And I lost myself to the panic that was my oldest friend.
I wanted to be alone.
I needed space to shatter and pick up the pieces, but the doctor didn’t give me space—she stole more of it.
The hospital bed shuddered as she pressed close. I flinched as her arm landed over my shoulders. Violence commanded I shove her back, but instead, I curled forward, bowing to touch, condemning myself to grief.
Grief over Grandpa John dying.
Grief over Hope dying.
Relief over Hope still alive.
Horror at knowing she’d die anyway.
I gasped for breath, hating myself for such weakness but unable to stop the panic, the memories, the fears.
“It’s okay. Get it out.” The doctor rubbed my arm like any kind mother.
Her sympathy made me shatter worse because I no longer had a mother.
I was a twenty-five-year-old man who’d avoided the steadily compounding issues of death since childhood. I’d bottled it up. I’d swallowed it down. I’d used distance as a shield and loneliness as invisibility against love.
Yet in that bed, as a stranger stroked me in comfort, I couldn’t fight it anymore.
I wasn’t strong enough.
I couldn’t hide.
I couldn’t run.
I broke.
My body sagged.
My panic stole me…and I sobbed.
I cried for my father, my mother, my grandfather, for Hope.
I cried for all the days I’d pushed them away and all the moments I hadn’t appreciated. I cried for all the hugs I’d refused and the family kindness I’d pretended I didn’t want.
And I cried for me.
For my phobias and panics.
For my tempers and torments.
I cried for all of it.
And the doctor’s touch transformed from something I hated into something I needed. Touch was an affirmation of life, and life hadn’t taken Hope from me.
She was still alive.
And…I love her.
Pain could find me anywhere—regardless of where I hid.
Therefore, I wasn’t safe anywhere.
There was relief in that.
To know I would feel this agony if Hope was with me or away from me. I would feel it now and in the future. I would feel it. I would permit myself to feel it because pain was the price of love, and I finally saw that.
Finally accepted that it was the cost of being human.
My belief that I could endure a life without another wasn’t healthy. Being alone was no way to live.
I was still the same ten-year-old mess my father had left behind.
In fact, I was worse.
But I’d had enough of being so afraid.
I…I need to get better.
The doctor spoke softly. “It’s a panic attack. I’m sure you’re aware as you’ve had them before, but if you calm down, you’ll be okay.”
I nodded, sitting tall and shaking her arm from my shoulders. “I’m all right.” My voice crackled and cracked.
She shifted to standing, but her hand continued stroking up and down my arm. For a long time, she didn’t speak, just let me re-centre, dry the wetness from my cheeks, and breathe a little easier.
When I no longer shook the bed with my sadness, she smiled gently. “I’m aware of your history, Jacob Wild. I read up on you while you were sleeping.” Her hand carried on soothing me. “That’s the second attack you’ve had in front of that ER counter. The first was when you rode your pony here against your mother’s wishes when your father passed. Do you remember?”
I gritted my teeth.
I’d done my best to forget, but the memory was far too strong.
Nodding, I pulled away, thankful when she moved and stood with her hands looped in front of her white coat.
“I remember.”
“Have you had many panic attacks?”
I looked away. “A few.”
“What brings them on?”
I stiffened. “Does it matter?”
Her eyes burned into me. “It matters if you want to get better.”
“Better how?”
I’d only just made that promise to myself. It was still sparkly and new. I needed time to live with the idea before leaping straight into treatment.
She smiled as if it was obvious. “To no longer be afraid.”
I studied the sterile cleanliness of the room. I wanted to be free to love Hope the way she deserved, and I was prepared to do that. But I didn’t want to be locked away in some asylum and treated as if my mind was deformed.
It wasn’t my mind.
It was my heart.
And the only person who could fix that was Hope.
I shifted to climb off the bed. “I’ll be fine.”
“Stay there, just for another moment.” She held up her hand. “Let your body recalibrate.”
I huffed, dragging hands through my hair.
I was jittery and strung out but also strangely light. As if I’d purged myself from years’ worth of denials and angers, hauntings and depressions.
She ducked her head, brown hair tied neatly at her nape. Her eyes were kind but professional. “I believe you suffer from untreated post-traumatic stress disorder.”
My attention shot to her. “Excuse me?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I swung my legs to the floor, ready to leave. “I’m not ashamed because I don’t have it. PTSD is for soldiers who come back from war. It’s for men who have done things. Terrible things. Not a kid who lost his parents.”
And more recently a grandfather…
She sighed. “You’re wrong. PTSD is for anyone with unresolved trauma. You didn’t just lose your dad; you watched him fade away during your entire childhood. I’m also aware you recently lost your mother, and your grandfather is currently in our morgue. Couple that with being told incorrect news of a young woman you obviously care about…and you’re displaying all the signs of triggers you can’t control.”
“Triggers?” I hated that I knew that word well. That my mother had used it to help me cope—to show there was no shame in being affected by things other people weren’t.
“It’s treatable.” She reached into her pocket for a pad and paper. “I don’t know if it’s fully curable, but you don’t have to keep living this way, okay? If it’s stealing your quality of life, it’s worth asking for help.”
“What sort of help?”
Images of being handcuffed and hauled into a psychiatric ward made me stand.
She stopped writing on her little pad, looking me dead in the eye. “Talking to a therapist to start. Perhaps drug therapy if needed.”
“I don’t want drugs.”
“That’s a discussion for another day. All I’m saying is…think about it.” Tearing a page from her notepad, she passed it to me. “This is the name of a colleague who specialises in PTSD. Contact him. What have you got to lose?”
The paper shook in my hand as I took it. Part of me wanted to scrunch it up and throw it away, but the newer part—the hurt and healing part—folded it carefully and tucked it into my jeans pocket. “So I don’t have to stay somewhere? Have…tests and things?”
“No. Just a simple office and someone to talk to.”
That sounded doable.
But only once I’d seen Hope.
I had stuff to tell her.
Epiphanies to share.
My love to profess.
I swayed a little and swallowed back a final crest of nausea. “Where is she? I need to see her.”
“I’ll take you to her.”
I stepped toward the door, then paused. “Um, just so I don’t embarrass myself with yet another attack, is she…okay?”
The doctor, whose name I still didn’t know but would always remember, smiled. “She’s a little dinged up, but she’s not dying anytime soon. She’s a strong wee thing.”
Strong.
That was Hope.
Stronger than me. Braver than me. The death of me.
“That’s good.” My heart stopped its irregular beating, gulping a huge sigh of relief. “Her father will be grateful to hear that.”
She opened the door and guided me down the stark hospital corridor. “And you too, I suspect.”
I gave her half a smile.
“Does she know?”
I stiffened. “Know what?”
“That you love her.”
“Ah.” I shrugged, wedging shaky hands into my pockets. “If she doesn’t, she’s about to.”
An elevator pinged, swallowed us, and spat us out on the upper floor. She smiled as I waited for her to step onto the new level first. “I have a feeling she probably already knows.”
“I’m not so sure.” My boots thudded on the lino. “I did a pretty good job of proving I didn’t.” I winced, unable to stop the memory of her sleeping in my bed, my fingerprints on her skin, my release still inside her.
I’d wanted her so much that I hadn’t used protection.
I’d taken everything from her…and then I’d left her.
To add contempt to my remorse, I’d just stood there at Cherry River when she’d flown halfway around the world to return my compass. She’d poured out her soul, then driven tear-blurred and exhausted straight into an accident that could have cost her, her life.
“I’ve been a bastard.”
The doctor pointed at a door and squeezed my elbow. “It’s in the past. I’m sure if you’re honest with her, she’ll understand.”
God, I hope so.
I swallowed hard as she added, “She’s in there. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
She left, and I stood alone, inhaling deep, bracing myself for the hardest thing I would ever do. Hardest because I wasn’t about to do what other men had done before me. I wasn’t about to fulfil a timeless requirement and tell Hope I was in love with her.
I was about to admit I was wrong. About everything. That I wasn’t happy. That I’d never be happy unless I had her.
And I honestly didn’t know if she’d accept me.
I’d lived through her death.
I’d felt the loss of her before it had already happened.
And I’d learned I was strong enough.
Strong enough to love her.
For always.
If she’d forgive me.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Hope
* * * * * *
I’D HAD DRIVING lessons after I’d taken Jacob to the hospital with his back injury.
Wow, how many years ago is that again?
It felt like an eternity.
I’d studied, taken my test, and had a licence tucked in my purse that said I was legal to be on the road.
But it hadn’t stopped me from crashing.
Hadn’t stopped my tears from blinding me or the shaky sadness from stealing my reactions.
It was my fault.
I hadn’t seen the lady walking her dog across the street until it was too late. I’d slipped on the brake pedal and careened into the brick wall of Mr. Pickering’s Personals—the only antique store in town.
The rental car exploded with airbags, the front crumpled, and whiplash smashed my head against the steering wheel.
And that was all I remembered.
Until I came to with the sounds of ambulance sirens and paramedics and the embarrassment of being hauled from my ruined rental and placed on a stretcher.
I’d argued.
I’d assured them I was fine and didn’t need such fanfare.
But it turned out…I did.
“So as you know, we called your father. He’s on his way.”
I blinked, pressing a hand against my pounding temple. I’d been here for hours, and my head still hurt. Stupid painkillers were totally ineffective. “He’s in Iceland, though, on a film set. He won’t be here for days.”
“Yeah, he did say he’d be late arriving.” Dr Jorge smiled kindly. His bushy salt-and-pepper beard looked odd against his bald head. “He said he’d call someone close by to take you to their place. They’ll care for you until he can get to you.”
My heart stopped beating. “Who did he call?”
“He didn’t say.” His gaze flittered over the cast on my left leg, resuming his instructions. “Now, the cast has to stay on for six weeks, and you’re to use the crutches assigned. Okay?”
I groaned. “Isn’t there a quicker way to heal a broken bone?”
He chuckled. “Not one that has been invented yet. I recommend you don’t fly for a few days or at all if you can help it. The cast will make long-haul a nightmare.”
That left me one option.
I’d have to somehow drive one-legged across the country to get as far as I could from Jacob and Cherry River. I needed to leave immediately just in case Dad called Cassie to fetch me, and I was placed under house arrest in the very same place I was trying to escape.
I wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Tears stung for the billionth time, but I refused to let them fall. My head ached harder.
I winced, rubbing my forehead.
Why did this have to happen?
I could’ve been on a plane back to England by now.
High above the earth where Jacob Wild walked, putting miles upon miles between us so I never had to see him and his indifferent face again.
I hated that I’d been so stupid not to use a condom with him. I was on the pill, but the knowledge that some part of him still existed inside me made me furious. I hated that we’d been that intimate. I hated that I’d given in. I hated that I’d given him back his compass.
I should’ve kept it—used it to navigate my own way through this giant catastrophe called life.
I hate him.
I will always, always hate him.
The doctor leaned closer, shining a torch in my eyes.
I cringed away like a vampire in noonday sun. “Hey, ouch.”
He took the light away, inputting something on an e-tablet. “Light sensitivity should fade soon.” He waggled a finger at me. “But just like you need to rest your leg, you need to avoid any exercises or strenuous activities for a week thanks to your minor concussion.”
I laughed under my breath even though it made sickness wash over me. I had a concussion. How ironic.
Was it fate’s cruel joke? I hurt Jacob, so it hurt me?
Don’t think about him.
The space where my heart used to beat was an empty black-hole, sucking up my grief.
I’d done the right thing by cutting him from my life.
But it still hurt worse than anything I’d ever felt.
Including this accident.
“Anyway, you’re all treated, and you have the script for your required pills. Just wait here until your lift arrives, and we’ll see each other for a check-up soon. Okay?” He beamed. “Any questions?”
I shook my head, instantly regretting the painful sloshing. “No.”
“Alrighty. Get better and no more reckless driving.” He moved toward the door.
I smiled thinly. I wasn’t reckless. I was barely going faster than a jog. But I guessed he was right because I shouldn’t have been driving when I could barely see through my tears.
Would the police be after me? What about the rental car? What sort of mess would I face trying to claim insurance?
Think about that another day.
I closed my eyes as the doctor opened and closed the door, leaving me on my own to wallow in bad decisions, worse choices, and a body I’d stupidly broken.
The drugs better kill the pain in my heart as well as my head when they finally started working.
A soft click sounded as the door opened again.
I didn’t bother opening my eyes, preferring to stay in the darkness. “I promised no flying or strenuous activity already. I’ll obey, Dr Jorge.”
“Hello, Hope.”
My eyes soared open, smarting at the light and the fact that Jacob stood at
the bottom of my bed.
His shaggy white Bali-blond hair. His hardened dark gaze. His air of perpetual loneliness. He looked the same but different: the boy I’d known since childhood with broad shoulders and brute power to work the land and sea, yet there was something new too.
His eyes were weary and beaten. His body battle-scared and suffering.
He looked as if he’d faced death and lost.
He wasn’t someone I knew anymore.
Rage slithered through my bloodstream, making my leg ache and cast tighten and concussion throb. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He flinched like a broken man. “Your father called.”
“That’s just great.” I snorted. “Wonderful. Uh-huh, just what I need. You showing up when I never wanted to see you again. Just go away, okay? I don’t need you. In fact, I want you gone.”
What had my father been thinking?
He disliked Jacob as much as I hated him.
How dare he put me in this position!
Rage was a good antidote to my misery. The misery that cloaked and cradled, reaching out with wet fingers to touch the boy I didn’t know.
Even in my hate, I wanted him.
Even in my rage, I needed him.
And that hurt me the most because my heart should be mine to command, not his to bury.
“Go away.”
He merely shook his head and moved to the side of my bed, his hand landing on the white sheet so, so close to where my own fingers played with the blankets.
For the longest second, we stared.
Electricity surged and pulsed along my skin. My stomach quaked as Jacob killed me all over again.
I sucked in a ragged breath as his pinkie grazed mine.
We jolted; the electricity in the air completed its circuit, burning us, searing us together.
He licked his lips, and his barriers came down. Everything he ever was and pretended not to be blazed for me to see.
The truth.
The honesty.
The end.
He revealed a boy who’d lost more than he could cope with. A man who’d fought to be free of such pain.
And I didn’t want to see anymore.
I pulled away, swallowing against a great ball of sadness. “Leave me alone, Jacob.”
His breath caught, his voice hitched, and the tell-tale sign of grief roughened his tone. “If you still want me to go after I’ve said what I need, I’ll go. No questions asked.”
The Son & His Hope Page 49