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All Ash can think of as he stares at the cracked windshield is how they’re going to be late for school.
He should call. Maybe someone around here will let him borrow their phone. He starts trying to get out, fumbling with his seatbelt, but he just can't seem to get it undone. His muscles aren't listening to him, won't work like he needs them to. Sluggish. Everything seemed to go so slowly only a few seconds ago; maybe he's stuck in slow motion now, while everything else is back to normal.
“Ashley?” Cheryl calls out to him.
Cheryl? Cheryl. How could he forget she was there?
He whips around to look at her, all thoughts from before scattered as he scans her for injuries. Nothing obvious, but that doesn't mean much. She looks more shaken than anything, staring at him with big, wet eyes filled with terror. His heart is pounding so hard that he feels slightly sick as he spots flecks of red on her sleeve.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” he asks.
He realizes, then, that he’s shaking. He’s never been scared enough for that before; odd, considering he doesn’t feel particularly scared now. He probably should be; he should be terrified, even, but he just feels… Well, he doesn’t really know what he feels. Just weird. Wrong. This is all wrong. Things like this aren't supposed to happen; not to him, not to them.
“No,” she answers. She's shaking, too. It should make him feel better, probably, but he only feels worse. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”
Right. Right.
He doesn’t feel hurt, but– oh.
There’s a cut on his arm; just one, it seems, and a pretty small one, too. That explains the blood. A cursory look at himself reveals no other injuries; only a few little stains on his clothes from the same wound. He feels perfectly fine, which only serves to make everything that much more surreal. He has half a mind to pinch himself, to check that he's not dreaming. Everything makes about as much sense as if he were.
“Mostly, yeah,” he tells her, looking out of his side window. Can he even get out like this? Is he supposed to? He’s pretty sure he’s not, but everything he learned in school seems so far away now, knocked right out of his head on impact. Impact. Did he hit his head? He should make sure Cheryl doesn't have a concussion.
Something stinks, like if gasoline could rot. There’s no smoke, and nothing’s leaking as far as he can tell. What the hell is that smell?
He should get out first, should check if anyone else was hurt (the driver’s side, he hit the driver’s side – did he just kill someone? But no one’s there, why is no one there?) and see how bad the damage is.
Before he can try to open the door, a face pops into the window, making him startle harder than he'll admit to later. A kindly looking woman; middle-aged, probably about his dad’s age. She starts to speak, muffled by the glass, so he rolls down the window to hear her.
“Are you two alright?” she frets loudly, though her expression remains infuriatingly even. He realizes she must have been driving the ugly blue thing that ran the red, and he almost feels bad for the sudden, probably irrational urge he gets to tear into her for putting his little sister in danger like that.
“Yeah,” he says instead, voice wavering but much more calm than he expects it to be, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. He feels weird, floaty. Speaking is a monumental task in a way it usually isn’t. He wants to say more, to ask her what the hell she was thinking, but he feels like if anything else comes out of his mouth right now, it's going to be vomit.
Her eyes flick down to his arm, and she nods. She says something about calling the police, walking off as she’s speaking, though he doesn’t particularly care to catch it.
He could have sworn the light was green. It was, wasn’t it? Cheryl complains about his driving, but she complains about everything. His dad refuses to get in a car with him, but he trusts him to drive Cheryl around – he’d even been the one to suggest it in the first place, and his dad barely trusts him to feed himself without choking. He’s a good driver, he knows that.
Doesn't he?
It’s not his fault. It can’t be his fault. Maybe if he were with Chet or even just by himself, but never with Cheryl. He wouldn't, couldn't do that to her, couldn't risk it. Never. He knows better than that. He does.
He might have just sat there for hours staring out of the window, struggling to comprehend the situation, if not for the quiet sniffle he hears from the passenger’s side.
He’s felt remarkably calm this entire time, but turning around to find Cheryl, trembling hard and starting to sob, it all feels like too much all of a sudden. He’s always hated seeing her cry.
He shushes her gently, leaning over to rub her shoulder. He doesn’t know what else to do, tears starting to well up in his own eyes even as he tries to fight them down. He doesn't get it. Nothing bad even happened, not really, though the damage is going to rain hell on his wallet. He and Cheryl might have to walk for a little while, but they survived doing that their entire lives until he got his license. His dad’s going to be pissed, but when isn’t he?
It could have been worse. If either of them had been going just a little bit faster, if he’d been just a little farther up on impact, if, if, if. There’s no real point in dwelling on bad things that could have happened but didn’t, but he just can’t seem to shake the thoughts away.
He wipes the tears away with his other hand, taking a shuddering breath and dimly wondering at how quickly they manage to dry up. He feels like there should be more. He's glad there aren't; crying always makes his head hurt, and his arm on its own is bad enough already.
His head feels fuzzy for the next… how long is it? Half an hour? Less? He’s not sure. But it all passes by in a blur as the sirens get closer, as his cut is bandaged up (an ambulance feels like a bit much to him, but he doesn’t say it) and he and Cheryl fill the cops and paramedics in on the details.
Yes, he was driving. No, he didn’t pass out. Yes, sir, he’s sure he had the green light. He thinks so, at least. He did, didn't he, Cheryl?
Most of the damage was on her side of the car. Ash forces himself not to think too hard about that.
“What time is it?” he asks the closest officer as they stand on the sidewalk, waiting for the tow truck to arrive. Another expense to worry about. His dad is going to kill him.
Glancing down at his watch, he informs them that it’s a little past 7:00. Ash nods and thanks him. Their dad won’t have left for work yet, most likely.
“Wait here,” he tells Cheryl, jogging off towards one of the nearby houses.
He knocks on the door, hoping whoever’s behind it is even awake at this hour. Why couldn't this have happened on the way home?
Nothing like a good car crash to wake you up, he thinks, though he doesn't really find it all that funny. Cheryl would probably hit him for it, which helps a little. She makes it too easy, sometimes.
A woman who’s probably in her 30s opens the door for him. She looks confused for a moment, eyebrows shooting up when she glances behind him to see the officers standing with Cheryl by his wrecked car. He suddenly feels embarrassed; it’s not a good look for him, what with the damage all being in the front.
“Could I use your phone?” he asks anyway.
She nods somewhat distractedly, an ‘of course’ at her lips as she ushers him in and shows him to her phone.
His fingers are still shaking as he punches in the digits, slipping on the spaces in between the numbers. He almost has to start over a few times, but he manages to get it in one try, if slowly.
The phone rings. And rings. And keeps ringing. The sound has never been so horrible before, piercing through his ears and worsening the headache he’s just now starting to feel. The horrible sound from earlier, shattering glass and crushing metal that he only half-remembers is echoing in his ears now. He shifts nervously on his feet, rocking gently, praying for something to actually go right today until he finally hears a voice come through.
“Hello?” his dad questions gruffly. “Who is this?”
“Hey, Dad,” Ash responds almost sheepishly. His voice warbles a bit as he’s suddenly struck with the childish want to run and hide in his father’s arms, even though he hasn’t so much as patted him on the shoulder in years. He hopes it's not audible through the phone.
“Ashley?” he grouches. “What's going on? What are you calling for?”
“Uh,” he stutters. He's known this whole time that he'd be in for it, and he's not exactly unused to incurring his dad's wrath. Suddenly, though, it's a lot harder to say it once he actually has to face him. He's not really scared of his dad, not for a long time; still, he finds himself hesitating.
“We were in an accident," he finally manages to say. "We’re okay, but–”
“What?!” he demands. “Is Cheryl alright?”
The words land as harshly as if they were a blow to the gut. He doesn't quite understand why. He feels like he's not understanding much of anything today.
“Yeah, Cheryl’s fine. No injuries,” he reports in a voice that’s strained despite his best efforts, ignoring how the urge to start bawling that he’s been trying to fight since the first bout of tears ended is suddenly about five times stronger.
“Are you sure? Did you check her for bruises? Concussion? I swear to God, Ashley, if–”
It’s all just too much, too much all at once, too much to have his dad yelling at him while he’s already kicking himself over it all. He tries to hold it back even as fresh tears spring to his eyes, but he can’t help choking on a pathetic little sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a whimper.
There’s a brief stretch of silence from the other end. There’s not a lot that can catch Brock Williams off guard. Ash just figures he’s just gone and pissed him off more by acting like a sissy over what he no doubt believes is his own fault.
“Ashley–”
“Jesus,” he weeps, not wanting to hear his dad tell him how badly he screwed up, like he doesn't already know. Indignation gets the better of him, and the words fall from his lips faster than he can think about them. “Can't you lay off?”
The lack of an immediate response has him instantly regretting it. He can't think of anything else to say, knowing an apology would probably only make things even worse. It just makes the tears flow faster, frustration and helplessness building up inside faster than he can hope to try and tamp down on them. It's ridiculous; he shouldn't be acting like this, like a child. Regardless, it's all he can do not to start sobbing in earnest.
After a moment, a heavy sigh crackles through the phone.
“Just– Where are you?” he asks impatiently.
Sucking in a stuttering breath, Ash glances out of the woman’s living room window to spy the street sign. He can’t quite catch what it says from where he's standing.
Looking over his shoulder, he sees her watching him with a sympathetic look. He almost winces, realizing she’s no doubt heard everything, at least on his end. No use being embarrassed now, he supposes.
“Um,” he starts, holding the phone away from his mouth. She smiles tightly at him, brows furrowed in what might be worry. He can’t tell if that feels nice or just makes him more uncomfortable. Maybe a bit of both. “What street are we on?”
He relays the information about as quickly as he receives it, and before he knows it, he’s been hung up on with an order to wait where he is for his dad to come get them.
He sets the phone down with a click, glancing back at the older woman again.
“Thanks,” he says simply, when he suddenly realizes he doesn’t know her name. “Um…”
“Madeline,” she finishes for him, flashing him a kind smile. It’s still weird to him, referring to adults by their first names. He guesses, though, that he’ll technically be one soon himself.
Eighteen, just a few months away. It still doesn’t feel real, especially now. Now, he’s ashamed to admit, he just feels like a scared little kid.
“Well, thank you again, Madeline,” he says, trying to smile as he waves and walks towards the door.
“Of course,” she replies. “Stay safe, okay?”
He just nods, something more genuine dragging his lips upwards just that little bit.
He goes back out to stand next to Cheryl while they wait for their dad. She keeps looking over at him, worried, though he’s not sure why. He's more worried about her, about potential bruises that might not show up for days, about internal damage that might have been missed or a blow to the head that went forgotten with how sudden everything was.
His arm hurts. He’s not sure if he wants to go home and just sleep for ten hours or hurl his guts up more. His right hand won’t stay still, fingers tapping some nonexistent beat against his leg until Cheryl takes it in hers. She gives it a squeeze, which he returns. It helps, a little. If the way her shoulders relax just a little bit is any indicator, the feeling is mutual.
Ash doesn't think he'll be comfortable letting her out of his sight for a while after this. He never really does, though he's learned to tamp down on it over the years. She won't appreciate him hovering, even as much as she's indulging him right now. The thought makes him tug her a bit closer to him.
She lays her head on his shoulder, breaths deliberately deep and even. He thinks then that she just might understand, just like she'd understood when he used to barge into her room after a bad nightmare when they were kids. They're too old for that now, too old for her to tolerate the coddling or to stay up trading stories and bad jokes with him on nights he can't sleep. Sometimes Ash doesn't know how he'll handle getting much older at all, if this is what growing up is. It all seems so awfully lonely.
But for the moment, at least, they can have this.
He's not nearly as tense as he thought he'd be when their dad finally shows up. He’d thought that getting in a car again so soon after the accident would be far more nerve-wracking, but he guesses he’s just too tired for that. Still, it makes him a little anxious, seeing how fast everyone’s going, even though they’re all more or less within the speed limit.
His dad doesn’t say much, beyond asking Cheryl if she still wants to go to school. Ash doesn’t hear her answer. He doesn’t ask Ash anything, barely glancing at him the whole way. That’s fine by him; he doesn’t have much of anything to say to him. He figures there’s going to be enough of that later, and he really doesn’t want to get into it with him while Cheryl’s there. She always hates it when they fight.
He and his dad used to be close. They still are, sometimes, but it’s weird between them. Strained. He’s not sure what he did, but it was like a switch was suddenly flipped, and he doesn't know how to turn it back. Nowadays, it’s like nothing he ever does is right, like he’s just waiting for him to slip up, and Lord help him once he does.
It’s not like his dad was ever the most affectionate, but he wasn’t quite distant, either, not like he is now. He’d only ever come to a couple of his recitals, could rarely be found in the stands at his games, but he'd still at least show up every now and then. It's been years since he's even acknowledged that Ash does anything but go to work and school. Ash is fine with that, really. His dad is busy, he knows that, and he's almost an adult; he doesn't need to look to him for approval anymore.
He can admit, though, that it did hurt just a bit when he realized that he’d always found the time to make it to Cheryl’s art shows.
But even that's fine. Cheryl has always been different. Younger, more sensitive. It doesn’t mean anything, except maybe that his dad trusts him to be mature about it. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
His dad used to be big on nicknames when they were younger. He’d even been the first one to ever call him ‘Ash.’ Cheryl had always been Cher, his princess, his sweetheart. These days, Ash is just Ashley.
And again, it shouldn’t hurt. He’s almost a grown man, he shouldn’t care if his dad still calls him ‘buddy’ or wishes him goodnight, if he gives him advice like he used to or responds to him when he says goodbye, if he ever hugs him again or even seems to like him much at all. It shouldn’t hurt, but he can’t lie to himself; it hurts like hell.
His headache worsens as they pull up to the school, and he knows it’s going to be a long day. As Cheryl leaves the car and he moves to follow her, a hand on his uninjured arm stops him.
His dad looks past him to where Cheryl is waiting for him to follow, smiling at her. He can't seem to remember the last time his dad smiled at him like that.
“You go on, honey,” he tells her. “I’m taking Ashley home with me. We’ll see you later.”
This is news to Ash. Cheryl just nods, even as she looks about as confused as he feels, waving and bidding them a soft ‘goodbye’ as she turns to head into the building.
He doesn’t bother to ask about it as they pull out of the lot and head back towards the house. Neither says another word for the remainder of the drive.
When they get back home, all Ash wants to do is sleep. He bets he won’t get to for a while, though, not if his dad has anything to say about it. The car door is opened for him, so he gets out with a mumbled ‘thanks’ and trails after him to the front door.
As it’s closed behind them, as his dad wanders over to the kitchen without a word, Ash is bracing himself for the verbal lashing he’s surely in for. He’s too tired to try and defend himself, not that he thinks he really could, so it’s probably going to be pretty one-sided. He's not usually one to take things lying down, but maybe things will end quicker if he just nods along this time. He hopes it’s not taken as giving him the silent treatment instead.
“Ashley,” his name is called from the kitchen.
He obediently follows the voice, collapsing into one of the chairs by the table and fighting to not doze off. A soft clink of glass against the wood rouses him, and he rubs his eye.
“Drink this,” his dad instructs, gesturing to the water he’d just placed in front of him. Ash follows easily. His throat’s been dry for an hour now. Has it really been an hour already? (Has it only been an hour?)
He places the glass back on the table, now empty. His dad nods, expression betraying nothing as he sits down across from him.
Here it comes.
Except it doesn’t.
He stares down at his hands, fidgeting with them atop the table as he waits for the scathing words he figures are in store for him. He studies the wooden surface, the little scratches that had slowly been piling up over the course of his life. There are stories behind a few of them, though even fewer are ones he remembers. Minute after minute passes by, and all Ash hears is his own breathing and the occasional turn of a page.
He chances a glance up to find his dad reading the newspaper. It's like he's forgotten he's even there.
“I thought you had work today,” he says, against his better judgement. He could kick himself. He really doesn’t know what’s wrong with him today. Or ever, really.
His dad only briefly flicks his eyes up to him before going back to his paper.
“I called in,” he states simply.
“...Oh,” Ash replies awkwardly.
He goes back to picking at the underside of his nails. His hands have stopped shaking by now, but he still feels off-balance. His head still doesn’t feel totally clear, though he can’t tell if that’s just the adrenaline wearing off or something more.
You’re not supposed to sleep with a concussion, he’s heard, but he can’t remember where from. It’s probably fine, not to mention he doesn’t have a concussion. At least, he doesn't think he does.
He wonders if his friends are missing him right now. He thinks about that a lot more than he probably should. He's always felt like the odd one out with them, like he could walk away at any time and no one would notice.
That's part of why he likes Chet so much; quiet, kind of awkward, usually on the sidelines. They've always been kindred spirits in that way. If no one else is wondering about him, if no one else is in his corner, he knows Chet always will be.
'Til the wheels fall off.
The thought makes him feel a bit better.
He takes a deep breath. If his dad won’t bring it up, he’ll just have to, then.
“About earlier,” he tries. “I'm sorry.”
“We don’t have to talk about this,” his dad says, shutting him down without even looking up.
It’s probably meant to be kind, or as kind as he ever gets. He's giving him an out, not making him explain himself for once. But Ash finds that he does want to talk about it.
He wants his dad to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he did the best he could. He wants to be reassured, told that it’s okay; no one was hurt, and isn’t that good enough?
“Okay,” he says instead, resigned. He doesn’t know what else to do.
Just being in a car is hard for weeks afterward, not that he’d ever say it. Everything’s going too fast, even though he could keep up with it all perfectly fine just a few days earlier. Every stoplight makes him flinch, terrified at every intersection that someone’s not going to stop like they should.
Driving is even harder. Driving with Cheryl feels impossible. He does it anyway; if she’s fine, then he should be fine, too. Nothing bad even happened, at least not anything a few stitches and a good mechanic couldn't fix.
Driving used to be almost relaxing for him, one of the few things he was always confident in. It was like riding a bike, until it wasn't. By the time college hits, he's left wondering if it's ever going to feel easy again.
Scotty teases him about it often, telling him he drives like a grandpa, that it wouldn't kill him to go just a mile or two faster. Ash just laughs along like he always does. Cheryl frowns like usual whenever she's around to hear it, but she never says anything. He knows she doesn't like Scotty, and he wishes he could blame her. Regardless, they don't talk about it. They don't talk about most things these days.
The world feels impossibly big now. Too much that could go wrong, too much that's out of his control. It's a relief, in some ways, when Scotty all but forces him to let him take the wheel for most of the trip down to Tennessee. As much of a jerk as he can be, he knows he can trust him not to do anything life-threateningly stupid.
And years on, driving will be even easier than riding a bike. The overabundance of caution he has now will be forgotten almost entirely, because what will it matter anymore, after everything that's going to happen?
Because what he doesn't know yet, what he will come to know all too well, is that there are far worse things out there than a car crash.