Josh slams into the car in front of us harder than he slammed into me an hour earlier, in a rush to finish and get somewhere fast. I’m almost jealous of that Honda Civic, the way he rams her into the crosswalk, pedestrians scattering like scandalized mice. My head snaps back so fast, I see God, feel his fingers down my jawline.
At the hospital, the doctor is tall and dark-haired and younger than me. He asks if I am in pain, and I say, “Always.”
Josh is talking to a cop, trying to lower-lip-tremble his way out of a reckless driving charge. The officer is not handsome at all, but the doctor is—very—and it’s all I can think about. He’s wearing a crucifix and the tiny gold Jesus is watching me.
“Whiplash,” the doctor says.
“Whip…lash.” I want to laugh for some reason but can’t say why. It’s only later when I’m dipping saltines into orange juice that I figure it out: whiplash—it’s kinky-sounding and that’s why I wanted to laugh, and I’m so glad I didn’t. I realize I’d let Josh do anything to me, which means I love him, and I sure hope he doesn’t go to jail.
While the nurse takes my vitals, I tell her I believe in God now. She’s in a rush but still has time to smile. “That’s good, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”
Morrigan Byalin is a Creative Writing MFA student at Boston University and a volunteer screener for Ploughshares. Her work is forthcoming in The Lowestoft Chronicle, The Genre Society and will be anthologized in Spoon Knife. Follow her on Instagram @morriganbyalin.