Chapter 42: Twenty Eight-2

"I want the truth!" I'm yelling now, despite my better judgment but it works and my outburst seems to shock him into speaking. "If you're not from the future like you say you are, where the hell did you come from." His eyes dart up, his face, deadly serious. "I swear to you on my life that part is true. I never lied to you about that." "So what happened?" "We were at this museum opening. Ten years in the future. 2025. I didn't want to go, tried to convince you to stay in because the weather was miserable and we were both tired but you insisted. You demanded that we go because the woman who does your hair had artwork on display. And you support your friends, Lola. Always have. Always do." "So we're at an art show, what happened next?" "And you had one too many drinks." I splay my arms out to the side, "well we both know that wouldn't be the first time." "I didn't have a sip of booze. Not one. I was the designated driver. I'd never do anything to put you at risk." His voice drops low, but it's not the one that makes me melt inside, it's laced with heavy regret. My heart spring boards to my throat. It's so thick, swallowing becomes work. Butterflies in my stomach revolt and I want to puke. I don't like the darkness in Jackson's eyes, the terror in his voice. None of it belongs there. "What happened?" I ask, far more quietly than I intend. "It was raining. Torrential downpour. The kind of rain that is so heavy, the windshield wipers couldn't keep up. I didn't even see the other car." His voice begins to crack, to break. My heart joins in. Pulling, pulsing against my ribs. I asked. I demanded. I wanted to know. "I didn't see it, Angel. Biggest surprise of my fucking life." He pauses but only briefly before continuing. "Fucker must have been going 100 miles an hour when he hit us." I've never seen Jackson cry but I have a sinking feeling that I'm about to. "He hit the passenger side of our car," he says. "He hit your side of the car." The tears start to fall down his face and I understand completely what he meant when he said each tear steals a piece of his soul, because I feel mine leaving too. Oh God. Why? Why did I have to know? I stand up from Tori's bed and sit myself beside him, intertwining my fingers with his. "It's okay," I whisper. "It's okay." It's not okay. I hate myself for forcing him to say it. I loathe the agony that is visible on his face, the panic wrapped in his voice. I should have listened. I should have enjoyed the present and left well enough alone. He continues. "The paramedics had to slice it open like a tin can to get you out." Jackson's looks to the floor and he brings the palms of his hands to his eyes, trying to stop the tears from coming. "They were saying horrible things. The ugliest words I've ever heard. Trauma, brain injury, internal hemmorhage. I'd have done anything to shut them up." His jaw tenses. "I never wanted to beat anyone so badly as I did that guy, laying there on the stretcher, hardly a scratch on him." I place my hand on his shoulder blade. "Jackson, please don't cry." My plea is useless. The tears are making a steady stream down his face, slipping down his wrists and if I had ever had a moment of doubt for Jackson's love for me, it would have vanished completely in this moment. "They had to call an air ambulance. Took you in a helicopter. They wouldn't let me come with you," he says. "I thought it might be the last time I saw you alive." I don't want to know but I have to. "Did I die?" He ignores my question. "A cop drove me to the hosptial. He looked at me like it was my fault. Like I was the reason you were fighting for every breath." I move my hand up and down his shoulder blade. "Jackson, car accidents are just that-accidents. It's not your fault." "When I finally got to the hospital, you were in the ER with a full trauma unit around you. I couldn't even count the doctors and nurses on both hands. One of them was hovering over you with a defibrillator. I stood there and watched, and utterly and completely helpless. The only thing I could do was pray. I prayed harder than I have in all of my life. Swore to God I'd do anything, anything if he would just give me one more chance. One more day with you." "Do I die? Did I die?" The words feel foreign coming out of my mouth like they don't belong to me. I want him to answer. He shrugs. "I couldn't tell you one way or another. There I was praying, wishing, hoping, demanding a fucking miracle from the world. I closed my eyes for half a second and then I heard you, Angel. That perfect voice I was sure I was never gonna hear again. You were wishing to meet someone who could see you. A fierce, unhindered kind of love, the kind so deep it hurts. You were wishing not to be invisible anymore. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, to hear you better, in case it was the last chance I had to listen to you voice. I wanted to memorize everything about your about it. Next thing I know, I open them and I'm here, in this place with you. Ten years ago." "What?" "Lola, if you've never believed a word I've said to you, please believe this. I swear on my life that's God's honest truth. One hundred percent of it. I don't know how you wishing on the damned cupcake transported me here. I really don't. But I wasn't going to fuck around with the second chance I'd been given. I couldn't. You have no idea how badly I wanted to grab onto you the second you walked into that room. I wanted to hold you tight, never let you go." He squeezes my hand, hard. "I'll never take a single second for granted." "Zena said I die." He swipes the sleeve of his shirt across his face, wiping the wet tears across his cheeks. It's a useless endeavour because more fall in their place. "You can't die. If you die, everything I am dies with you." "Maybe we both die." "What did she say?" he asks. "Please, tell me what she said. Word for word." "She said a lot." I can't stand it any longer. I wipe his tears with my hands. "She said the way in which you came is the way in which I leave." "You coded, Lola. Maybe they save you. Maybe they can save you." Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. "They don't need to save me," I say. "If I die in ten years or fifty, you already did."