I’m wondering why the airbag didn’t detonate. The only way Mom agreed for Blake to drive this museum piece of a car was if he got it totally safety-checked. He said he did.
Of course, he said he did.
He probably decided that airbags weren’t true to the car’s spirit. I should have taken it to the garage myself.
I try to steady my breathing.
The weird thing is that the music’s still playing. Blake’s cover of Johnny Cash’s ‘Flesh and Blood’.
I reach out for the CD player and thump my palm against all the buttons, trying to make it stop.
‘Damn it!’ I yell, still thumping at the CD player.
‘It’s okay,’ a voice says beside me. ‘It’s okay.’
And then I remember I’m not alone. That Christopher’s sitting beside me, a guy who, a few hours ago, I didn’t even know existed. A guy who, more likely than not, just saved my life.
He reaches past me, pushes on the eject button and the CD slips out.
I sit back, my whole body shaking.
Neither of us says anything.
Then, his voice low and gentle, he asks, ‘What just happened?’
My eyes are closed now.
‘That was him.’ My words come out jagged, like my mouth has forgotten how to form words. ‘That was Blake, singing.’
I open my eyes and look back at the road. Everything looks normal: cars drive past us on either side. Headlights. Tail lights. No sign of the truck that we swerved to avoid.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice shaking. ‘It’s all been too much. And then hearing Blake’s voice.’
From the corner of my eye I see Christopher nod. And then he looks down at the CD player. My eyes follow his and I see Blake’s handwriting scrawled in Sharpie across the top: For Air.
I’ve listened to the CD he made for me so many times it should be worn out by now.
‘Your brother’s a musician?’
I feel blood in my mouth; I must have bitten my cheek as we swerved away from truck.
I can’t believe I haven’t told him this about Blake yet. It’s like you can’t mention my brother’s name without mentioning his music in the same breath. Blake is his music. And I assume that the world knows him already, which is stupid, I know. But then if you’ve lived with Blake, you’d understand: he was born with Destined to be famous stamped on his forehead.
‘Yeah. He’s a musician. He writes songs. Plays the guitar – has a band. He was on tour in England.’ I pause. ‘He’s even more successful over there than he is here.’ I stare out of the windscreen. ‘He loves London, especially.’
I stare out of the windscreen, feeling numb. And then I cover my face with my hands and dig my fingers into my scalp. My breath is ragged, like there’s not enough oxygen in the air.
‘All this is so messed up,’ I say.
I picture our special family breakfast at Louis’s tomorrow morning without me and Blake there. How Mom will be out of her mind with worry – and totally pissed that I’m not answering my phone.
And how, if Blake doesn’t show up in time for the wedding itself, I’m going to have sing instead of him. Which makes my stomach cave in on itself. He’s the one everyone wants to hear.
Blake’s words come back to me:
I’ll be there, no matter what.
I’d guessed there would be a screw-up. There usually is with Blake. And he’s made a fine art out of turning up late to things. It makes him even more noticeable – as if he needed that. But this is Jude’s wedding for Christ’s sake. This is different. This is the one time where he has to be on time. This is the one time where (besides the song) he doesn’t get to steal the show.
I take a few breaths to calm myself down.
I’ll be there, no matter what, I whisper to myself. No matter what. He promised.
And then I look back up at the stars.
Someone once asked me why I wanted to do it – to study the night sky, to be an astronaut. Why I was so obsessed with the world beyond the earth.
My answer was simple:
It makes me believe that anything’s possible.
But it’s like all that’s an illusion. I feel trapped. And totally powerless. Like even if the whole universe were on my side, it wouldn’t help me.
‘If Blake doesn’t make it to the wedding, I don’t want to go either.’
Christopher waits a beat and then, in a quiet way that’s louder and clearer than anyone yelling, he says:
‘Whatever’s going on with your brother, you’ll be there. For your family.’
I stare up at him. ‘I will?’
‘Yes, you will,’ he says firmly, like there’s no alternative. He looks at me through the strands of tangled hair that fall over his forehead. ‘You said that your sister’s wedding was the most important day in your family’s life, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So, you have to go.’
‘But what am I meant to tell them?’ I hold out my phone. ‘I’ve got all these missed calls from Mom. She’s wondering what the hell’s going on.’
‘Don’t tell them anything. Not yet. Just focus on getting to Nashville.’
I stare at him for a second. His grey eyes are so light, they’re transparent. He’s doing the job I usually do: he’s calming me down and telling me that it’s going to be okay and getting me to focus on finding a solution. It feels nice not to be the one sorting things out for once.
I nod. ‘You’re right. It’s going to be fine. Blake’s going to show up and it’ll all be fine.’
‘I didn’t say—’
‘He’ll show up,’ I talk over him. ‘And he’ll sing his song and everyone will forget he was even late.’
I press the words into my head.
‘Yeah, it’s going to be fine.’
I can feel Christopher staring at me. He doesn’t say anything.
I look at the steering wheel. Somehow, I have to find the strength to get going again – to drive those hundreds of miles to Nashville.
‘You still want to be driven by someone who nearly
