“Don’t touch me!” I thrash, shoving at his chest.
He doesn’t let me go—if anything, he holds me tighter as he walks into the living room. “Everything is going to be okay,” he whispers over my weak attempts at deep breaths and then sets me on the couch against the back wall.
Everything is going to be okay? Is he insane? I mean, how fucking dare he. I stand up and shove him away from me. “My dad’s in the fucking hospital, Maxwell! How could you say that? Everything is so far from being okay that I don’t even know . . .” My eyes slam shut and my head falls back. My hands are wet from my hair that I’ve yanked out of the elastic band I put in five minutes ago when everything in my life made sense. “She said it’s—” My voice cracks as it starts to hit . . . really hit. “Oh my god. What if he doesn’t make it? What will I do if I don’t have my dad?”
My body fails me and I fall into Maxwell. He wraps me tight as sobs rip straight from the depths of my soul, and he holds on tight until I’ve cried for so long that even though my body is still wailing, my tears have dried up. And then he carries me to my car and straps me into the passenger seat.
“I’ll be right back,” he says but I don’t respond.
I’m numb. Completely numb to this fucked-up world around me where good people—no, the best people—can end up in the hospital and the dregs of the earth will live unharmed until they’re a hundred.
I close my eyes and let my head fall back onto the headrest. I don’t want to see the house of my dreams. I don’t want to see this beautiful, sunny day to remind me that it doesn’t matter if my world falls apart or not, the world will go on with or without me.
With or without my dad.
Thirty-six
“Brynn,” somebody says.
My head is pounding and my mouth is so dry that my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. I don’t even know the last time I got this drunk. Years of watching people get sloppy drunk takes away the appeal.
“Brynn,” the voice says again. “We’re here.”
I try to open my eyes but they are so sore that I can’t. “Ughhh,” I groan, and rub my eyes. “Why do my freaking eyes hurt?”
“Brynn, babe,” another, feminine voice says. “You gotta get up.”
Then everything hits me. Maxwell. The shower. The phone calls. My dad.
My dad.
I shoot up, but quickly realize I’m still in the car when my seat belt locks up and sends me back into my seat. My hands are shaking so hard that I can’t unbuckle myself.
“Here,” Maxwell says, and I realize he was the person trying to wake me up at first. “Let me get that.”
“Thank you.” I exhale deeply, trying my hardest to not fall apart at the seams again. The seat belt unbuckles, but I’m stuck to my seat. There is this war going on in my head. I know I need to see him. He’s my dad and I love him and I want to be there for him and, god forbid the worst happens, I’d never forgive myself if he was alone. But the other part of me—the batshit crazy side—is terrified to see him. All of those Crossing Over shows I used to watch run through my mind, and I wonder if he’s only hanging on until I get there. What if me staying away is keeping him alive? And I know, medically and logically, that’s not possible, but . . . what if it is?
“Come on.” A pair of warm, soft hands grab mine. “Let’s go see him.”
I look over and see Poppy’s kind, worried eyes staring back at me. I open my mouth to say something. Ask something. But I don’t know what to say, so I close it and square my shoulders instead. The world might be crumbling around me, but if my dad deserves anything, he deserves me to keep myself together and be the best advocate for him that I can.
“I’ll text you the room number,” Poppy says to Maxwell before looping her arm through mine.
The entire walk to his room is a blur. I watch Poppy push the elevator buttons. I register the vibrations as it lifts us to the floor where he is. I see the words “Intensive Care Unit” above the door. And when I hug Poppy and thank her for being there for my dad when it meant the most, I note her tears as they seep through my shirt. But I don’t feel anything.
Not until the nurse pulls back the curtain to my dad’s room and I see that he’s not alone.
Then I feel something.
But it’s not sadness or sorrow or any of the other things I’ve been preparing for.
No. It’s rage.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask my mom.
“Brynn.” She unfolds herself from the chair across the room. “The hospital called and told me what happened. I’m listed as next of kin. They asked if I could come, in case any decisions needed to be made.”
I almost don’t hear her over the blood roaring between my ears.
“What do you mean?” My hands are bunched into fists at my side. I’ve never been in a real fight and I’d like my first one not to be with my mom, but if she doesn’t wipe that faux concerned look off her face, I’m not above doing it for her. “Why would you be next of kin?”
Her eyebrows draw together, and if she hadn’t indulged in too much Botox, I know she’d have the same concerned lines on her forehead as me. The last time I saw her, I was a child. Seeing her as an adult is a complete mind fuck. And my mind is already too scrambled to deal with her added bullshit.
“Frank never told you?” There’s a glint in her eye that makes my stomach turn. “We’re still married.”
“You’re so full of shit.” My lip curls in disgust. I cannot believe I share DNA with this horrid fucking woman. I start to walk toward her and I must look as crazy as I feel, because she takes a step back as I approach. “I don’t know what your endgame is here. Dad’s going to be fine and you aren’t getting a fucking thing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brynn,” she says. “I was at home when they called. I know how much you love your dad and he’s been good to me. I’d never wish harm on him. I know you probably don’t believe this, but I love you. I think about you every day.”
For a split second, I almost believe her.
Then I think about the picture hanging on my dad’s wall. My mom, this woman in front of me, she’s a liar and she doesn’t care who she takes down in her path.
I pick her designer bag off the floor and fight back a new wave of anger that my dad’s been sending her money, and she has a purse that cost more than my monthly mortgage. “You’re right, I don’t believe a single thing you say.” I loop the strap over my shoulder and gesture to the hallway.