They say life flashes before your eyes right before you die. That’s not how it happened for me. The streetlights spun like a kaleidoscope around me, and the screech of tires pierced until I nearly let go of the twisting steering wheel to clamp my hands over my ears. Every muscle in my body locked down as the white concrete divider loomed in the windshield, but all I saw were flash bulb images of things that would never be; moments I wanted to live more than anything else. Lia standing on the rocks by the Sound, the wind tossing her hair and white sundress in billows, her hand stretched toward me, engagement ring sparking in the sun, Milo, it’s the perfect place. Or a sweet, tired smile playing across her lips as she gazed down into the pool of blankets in her arms, the monitors blinking and buzzing around us, then looked up at me, She has your lips. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, our feet tangled in the middle as we read the paper and drank coffee, waiting for the kids to wake.

The first and last time I let myself weep was at the funeral last month, but this new devastation pummeled me. The ache of wanting her, the agony of losing any chance to be with her, and the loathing I felt toward myself and him, they pinned me to the seat as if a fifty-five gallon drum crushed my chest. I hadn’t been man enough to risk one thing, so now I would lose everything.

There was no denying it. I was too far gone.