A nurse knocks on the door. “So sorry, folks. Visiting hours are over. You can come back in the morning.”
Brenda slips a Prada handbag over her shoulder, refusing to take her eyes off her swollen and mangled son, as if she might miss a hint of a twitch. I don’t remind her that his coma is medically induced, and she’s not going to miss a thing until they try and bring him out of it.
“You going to be okay tonight, sweetie?” Brenda rubs a knot between my shoulder blades. Small, hurried circles. Comforting yet detached. I’ve been with Brooks since our senior year at Hargrove, so I’ve known Brenda for years. I always thought she was strong, but now I’m beginning to see that she just sucks at showing emotion deeper than surface level.
Like mother, like son.
In the early days, it took Brooks the better part of a year to tell me he loved me, and after that, he reserved those words solely for special events. Birthdays. Valentine’s Day cards. The occasional breathless declaration after an earth-shattering orgasm.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. Brenda doesn’t need to worry about anything other than her son. What happens to me is insignificant compared to everything he’s going to be dealing with when he wakes up.
If he wakes up.
The doctors say he might not be able to walk or talk. They’re unsure about the amount of brain damage he’ll have to contend with. Every organ and bone in his body is swollen, broken, or extensively damaged.
“We need to postpone the wedding.” Brenda lifts her eyebrows, shoulders slumping. “Obviously.”
My gaze snaps into hers. Now is not the time to say anything, but I feel the words right there, on the tip of my tongue, tingling and threatening to bring the truth to life.
“I’m not even thinking about the wedding right now.” It’s not a lie.
“This is nothing more than a setback. He’s going to wake up and get back on his feet. My son’s as stubborn as a mule. He wants to marry you, and when Brooks sets his mind to something, there’s no stopping him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he wakes up tomorrow and marches on out of here just to prove he can.”
I snort through my nose. Brooks is stubborn. He’d proposed to me on four separate occasions, refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer. The first three times I declined, telling him I wasn’t ready, begging him to wait another six months, then another, and another. The truth was that I was still in love with someone else, and I needed more time to get over him. You can’t love one man and marry another. It isn’t right.
And maybe . . .
Maybe a teeny, tiny, microscopic part of me hoped that Royal would . . .
No.
I hate thinking about it, because I know how completely ridiculous and unrealistic it sounds.
I said yes the fourth time Brooks proposed because I realized exactly why I was with him in the first place: he was the antidote to Royal Lockhart. The antithesis of the one man who shattered my heart and crippled my ability to feel a shred of the happiness I’d once known.
Brooks Abbott was the only thing that could cure me of the obsessive love sickness I’ve been plagued with since the day Royal left and never came back.
“I’ll make sure he knows you never left his side,” she says. “I’ll remind him every damn day for the rest of his life.”
Brooks lies lifeless in his bed, his back propped up against pillows and his chest rising and falling in sync with the machines. His beautiful, electric green eyes are swollen shut, his strong, square jaw broken in four places. Flecks of dried blood cling to his thick, blond mane.
Gone are his pressed white polo shirts, crisp khakis, and navy dinner jackets. Gone are his fancy watches and money clips and Gucci loafers. You strip Brooks Abbott down to a hospital gown, and he’s no more special than any other person in this hospital building.
Royal would detest Brooks if they ever met. And maybe a small part of me is secretly pleased by that.
I almost wish Brooks could see himself like this. He was always so obsessed with crafting this perfect image to the rest of the world.
Perfect house.
Perfect fiancé.
Perfect smile, perfect cars, perfect friends . . .
The list went on and on.
He had it all, and nothing ever kept him satisfied for very long.
I wish I could ask him where he was going that night. He sure as hell wasn’t upset about calling off the wedding. The man didn’t shed a single tear. Kept the entire exchange short and sweet. I should’ve suspected something was up when I came home from work and saw a packed bag next to the front door. His keys dangled from steady hands, and the laces of his boat shoes were tightly tied.
Brooks’s nurse clears her throat from the corner of his room. I cover his legs with a white flannel blanket, place the lotion aside, and gather my things. I need a shower. I need a hot meal. I need a full night’s rest. I need to organize my thoughts. Maybe have a good cry.
Brenda slips her phone from her pocket and leaves. She’s been doing that all day, taking phone calls and spreading the word. One of his aunts started a Go Fund Me page for the “lengthy recovery and medical bills he’s going to face” despite the fact that Brooks is a very successful financial planner, and the Abbotts are one of the wealthiest families in Rixton County.
And despite the fact that we don’t even know if he’s going to pull through.
On at least four occasions, I caught Brenda taking screenshots of various headlines from online news articles discussing the accident. She claimed she pinned them to a Pinterest board to make a “digital scrapbook” for Brooks to see when he wakes up.
I guess we all deal with things differently.
Twelve hours I spent with that woman today, and I still didn’t have the courage to tell her that Brooks and I broke up the night of his accident. I imagine the way her face might fall when I tell her. I imagine that half of Rixton Falls will hear within hours. And I imagine the snickers and stares I’ll face from locals who balk at my timing.
“Yeah, sure,” they’ll say. “How convenient.”
No one will believe me. I’ll be branded a shitty human being, my reputation forever tarnished.
The pads of my shoes make soft, sticky noises as I leave the hospital. Outside, an early November snow begins to fall. The flakes are huge, but they don’t stick.
Nothing ever really sticks around Rixton Falls.
Except for idiots like me.
I climb into my old Subaru and crank the ignition. Cold air blows through the vents, and I shove my fingers up against them as if that might possibly make the air warm any faster.
Brooks tried to get me to trade it in last year for something flashier, even offering to make the down payment for me. I told him I didn’t need a BMW when the school I teach for is five blocks away from our house, and my Subaru shows absolutely no signs of biting the dust in the very near future.
Five minutes later, I’m coasting down the quiet streets of my hometown, past the green-roofed library with the iron frog-and-toad sculpture. Past the Ice Cream Queen. Past the rich people nursing home and the two-screen movie house. Past the hill we used to sled down as kids every winter. Down the avenues we used to cruise when there was nothing better to do on a small town Friday night.
They all blur together like a messy streak of memories, and they all silently whisper his name.