Naomi looked at him.
“Doing what?”
“Corporate philanthropy.”
“You're supposed to shake hands with important people, not actual families.”
She laughed.
That was the beginning.
Their relationship moved quickly because both believed they were old enough to know themselves.
Maybe they were.
Ethan was kind without being soft.
Funny without needing an audience.
He remembered waiters’ names.
Called his mother every Sunday.
He had an infuriating habit of turning every disagreement into a question.
Naomi hated that.
Then loved it.
He proposed fourteen months later.
Not with a ring hidden in dessert.
Ethan knew she would hate that.
He proposed in Naomi’s kitchen while she was barefoot and arguing about insurance deductibles.
She stared.
“Now?”
“Seems efficient.”
She laughed for five minutes before saying yes.
They never got to marry.
The crash happened four months before the wedding.
The day began normally.
Naomi worked until noon.
Ethan picked up the car from a private garage after a routine brake inspection.
The garage belonged to a mechanic his family had used for years.
They drove to the charity event.
No warning lights.
No strange sounds.
Nothing.
At 10:46 p.m., they left.
Rain had started.
Ethan drove.
Naomi sat beside him removing earrings.
They were arguing affectionately over whether to stop for food.
Then a delivery truck crossed the center line.
Ethan hit the brake.
Nothing.
Naomi heard him swear.
The car continued.
He pumped the pedal.
No resistance.
He tried steering away.
The truck clipped the front corner.
Their car spun.
Struck the concrete divider.
A second vehicle hit the rear.
The world became metal.
Glass.
Heat.
When Naomi regained awareness, Ethan was beside her.
Blood on his forehead.
Passenger compartment filling with smoke.
Naomi’s door had buckled but opened after three kicks.
She crawled onto wet pavement.
Then heard Ethan shout.
She turned.
Fire moved beneath the front of the car.
She should have run.
Instead she went back.
The passenger door would not open.
Naomi grabbed a tire iron from debris.
Hit the window.
Again.
Again.
Glass shattered.
Fire climbed.
She reached through.
Her blouse sleeve ignited.
Naomi screamed, tore at the fabric, then shoved her arms inside anyway.
Ethan’s seat belt had locked.
She pulled.
Nothing.
She tried cutting it with broken glass.
Her palms bled.
Ethan coughed.
“Naomi, go.”
“No.”
“Go!”
“No!”
A small explosion beneath the hood sent flame toward them.