by T. L. Martin
“Oh, please. If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. As if you haven’t had your fair share of flings on the side. Besides, you knew when you proposed to me what my mother put me and Perry through after our father left her, and I made it implicitly clear what I wanted out of a marriage. Don’t act as though you didn’t know and love me. You admired my drive for perfection, and if it wasn’t for my ‘manipulations and deceit,’ you wouldn’t have passed the bar on your third attempt.”
I hear a grumble. “We’ll discuss this later. For now, just plaster on one of your smiles and appreciate that your son is alive. He could have . . . he could have died today.”
A sniff. “Died.” It sounds like a truck horn when she blows her nose. “My sweet, loyal, brave boy, about to cost us our entire reputation over that girl—”
“Oh, shut up, Bridget.”
Releasing a breath, I shut my eyes and try like hell to drift away again, but when I shift slightly, my groan of pain gives me away.
“Darling! Oh, darling, you’re awake. He’s awake!”
“Well, yes, Bridget, I do have eyes.”
Tension stiffens my shoulders when my mom’s face appears like a floating head above me. Her nonstop nagging and fussing over me fades into the background of her haggard appearance. Smudged mascara runs under her bottom lashes, her nose and cheeks pink, knuckles whitened around the Kleenex clutched in her grip. I shift my gaze to the left, where Vincent stares down at me, hard lines etched between furrowed brows. He doesn’t say a word, but for the first time in my life, his stern hazel eyes are subdued and glassy.
I clear my throat, try to sit up.
My mom gasps, stopping me with a hand on my arm. “Don’t be silly, they have buttons for that.” She presses a blue button on the side of the bed, and I’m slowly lifted into a half-seated position before she releases it. “Oh, before I forget: Isaac wants you to call him, but only once you’re feeling up for it. He’s flying in to see you next week.”
I glance from my mom to Vincent, then back again. Then I ask the only thing that matters. “Where’s Eva?” My throat burns when I speak, the words rough and dry, like I haven’t spoken in days.
When neither of them respond, only stare at me blankly, awareness and anger pool in my veins with such heat it’s painful.
“She’s here somewhere, right?” Images, raw and visceral, flood me—Eva, tied up and beaten down. Tear-stained cheeks, quick breaths, bloody knife in her grasp. Scarred and tormented but still determined to support my weight and reassure me I’d be okay. Despite everything she went through, she was only concerned about me. The thought fucking floors me. And now, picturing her somewhere alone claws at my chest with an intensity so violent my knuckles flex and spasm.
My jaw locks, and I grit, “Don’t tell me you’ve been here for God-knows-how-long,” I pause, struggling to keep the emotion from my voice, “waiting for me to wake up, and you haven’t bothered to check on her.”
Guilt crosses Vincent’s expression, fleeting but obvious, while Mom’s eyes widen then narrow. “We were informed she’s in the children’s wing. But Easton, that girl . . . that girl is the last thing you should be concerned about right now. You almost died, Easton! In fact, you did die, and they had to resuscitate you! If it hadn’t been for her—”
“If it hadn’t been for her,” I interrupt slowly, tamping down the fury rising up my chest and lacing my words in a dangerous warning, “I wouldn’t know what it means to be selfless. God knows you two never showed me.”
Vincent shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and my mom gapes at me.
“When you took Eva in, you were supposed to take care of her. Not throw her out like a fucking piece of trash.”
“But I—I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Perry was going to take care of her. You know that perfectly well.”
“What?” Vincent takes a slow, intimidating step toward her. “You were planning on sending Eva to Perry?”
“Well, I . . . don’t look at me like that. Don’t act like you’re the better parent. You weren’t even home.”
My heart beats with iron fists inside my chest—fists I didn’t know I could summon in front of my parents—and the words, backed by ferocious heat and years of self-restraint, pour from me without caution. “It wasn’t enough when she was thirteen, homeless, and starving for you to treat her like a human being. It still wasn’t enough when she was living under your roof trying so hard to please you, dutifully making your spiked coffee and putting up with your ignorant comments. And now—now that she was kidnapped and attacked, thanks to the driver you sent her away with, now that she nearly fucking died, it’s still not enough for you to treat her with decency, is it? For either of you? Will it ever be enough, or are you both so self-absorbed you will never be decent parents? Decent people?”
My parents stare at me, stunned, their mouths parted but no words coming out. I’ve never spoken to them like this, and the shift isn’t just on the exterior. For the first time in almost nineteen years, I feel it inside me, my own voice. Outside of my parents, connections, expectations—just me and everything I stand for.
My gaze on them is unwavering. “Did you at least find out what happened to the guy who kidnapped her? Do you fucking care?”
Vincent clears his throat, his neck reddening in a way I’ve never seen, and finds his voice first. “Of course, we do. I spoke to the officers in charge of the case. Easton . . . I’m . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“What to say?” My mom looks from Vincent to me. “Darling, consider the circumstances—”
“Say one more word, Mom. Say one more word to excuse the way you and Dad have treated her, and I swear to fucking God, neither of you will ever see me again.”
Silence floods the small hospital room and wraps around their necks, suffocating their precious image. My mom’s eyes beg for mercy, sympathy, whatever it is she thinks will let them off the hook, but the fact is, there’s only one thing they can say right now, and it’s not me they need to be saying it to.
Knock, knock.
“Come in.” My gaze, unshaken and dispassionate, slides to the door, where a nurse has entered. Behind her, Zach’s messy curls bob up and down beside Whitney as he tries to glimpse a view of me.
The nurse looks between me and my parents, then offers a tight smile. Guess the tension is visible from the doorway.
“How are you feeling? Any pain?”
“I’m fine. How long until I can walk around a little?”
“It’ll be a bit. You lost a lot of blood, and that IV right there is helping replace some of it, along with fluids and pain relief. However, you have a couple more visitors if you’re up for it. I just need to check your vitals first.”
I nod my consent, and I mentally block out my abnormally hovering parents as the nurse goes through the motions robotically. I suppress a grimace when she changes the bandage stretching from my back around my rib cage. It’s only now, while cold instruments probe and check my heartbeat, blood pressure, and temperature, that I realize how fucking exhausted I am. Thanks to the pain meds, I don’t feel like I’ve been stabbed or had a kidney removed. But only sleep will be enough to erase the crippling weakness depleting my muscles—a feeling I’m guessing resembles being hit by a train—and there’s no way I’m shutting my eyes again until I figure out a way to see Eva.
When the nurse leaves, she allows Zach and Whitney to enter before shutting the door behind her.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford.” Whitney’s smile is forced as she waves at them. “Thank you again for calling me.”
“Hello, Whitney,” my mom says. “Zach.”
“’Sup. I mean, hi. Hello.” Zach tips his chin and slowly bends at the waist. Pretty sure that’s a bow. “Good day.”
“Um.” Whitney chews the inside of her cheek. “We can wait, like, outside the door or something if you’re still catching up and stuff.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank—”
&n
bsp; “We’re done.” I cut my mom off, looking right at her and Vincent. “Go get some food, whatever. I’m starting to feel a little nauseous.”
To my mom’s credit, she barely flinches. “Actually, I think we will order in. You’re in for a surprise if you think for one minute we’re going to leave you alone in this condition.” She lifts her chin. “How’s that for decent parenting?”
My jaw ticks, and I flick a glance at my dad, who’s never looked so uncertain or uncomfortable. His rigid form, clad in a Giorgio Armani suit, Le Labo cologne, and a heavy waft of pretense from head to toe, tells me he came here straight from work.
“Sure,” I say, unaffected. “Maybe that’ll spark some creative ideas for all the ways you’re going to make up for how you’ve treated Eva.”
Indignation clouds my mom’s self-righteous gaze, but she turns to Vincent, shoves his chest, and they instantly start bickering. I shift my attention to Whitney and Zach. Their steps are tentative as they move closer to my bed, Whitney checking nervously over her shoulder as she does, like she fears my mom will grow fangs at any second.
“Dude,” Zach says when he reaches me. “I heard you got stabbed. Like, bad.”
I cock a brow, and Whitney nudges him in the waist.
“Zach,” she scolds. “A little sensitivity never hurt anyone.” Then, she leans forward and whispers, “Is it true though? You actually took a knife for Eva?”
“And lost a kidney,” Zach adds, beaming like a proud father.
Whitney’s eyes widen, and her whisper evolves to a hushed squeal. “Oh my gosh. That’s actually super romantic!” Her brows knit thoughtfully, then she shoots me a glare. “Wait. We need to talk about our deal.”
I release an impatient breath and check that my parents are still arguing. “I have to make sure Eva’s okay.”
“Sure thing, man. We’ll go check on her now and let you know how she’s doing.”
“I’m going to go see her. Right now.”
“Uh . . .”
Whitney stares at me dumbfounded while Zach stares blankly at the piggybacked IVs in my arm. “You’re kidding,” she says. “Even if your parents magically agree to let you sneak out of here without the doctor’s approval, which so isn’t happening, how do you expect to make it to the opposite end of the hospital in your condition? I mean, have you seen yourself? You could pass out,” she hisses. “If you want to see her so badly, just have her come to you.”
Irritation curls around my chest, but there’s no use in explaining something no one else could understand. As if it’s not bad enough my parents—two people who have gone out of their way to make Eva feel unwanted—are tied to this room, the last thing I’m going to do is have her leave her empty room to seek me out. I can’t explain how, but I know she needs me to come to her. To show her she’s worth it. She’s worth everything. And while I’m here, surrounded by familiar faces, all brimming with concern, Eva, who has been through hell and back, thinks she has no one. But she has me. She’ll always have me. And, selfishly, she’s the only fucking person I need.
I grit my jaw, eyelids lowered with steel resolve, and look at Whitney and Zach. “I’m going with or without your help. But it’d be a shit ton easier with it.”
Zach lets out a low whistle. “I’m in, man. You know that.”
The incredulity painted on Whitney’s face doesn’t waver. But after a few moments pass without my resolve bending, she huffs out a breath, and her eyes narrow. I know that look. It’s the look she gets when she’s planning something.
Before I know what she’s doing, she places one hand on her hip, spins on her heel, and says, “Mrs. Rutherford! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!”
My mom stops talking mid-sentence, and her eyes snap to Whitney’s. “What? What is it?”
“It’s just . . .” Whitney walks toward her, her voice hushed and conspiratorial. “Did you hear about Ruby?”
“Oh.” My mom waves a dismissive hand through the air. “If you mean her and the gardener, everyone—”
“Oh my gosh, you really don’t know.” Whitney blows out a breath, like whatever she’s been keeping to herself is too big to contain any longer. “Well, I’d love to tell you, but now isn’t the time”—she glances at Vincent—“or the place. No worries. It can wait until tonight or tomorrow. I’m sure only a few more people will know by then.” She flashes a sweet smile, spins on her heel again, and—
“Whitney? Darling?”
Whitney winks at me and Zach. Then she looks back at my mom innocently. “Yes?”
My mom pulls her close. “It’ll only take a moment, I’m sure. I was about to step out to grab a coffee from the cafe anyway, so Vincent will stay here with Easton. Won’t you, dear?”
He grumbles and rolls his eyes.
“Okay, if you insist.” Whitney lets my mom steer her out of the room.
My pulse hikes as they disappear behind the closed door. I’m that much closer to seeing Eva.
I look at Zach, and he asks, “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Never been more sure.”
He nods, then bends forward and tucks an arm under my shoulders. “Here we go,” he mutters before carefully hauling me onto my feet. “Shit, you’re heavy.”
A wave of dizziness temporarily blinds me, and I grip my IV pole for stability.
“Whoa,” Vincent says, taking a hesitant step in our direction. “Where do you think you’re going?”
When the nausea subsides, I meet his uncertain gaze with my steadfast one. “Where you should have gone a long time ago.”
“Wait, just—hold on.” He scrubs both hands down his face. I’ve never seen him look so drained. “I’ll go see her if it means you’ll stay in bed.”
I release an exasperated breath, my grip on the pole tightening. “Too late for that. You and mom aren’t to set foot near her until you’re ready to beg, and I do mean beg, for her forgiveness.”
Vincent places both hands on his hips and shoots me a stern look. “Easton. I appreciate what you’re doing for her, I do. But if you think I’m going to let you risk your recovery—”
“Dad.” The word is bitter on my tongue, but I force it out. “That’s what you’re doing here, right? Trying to be my dad?”
He swallows, looks down at his Ferragamos. “I am your dad, Easton. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry for what I said before, and I’m sorry for leaving afterward.” His gaze comes back up to meet mine, and the sincerity softening the look is a punch to my gut. “It wasn’t you I was running from. I promise you that. I just . . . well, I want you to know, I’m trying to be here now. I’m trying to be here for you.”
My throat tightens, and Zach clears his own throat, shifting his weight under my arm. “If you mean that,” I say quietly, “you’ll let me do this. I’m going to see her with or without your support.” My next words sting with a vulnerability I wish I could restrain. “But I’m hoping you’ll give it to me anyway.”
He glances away, and his lips thin.
A second ticks by, then another.
Bitter disappointment slithers into my chest, right next to the familiar pang of rejection, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on it. If Eva will have me, that’s more than enough. I tip my chin toward the door, and Zach and the IV pole relieve most of my weight as we walk.
Zach’s hand is on the knob when Vincent’s voice halts us.
“Easton. Wait.”
My jaw ticks, and after a beat, I look behind me.
His shoulders are slumped forward, tie loosened. “Before you go . . . at least . . . at least let me tell you what I found out about the case.”
My gaze narrows.
“Please.” Vincent takes a few steps toward me, and I stiffen slightly, but I don’t stop him. “You need to know . . .” His eyes spark with something I don’t recognize. Something almost resembling respect. “You need to know what you and Eva have done.”
Eva
Lying on my side, a tear slips from my cheek and lands on t
he invisible lily my fingers trace on the hospital bedsheet. My movements are idle, memorized by the countless sketches in my notebook. The faint hum that escapes my closed lips fills the emptiness around me and soothes a sacred piece of my heart.
The nurse I like is gone for the day, but Miss St. Claire has continued to check on me like a good little therapist. Apparently, she meant it when she said she would be here in case I changed my mind about needing her. Although I’d never admit it aloud, there is something annoyingly comforting about her stubbornness. She really isn’t going anywhere. The loyalty would come in handy if only I could talk her into sneaking me into the ICU.
Maybe my years spent alone prepared me for this moment. Locked in a clinical room, trapped by my thoughts and sterile walls, wondering where I will go once I leave here. Evangeline, the girl I used to be, would have already flown this coop, picked up the pieces, and found a new abysmal existence. But Eva . . . she lies here, idly passing time, until she can see a boy who showed her what it’s like to be wanted. To belong. If only someone warned me that once the void in my heart was filled, the emptiness that follows when it’s ripped away hurts ten times as much.
What if he’s not okay? What if . . . My lungs constrict, and I wipe my cheeks.
Stop.
Don’t think about that.
I’ve survived so much. So fucking much. But I wouldn’t survive a world without Easton.
A muffled commotion in the hall stills my hand. Low voices filter in, and when I hear the knob turn, I look over my shoulder.
The door swings open to hit the wall, and Easton appears. A disorder of people trail behind him, but he’s all I can see. His chest rises and falls rapidly, up and down, grip bracing his IV pole. His skin is gaunt and dark hair disheveled. That warm, whiskey gaze, steadfast with determination, wraps around my chest and squeezes.
My heart thump, thump, thumps with the new stream of tears sliding down my cheeks.
He’s okay.
He’s really okay.