Shannon: Did you hear? I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.
Me: ?
Shannon: They dropped the charges against #BradFreeman. Apparently the witness to the actual accident is a big fat liar and Freeman’s hotshot lawyer got the BAC results thrown out.
Me: Why are you hashtagging him in a text?
Shannon: IDK. Habit, probably. Shit is blowing up everywhere. Everyone is pissed. They’re calling for Dallas’s parents to file a wrongful death lawsuit.
Me: Dallas wouldn’t want that.
Shannon: I would if it were me. I don’t care if he was officially drunk or not. His bad choices killed Dallas. He deserves to be punished.
I flinch. She has no idea how close to home she’s hitting. Still, part of me is flooded with relief. Maybe this is a sign. If the charges have been dropped, maybe everything will finally go back to normal and I won’t have to tell the world what really happened. Maybe no one needs to know I lied and have been letting someone else take the blame for it.
I’ve read so many stories online about how tragedy brings people together, how hard times encourage bravery and sacrifice, how a crisis can turn ordinary folks into heroes. But what about the opposite, when something horrible happens and it strips us bare, exposing weaknesses we didn’t even know we had. What about when tragedy makes people worse?
I don’t want to be that story.
For the next couple of weeks, I actually let myself believe things are getting back to normal. Shannon is busy at the pool during the day and has started hanging out with her sexy lifeguard partner Niko in the evenings. She still texts me most days, but finally seems to have gotten the hint that I don’t want to hear about Brad Freeman or the possibility of a wrongful death lawsuit. Dallas’s parents haven’t contacted me about it. Mom and I talk every couple of days and she hasn’t mentioned anything about a lawsuit either. She tells me how one of her scrub nurses convinced her to take a pottery class and that’s she’s enjoying the challenge. She sounds happier than she has for a while.
At Zion, work on the touch trail continues. On the weekend, Rachael has six Boy Scout volunteers and Elliott rustles up extra Pulaskis so everyone can chip in. By the end of the day on Sunday, we’ve completed the first stage of the trail—digging the trench.
Next we have to level the trail. Rachael says the natural surface will work best if it’s the same thickness all the way around, so Halley, Elliott, and I walk the trench and use shovels and trowels to even out any rough patches and fill in dips or divots.
It takes another couple of days to complete this. Elliott and I are friendly at work and often eat lunch together—sometimes with Halley too—but he hasn’t invited me back to his Ninja Warrior gym and I kind of miss it.
It takes me until Friday, but I finally work up the nerve to ask him if I can come by the gym at some point on the weekend.
“What are you doing later tonight?” he asks.
“No plans,” I say.
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“Maybe I should just jog down to the store,” I say, thinking of my dad’s insistence that Elliott come inside and pick me up properly.
“I’m not afraid to get grilled by your dad,” Elliott says with a grin. “Besides, what kind of friend would I be if I let you go running around by yourself in the dark? It’s dangerous.”
“It won’t even be dark yet. And did you actually say dangerous?” I snort. “When’s the last time this place had any actual crime?”
“Does parking in a no-parking zone count?” Elliott asks. “If so, yesterday. But still. You could trip over a rock squirrel, maybe fall into a cactus.”
“Okay. I’m convinced. You can pick me up.” A tiny smile forms on my face. “I’ll be ready at eight.”
True to his word, Elliott comes to the door right at eight and knocks sharply. My dad is in his study reviewing some surgical case notes while Rachael putters around the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner and loading the dishwasher.
“I’ll get it,” I say, hopping up from my spot on the sofa.
Dad appears in the doorway behind me. “Well, don’t you look . . . sporty.”
I’m dressed in capri-length exercise pants that hide my leg scar and a hot pink running shirt, a zip-up hoodie open over my shirt just in case Elliott and I decide to go back on the roof. My hair is twisted into a braid, my now-standard wide headband fastened in place with a handful of bobby pins.
“That’s because we’re going to work out.” I give my dad a look. “This is not a date,” I hiss before opening the door.
Elliott stands on the porch in black-and-white warm-up pants and a Zion T-shirt. His hair looks damp, like maybe he just got out of the shower.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Dad says. “Invite the poor boy in.”
“Come on in,” I say through gritted teeth. “Your turn to be tortured.”
Elliott laughs. “It’s good to see you again, sir,” he says. “I’ll be sure to have Jen back by her curfew.”
“What are you guys planning to do?”
“Dad! I already told you all this,” I mutter.
“It’s fine,” Elliott says. “I’m not sure if you know, but my dad Garrett competes every year on American Ninja Warrior. He’s built himself a practice gym that we might turn into a summer camp for aspiring competitors, but right now it’s just a bunch of random obstacles. Jen and I are going to get our ninja on for a couple of hours.”
My dad clears his throat. “Is it safe?”
“It’s pretty safe. We’ve got mats everywhere. The worst she’ll end up with is a few scratches and bruises.”
“I did it before, and look, I’m fine,” I point out, before my dad can object. “Is this interrogation almost over?”
Rachael hollers something from the kitchen about making ice cream sundaes and my dad decides to let us leave. “Have her back with minimal scratches and bruises, please.”
“I’m not a porcelain doll,” I say.
My dad sighs deeply and I can tell he wants to make a comment about how I’m breakable, but he’s promised not to talk about the accident. “Just be careful,” he says finally. “Both of you.” He turns toward the kitchen and Elliott and I head outside.
“Jeez,” I say after the door closes behind us. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind.” Elliott grins mischievously as we both hop into his truck. “I might have forgotten to mention that you have to meet my dads, too.”
“What? Why?”
“Because they’re both at the gym tonight.”
Immediately I pull my phone out of my purse and start fussing with my appearance, tucking wispy pieces of hair back into my braid and wiping away bits of smudged eyeliner.
Elliott glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “You look fine.” He coughs. “I mean, you look great. But they’re not going to care about your appearance.”
I put my phone away. “Sorry, whenever I meet parents, I always imagine it’ll be like someone meeting my mom. And then I get nervous.”
“Your mom would care what I look like?”
“My mom cares about everything. She’d draw conclusions based on your hairstyle and the condition of your shoes.”
“Yikes. I guess that explains why you always look so put together.”
“Perfect on the outside, a complete mess on the inside,” I say.
Elliott grins. “Let’s get your insides fixed up then.” He pulls into the parking lot in front of Zion Outdoor Experts and we head into the gym.