by Tracy Wolff
“She’s at UCSD’s cancer center in La Jolla. The ICU.”
My phone buzzes again, and again I jump. Shawn just shakes his head. “Go.”
“But our meeting—”
“It can wait,” he says. “The houses will be there tomorrow, or the next day.”
I think about it, but I feel like the last thing Hunter needs right now is me dropping in unannounced. Yes, he’s dodging me and yes, I want to make sure he’s okay. But the least I can do is give him a heads-up before descending on the hospital like a crazy stalker. Just because we spent the night together, just because I’m driving his truck right now, doesn’t mean he thinks of me the way I think of him. It sure as hell doesn’t mean he loves me.
Not that I blame him. With everything he’s going through right now, I’m sure it’s pretty damn difficult to think about loving someone new. Especially when he’s about to lose the person he’s loved most and longest.
“I’ll text him,” I tell Shawn. “Let him know that I’m going to drop by later. That way, if he doesn’t want me to, he has plenty of time to let me know.”
Shawn rolls his eyes. “Chicks are so weird.”
“If we are, it’s because guys made us this way with all your weird boundaries and issues.” I gesture to his empty coffee cup. “Do you want another flat white?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“All right, then.” I force a smile that I really hope doesn’t look fake. “Let’s find you a house.”
—
Four hours later, Shawn has narrowed the numerous choices I gave him down to two—one on a huge compound like he originally said he wanted, and one on a much smaller plot of land that shouldn’t work at all—except Shawn loves the old world charm of the place. As he should. The house is gorgeous, really, really well done, and in my opinion, he should totally snap it up. And if he hires the right landscape architect, he could totally get basketball and tennis courts in the back, near the cliffs that overlook his own private stairs down to the ocean. He doesn’t get the groves of fruit trees that he would have with the other house, which is a downside. But he’s planning on keeping this house for years and if that’s the case, there’s time to grow fruit trees.
“Take a couple days and think about it,” I tell him as I drop him back at the Starbucks where we left his car. “I’ll see if I can come up with any other properties for you, now that I know what style you like. We can regroup on Friday, maybe go see these two houses again and any others that I find that I think will work.”
“Thanks,” he says as he climbs out of the truck. “Hunter was right, you know. You’re really good at this.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure you’re biased.”
“And I’m pretty sure you underestimate yourself. You shouldn’t do that.” Then he closes the door with a wave and I’m left staring after him, wondering if he’s right.
I’ve always thought of the real estate thing as a stopgap while I do my art, something with the possibility of being more lucrative than working as a barista or a waitress. But it turns out I really enjoy the job. Not working with Kerry, obviously—she seems to hate me a little more each day. But I like finding the perfect house for someone, love finding them a place that can be more than a house. A place that can be a home.
I’m sure a shrink would have a field day with that—something about me trying to give others what I never had—but I’m okay with the possibility. There’s nothing wrong with helping others realize their dreams, especially not if it helps me realize mine, as well.
A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s nearly two o’clock. I should head back to the office so I can answer phones. But I’d told Kerry, and Shawn, that I might be out all day and she’d gotten someone else to cover. I know it shouldn’t work that way—I was hired to answer phones and learn the business while I did it—but Kerry’s not stupid, either. When Shawn buys a place, the agency will make another three hundred thousand dollars. And while I know Kerry would rather be making the full three percent that would come if she was representing Shawn herself, she’s not stupid enough to get rid of me. Not when I’m bringing her over half a million dollars in two weeks.
I check my texts—there are a couple from Alice, one from my mom, and one from Sage, just checking in. But the one I’m waiting for isn’t there.
There’s any number of reasons for that—Hunter could have spent the morning with Heather in ICU, in which case he might not have even seen the texts. Or maybe he’s with the kids and hasn’t had time to check his phone. Or maybe he just doesn’t have anything to say to me.
I hope that’s not it. I really hope it isn’t. But until I talk to him I’m never going to know what’s going on—in his head or with us. And I find that I’m not okay with that, not now when I’m so worried about him. Not now when I just want to know how he is.
So, in the end, I fire another text off to him. Then find UCSD’s La Jolla cancer center on my GPS and head that way. If Hunter wants me to leave, I will—no fuss, no muss. But I just want to see him. Just want to look into his eyes and see how he’s doing. I don’t think that’s such a bad thing, not when he’s going through something this awful.
I make it to the hospital by two forty-five. It takes a few minutes for me to find a parking spot and then I’m heading inside, checking with the volunteers at the front desk to find out what floor ICU is on.
I make my way to the second floor, texting Hunter to let him know I’m here. I’m not sure about privacy information, not sure if the nurses will give me Heather’s room number if Hunter hasn’t put me on the list of visitors. But surely he won’t ignore me, I tell myself as the elevator opens into a large, empty waiting room. If he doesn’t see my text in the next couple of minutes, then I’ll call him. Try to get his attention that way.
But it turns out, I don’t have to do that. Because as I head toward the ICU, I happen to glance to my left. And that’s when I see Hunter, sitting on the floor, knees drawn up and back slumped against the wall like it’s the only thing in the world keeping him upright.
“Hunter!” I make a beeline for him, my heart beating double time in fear and horror. Because it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the only reason Hunter Browning would be slumped on the floor of the ICU is if he’d just gotten some really bad news.
Chapter 27
Hunter
She’s dead.
My sister is dead.
Heather is dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
The word keeps echoing in my head like the most fucked up mantra ever, but I can’t get it out of my head. Any more than I can get my last look at Heather out of my mind, as she took her last breath and slowly slid away—her face going slack and her hand losing its grip on mine.
“Hunter.” I hear my name being called, but it doesn’t register. Nothing does but the emptiness inside of me, the absence where I’ve always before been able to feel my twin sister.
“Hunter.” My name comes again, this time closer and louder. And then a third time, right next to me, and it’s only then that it registers what’s going on. That Emerson is here, right in front of me.
“Hunter, are you all right?” she asks and judging from her tone of voice it isn’t the first time she’s asked me that question.
I don’t answer—I don’t know what to say—so I just look up at her blankly, wondering what she’s doing here. Wondering how she knew to come.
She’s crouching down next to me know, her beautiful blue eyes filled with tears and worry as she lifts a hand to my cheek. I think that’s what finally snaps me out of it, seeing the tears in her eyes when I feel so numb. So broken.
“Don’t cry,” I whisper, and this time I’m the one reaching out. I wipe my thumb over her high cheekbones, brushing the tears away before turning back to stare at the wall in front of me. It’s an ugly puce color and I can’t help wondering why on earth anyone would paint a hospital waiting room that color.
I
also can’t help wondering why I’ve never noticed it before.
“Baby, what is it?” she asks, cupping a hand over my own to hold it to her cheek. “What’s happened?”
I shake my head, turn away.
“Hunter, please.”
I still don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m not ready to hear the words again. I’m sure as hell not ready to be the one to say them. To have them drop into this empty room, in my voice, like a bomb just begging to explode.
Emerson sighs, but she doesn’t push me. Instead, she settles herself on the ground next to me and wraps her arms around me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
And just like that I crack wide open.
“I need to go,” I tell her as I spring to my feet. I walked out here after the doctor pronounced Heather dead, intent on getting to Brent and Lucy. Intent on telling them about their mother. But I’d taken two steps into the waiting room and my legs had gone out from under me. I’d ended up on the floor and it’s only now, with Emerson looking at me like that, that I’m finally able to move.
“Hunter, wait,” she says, springing up right after me. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to pick up the kids? Or call Tanner? I could—”
“Nothing. I don’t want you to do anything.” I head toward the door to the stairs, in the back corner of the room. If I have to get on a tiny little elevator right now I’ll lose my shit completely.
Emerson follows me, scrambling to keep up as I take the stairs three at a time. There’s a part of me that can’t believe I’m doing this, can’t believe I’m being this rude to her when all she’s trying to do is take care of me.
But being taken care of is the last thing I want right now. Because if Emerson says it, if the words come out of her mouth, I know I’m not going to be able to fight them. I know I won’t be able to ignore them. And I’m not ready to hear them again. No matter how many times they’re bouncing around in my own head, I’m not ready to hear them said out loud. I’m sure as hell not ready to hear Emerson say them.
Once I hit the main floor, I all but run to the parking lot with Emerson hot on my heels. We must look ridiculous—I’m twice her size and weight, yet I’m running from her like she’s the Grim Reaper herself. Not that it’s possible to run from him. God knows, Heather tried.
“At least let me drive you,” Emerson says, voice breaking, when we get to my car.
“I can drive myself.”
“Hunter, your sister just—”
“Don’t!” I hold a hand up, all but yell in her face. “Don’t say it.”
“Okay.” She nods, then reaches a hand up to stroke my hair from my eyes. “I won’t say it.”
“I can drive.”
She bites her lip, looks like she wants to argue. But in the end she just nods. “Let me come with you.”
“No.”
“Just to wherever you’re going.”
“No.”
“Please, Hunter, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I just want—”
“I said no!” It comes out as a shout, and this time I don’t even give a shit. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want your help. Hell, I don’t want you anywhere near me.”
I’m in full-on asshole mode now, lashing out at Emerson because she’s the only one I can lash out at right now. Because I was fine on that floor. I was so numb that nothing hurt.
But now that she’s here—her big blue eyes filled with tears, her beautiful face filled with compassion—it hurts like hell. It feels like I’m being hollowed out from the inside with a dull blade, one small scrape at a time. I can’t stand it, can’t stand the pain of losing Heather. Can’t stand the pain of loving Emerson.
“Don’t you think if I wanted you here, I would have returned one of your texts? Don’t you think I would have called you? I didn’t. Because I don’t. I was trying not to be rude, but I can’t do this right now. Go home, Emerson.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay—” she repeats herself again, like that’s all she can think of to say.
“I’m not okay! Is that what you want to hear me admit? Fine, I’m not okay and the last thing I fucking need is you standing here poking at me about it. Just leave me the fuck alone.” I unlock my car and climb in, ignoring the fact that Emerson is still standing there—face pale, eyes huge—watching me.
I feel like a total dick, lashing out at her like this. But I need her to let me go. I need her to leave me alone before I fucking lose it completely. I can’t lose it. I just can’t fucking lose it. Not now. Not when I have to tell Brent and Lucy. Not when I have to make funeral arrangements. Not when I have to play in a fucking game in three days.
Goddamnit.
I hit the steering wheel once, twice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emerson reach for me. See her face crumple with a sympathy that I’m not equipped to accept. So I do the biggest dick move yet. I start to pull the car door closed, pausing just long enough to say, “Call me when you get your car fixed. I’ll send someone over to get the truck.”
Then I close the door. Start the car. And pull away without so much as glancing her way again.
Chapter 28
Emerson
I shouldn’t be here, I tell myself for the thousandth time. I should just get back in my car and drive away. Go home. Go to the mall. Go anywhere but here.
Hunter’s made it very clear that he doesn’t want to talk to me. Or text me. And he definitely doesn’t want to see me. Not just when he lashed out in the hospital parking lot after Heather died, but in the days since then.
I’ve texted him once a day for the last week and he never returns the texts. Never so much as reads them. And I get it. I do. He’s hurting. More, he’s grieving and he has every right to do that however he wants to do it. If that means by himself, licking his wounds like an injured animal, then that’s absolutely his right.
But it’s killing me not knowing if he’s okay. Killing me not to be able to help him. Because staying away is the only way it seems I’m able to help him right now, I’ve kept my distance. Let him grieve on his own. Watched him play on TV on Sunday, worrying the whole time about how fragile—how sick—he looked. But I’ve stayed away.
Until today.
Because I can’t let him go through this alone.
Maybe it’s arrogant to think I matter, maybe he’ll be mad that I’m here. Hell, maybe I’m going to get my heart broken wide open when I walk into that church and he looks right through me like I don’t even exist.
Just the thought has me shaking in my sensible black boots. But this isn’t about me. This is about Hunter, about Heather, about Brent and Lucy. If nothing else, I owe it to the two of them to walk into that church.
So I do, slipping in a side door and sitting in the back, out of the way. Most of the people here are associated with the Lightning somehow—football players, coaches, their families. I’ve never felt so out of place.
It’s a beautiful ceremony, one that has tears pouring down my face even though I never met Heather. But the way the priest describes her, the way her friends eulogize her, it’s hard not to cry. Hard not to regret her death not just because of how it’s affected people I care about—Hunter and Brent and Lucy—but because she sounds like a truly wonderful woman.
And then it’s Hunter’s turn to walk up to the altar. Hunter’s turn to face the crowd. Hunter’s turn to speak.
“When I told people that I wanted to do this, that I wanted to stand up here and talk about Heather, they asked me if I was sure. Told me that it would be difficult and that they were only concerned because they didn’t want my pain to get any deeper. As if that’s possible.
“And while I appreciate their good intentions, the truth is, this isn’t difficult. Standing here and talking about all the things my sister has done in her life—all the people she’s touched—isn’t difficult.
“Difficult is fighting stage four cancer. Difficult is getting up and ta
king care of your kids the morning after chemotherapy or radiation. Difficult is being able to stay cheerful and loving and kind, no matter what ravages your body is going through.
“Like many people here, I put my body on the line every week. I’ve been through injuries big and small, surgeries, some of the most difficult PT around. And I took it all without complaint because it was part of the job. But never did I face my own pain, my own setbacks, with the kind of grace and good humor that Heather faced every day with, no matter how bad the day was. And there were some bad days, especially at the end. There were a lot of bad days.”
He clears his throat. “But there were good days, too. Like the day we took her children, Brent and Lucy, to the beach and built sand castles just because Heather wanted to feel the sun beating down on her face. She and Lucy challenged Brent and me to a sand castle contest and she worked tirelessly to prove to Lucy that just because they were smaller than we were didn’t mean their dreams had to be.
“Or the day we went to the zoo. Heather had to be in a wheelchair because she was too weak at that point to walk all the hills. But every time I turned my back to buy drinks or popcorn or tie my shoe, she would scoop up Lucy or Brent and they would go joyriding on some downhill path, bound for certain disaster. But somehow, they never hit a bump or a curve Heather couldn’t negotiate.”
I’m crying now, tears pouring down my face. But Hunter doesn’t falter. Instead he smiles, his joy in his sister’s life lighting up the whole place.
“Heather lived her life out loud, in full and joyous color. Nothing could keep her down for long—not divorce, not cancer, not even death. As it got closer to the end, she had to be in bed a lot, but most of the times I went to check on her, she wasn’t sleeping. She was reading a book or watching a documentary about some weird and wonderful phenomenon or falling down a rabbit hole on the internet that ended up with her pledging thousands of dollars to help build a girls’ school in Rwanda or save a bird in the South American rainforest or feed a hundred orphans in war-torn Syria.