18. Taylor

Taylor

I thought I fucked up the night I broke Huckslee's arm, but that was child's play compared to this.

Because I fucked up .

Tonight, I did something so despicable and unforgivable that I'll spend the rest of my life hating myself for it.

The minute I saw Huck's face when he realized I'd opened the curtain, I wanted to take it back. To change it. Rewind time to that night in the pool or when I kissed him on the track; rewrite our fucking stars because we can't come back from this .

I know I've lost him. With that one look, I felt whatever thread of fate that connected us obliterate, shredding my heart in its wake.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I'd been so blinded by rage, by jealousy at his lips on someone else and the fucking scholarship, that I hurt him in the worst way possible. Worse than anything I've ever done .

I'm racing out into the crowd, hollering at Christian to give me his fucking keys before booking it toward the parking lot. There's a rising panic in my bones, warning bells blaring at me that something is really wrong, and I need to get to Huck quickly.

Pulling out my phone, I intend to call him to apologize, beg him for forgiveness, and plead with him not to hate me when a text from an unknown number catches my attention.

Unknown: Hello Taylor, this is Bill Shulz with the Motorsports Park. I've been trying to reach you for a week regarding your scholarship. I would appreciate it if you could give me a call as soon as possible, as the details of your scholarship are time-sensitive. Thank you.

I'm almost to Christian's Bronco when I come to a halt, reading over the message two more times.

What the fuck?

Pressing the call button, I wait as it rings several times before someone picks up.

"Taylor Tottman, as I live and breathe," a gravelly voice answers on the other line, "you've been hard to get a hold of, son."

"Uh, hi. Bill Shulz?"

The man laughs. "The one and only. Look, Taylor, we have some paperwork down here at the track we need you to sign before we can submit your scholarship for the coming school year. Can you come in tomorrow?"

Fighting the icy dread clawing through my veins, I jump into the car and start it up. "Um, forgive me, Mr. Shulz, but I'm a little confused. I thought Huckslee Davis won the scholarship? He won the race."

There's a pause. "Did he not tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Frowning, I tap the speaker button and toss the phone onto the passenger seat to handle the shifter. Putting the Bronco into gear, I whip onto the street toward Huck's house. Something in the back of my skull is screaming at me to hurry, hurry, hurry .

"After winning the race, Mr. Huckslee informed us that he already had a scholarship and that he wished to transfer this one to someone else. That someone else, namely, being you."

What the fuck?!

My foot comes down on the break, tires smoking to a halt as my phone flies off the seat.

No, this can't be happening.

"So, will tomorrow work for you? I'll be out at the track, say, bout eleven?"

Guilt tears a hole inside of me so vast it's physically painful. I feel my throat swell, shame burning my stinging eyes.

God, what have I done?

"Taylor? You still there, son?"

"Yeah." My voice comes out in a ragged whisper, and I clear my throat, wiping away tears. "Yeah, eleven works fine."

"Super. See you in the morning, kiddo."

The line goes dead, and I grab my phone off the floor to call Huck. Putting the Bronco back into gear, I floor it toward his house as his phone rings and rings.

And goes to voicemail .

"Fuck." Hitting the call button again, I struggle to focus on the road as a wave of nausea barrels into me. "Come on, come on. Pick up the phone, goddammit."

But it only ever rings.

I don't even turn off the car when I pull into the driveway. I just pull the parking brake before flinging myself out, not even bothering to close the door as I bolt up the porch and into the house.

"HUCK!"

There's no response. It's quiet, almost eerily so, and that voice in my head is screaming at me louder as I run up the stairs.

Something isn't right. Something is off.

"Huckslee?!"

His bedroom is empty, and I notice the light on beneath the bathroom door.

"Hey, Huck, can we talk?" I knock, waiting for his usual biting response to greet me.

But it doesn't come.

"Open up, man." My fist pounds on the door. "Please. I'm so sorry."

Still, no response. Trying the handle, I find it locked.

An awareness prickles my scalp, like a sixth sense telling me that I need to get into the bathroom now now NOW .

"Huck, I'm coming in."

My shoulder rams into the door, but it doesn't budge. It's not some flimsy wooden slab like the ones in my father's trailer—this door is solidly thick. So I go again, over and over, until I feel my collarbone snap, burning pain shooting down my arm. But I don't stop. Not until the door is almost hanging off its hinges from being battered by my six-foot-two body.

Glancing through the cracks, all I see is blood. Adrenaline makes me dizzy, and when my arm is dead weight at my side, I kick until the door finally splinters off its hinges.

"Huckslee?"

No. No, this cannot be happening.

Please, no.

"...Huck?"

I'm so sorry.

Please forgive me.

God, I'm so fucking sorry.