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“Hey,” Bright says when Colin climbs into the passenger’s seat.
“Hey,” Colin says. Conversation between them is awkward, stilted. Colin knows they were best friends, and he assumes they used to be able to carry a conversation without the long stretches of silence that have become the norm. They didn’t used to have to try, didn’t feel a need to hold back.
Colin would ask how all that changed, but he’s got brain trauma, he’s not stupid.
Silence hangs between them, and Amy’s absence is made abundantly clear.
“Hey, where’s Amy?” Colin asks, longing for her voice to be added into the mix. Things between Bright and Colin are slightly less awkward when Amy is there to fill the silence.
“Sick,” Bright says. “Or at least, that’s what she’s claiming. I know for a fact she’s secretly studying for the chemistry test she forgot was today.”
“Oh,” Colin says, and the silence returns.
Bright seems more fidgety than usual — tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, continuously clicking through the radio channels.
He doesn’t even listen to the radio channels before he changes them, just tap tap taps the button to a steady but rapid beat. His fingers on the steering wheel tap to the same beat. Colin finds himself tapping along. Bright doesn’t notice.
Bright doesn’t seem to notice anything, actually, save for the road ahead of him, which he’s focusing on intensely. He’s staring at the car ahead of him like his life depends on it. Colin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bright do anything so carefully.
Bright stops at an intersection and so does the tapping. Colin looks to Bright’s hands as he drives. They’re holding on to the steering wheel tighter than they should be, white-knuckled with the force of his grip.
“Are you okay?” Colin asks. Compared to his (very limited) memories of Bright, this whole thing strikes Colin as extremely out of character.
“Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Bright says, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself than Colin. His hands are shaky on the steering wheel.
“Bullshit, dude,” Colin says. “You’re like, shaking.”
“I’m fine,” Bright insists, and is it Colin’s imagination, or has he started shaking even harder? His face has gone pale and he kind of looks like he might be sick.
“Pull over,” Colin says. “Shit, Bright, pull over.”
Bright does.
“Shit,” he says, burying his face in his hands, and yeah, okay, this is definitely not the Bright Colin knows.
“Are you okay?” Colin asks, not knowing what to do. “Are you sick? Are you—”
“I need a second,” Bright says, cutting him off. “God, just give me a second.” There’s a note of panic in his voice, and Colin can’t figure out what the fuck is going on.
Bright runs a hand through his curls. Takes a deep breath, then another. Then another.
“I’m okay,” he says weakly after a few seconds. “I’m okay.”
“Dude, what was that?” Colin asks.
Bright sighs. Runs his hand through his hair again.
“I don’t like driving with other people in the car,” he says. “Hell, I don’t even like driving, but — ”
“You’ve been driving me and Amy to school for the past three months,” Colin points out.
“I—fuck, I know, I worked on it and I thought I fixed it, but now Amy’s not here and it’s just you, y’know?”
Colin does not know. He hopes this is established by the blank stare he gives Bright.
“I was driving on the Fourth of July,” Bright says, and Colin can tell how much it pains him to say it.
“I know,” Colin tells him. “That was like, the first thing you told me afterwards. Are you sure you’re not the one with brain trauma? ‘Cause I remember that perfectly.”
“Shit, don’t joke about that, man, I—shit, I can’t handle that right now,” Bright says, running his hands over his face.
“Sorry,” Colin says. Silence hangs in the air between them once more.
“I was driving,” Bright says after a while. “I was driving, and that fucked me up.”
“It wasn’t your fault, man—” Colin starts, but Bright cuts him off.
“I can’t fuck up like that again,” he says. “And when I put myself in a position to fuck up like that again, I just—I lose it.”
“You were drunk,” Colin tries, but Bright shakes his head.
“My dumbass brain doesn’t give a shit,” he says. “I’m fucking terrified of what I did to you, and I’m fucking terrified I’m going to do it again. I—I worked on it, after you woke up, I drove with my dad or Amy in the car so I could prove to myself I wasn’t gonna fuck it up again, but it’s—it’s just you and me right now, just like it was just you and me that day, and I really can’t handle that.”
Colin nods. “Oh,” he says.
“Can you—can you drive? Do you still have your license, or did me giving you brain trauma fuck with that?” asks Bright.
“You didn’t—”
“I did.”
“Bright,” Colin says. “It’s—we were both drunk, it was my dad’s car, it was probably my idea. It’s not your fault.”
“But—”
“Was it my idea?” Colin asks. Getting drunk and going for a joyride in his dad’s new car seems like the kind of dumbass thing Colin the First would do.
“Yeah, but—”
“Then it was my fault. And if you blame yourself for it again, I’ll fucking slap you.”
Bright looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. “So can you still drive?” he asks.
Colin sighs. “No.”
“Shit,” Bright says.
“I could still—”
“Fuck no,” Bright says forcefully. “I’m not—Jesus Christ. No.”
“You sure?” Colin asks. “I don’t want you to…” Freak out? Panic? Lose your shit? Colin doesn’t know.
“I’ll be fine,” Bright says. “It’s like, five minutes to school, I swear, I’ll be fine.”
Colin nods. “Okay,” he says.
Bright takes a deep breath and puts the car into drive.