had unwrapped the package with trembling fingers. Read the instructions twice. Let out a shaky breath as I had completed the steps.
My test had been negative and I had learned a lesson from it, getting on birth control the very next week.
Now, even though it wasn’t my pregnancy test, I felt that same drop in my stomach. That same jittery moment of hesitation when I didn’t really want to know the results. I looked down, my hand closed around the stick.
It wasn’t my business to know. I should put the stick in her purse; gather up any other items, and leave.
I should forget that I even saw it.
Instead, I opened my palm and looked at it.