28. Hunter
Chapter twenty-eight
Hunter
I send what I’ve found to Connor, wondering for the hundredth time what we’re going to uncover here.
Because something’s not right. And if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck … it’s usually a duck.
And Ellie hasn’t said anything else about my offer to adopt Sweetpea. Which doesn’t bother me. It shouldn’t bother me. It’s not bothering me.
But after that moment in the hot tub—where it felt like she might feel something toward me—things have been a little more stilted with us. Overly polite. Uncertain, almost.
Today, we spent the morning putting away Sweetpea’s washed baby clothes and organizing the nursery. Now I’m sitting at the kitchen table, looking at job listings, as Ellie eats lunch in the sunroom. Away from me.
I try not to read into it. I’ve just gotta keep myself busy, that’s all.
Which is really hard when my only job right now is Ellie and the baby.
There’s only so many onesies you can wash and fold and diapers you can put away before you run out.
So now we’re hovering around each other like we’re magnets unsure if we’re attracting or repelling one another.
I’m almost relieved when my mom calls. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hunter,” her voice comes out wobbly and I immediately stand up. “It’s Asher. He’s been in an accident.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re at Mountain View Hospital.
I insisted Ellie didn’t have to come, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
She’s whiter than the overhead fluorescent lights as we approach my family in the ICU waiting room.
Ansel and Henry are there too. They’d been with Asher when it happened.
I hug my mom, and hold her close as her tears wet my shirt. “Any change?” I ask my dad, who shakes his head. Ansel meets my eye and I nod my chin toward the corner and he follows me there.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice hushed because I know my mom doesn’t need a recounting of Asher’s accident.
“We were at Packer’s Ridge,” Ansel says, referring to one of their usual climbing spots. “He was about halfway up one of the routes when he fell. He was dynoing and I thought he’d made it, but he slipped off the hold.”
Nausea grips my stomach as I think of my brother falling off the cliff face. “How far was he from his last protection?”
“The last cam he placed ripped out when he fell,” Ansel says. “He was to the left of the route probably ten feet from the cam, so when he fell, and the next cam below held, he swung headfirst right into the overhang.”
Bile threatens and I swallow it down. My mind flashes back to the first time I lost a fellow Marine.
There was still sand between my teeth, leftover from our desert mission, when my commanding officer told us the news.
And right now, it’s as if I can still feel the grind of that sand against my teeth.
But Asher’s alive, I remind myself. And he’s going to stay alive.
“Was he … conscious?” I ask, attempting to focus on the only thing I can control right now—getting more information.
Ansel shakes his head.
“He was wearing a helmet?” I ask.
Ansel nods. Always a man of few words. “Probably saved his life.”
Probably.
I lift my hat, running a hand through my hair. I glance back at Ellie, who’s clutching my mom’s hand as they sit side by side. A moment later, Grandma DeeDee and Rosie come rushing through the hospital doors. I thank Ansel and go to hug my grandma and sit beside Ellie.
It’s going to be a long night.
An hour later, the doctors inform us that he needs to go into surgery to relieve the swelling in his head.
Words fly past us like subdural hematoma, TBI, and intracranial pressure, but all that I can think of is getting eyes on Asher.
Wyatt interprets all the doctor jargon for us and I thank God—not for the first time—that we have a doctor in the family.
But even while Wyatt and the surgeon explain the surgery to us, a panicked voice in the back of my head tells me that if I could see him, everything would be okay.
Of course, they don’t let me see him. Not while he’s in surgery and then recovery.
I want to stay at the hospital all night—but with Ellie clearly waning, I know I need to get her home.
She’s only two days away from her due date.
It’s almost midnight when the surgeon comes out and tells us that Asher’s surgery was successful but that we won’t know more until he wakes up.
If he wakes up, is left unspoken but still hanging in the room all the same.
We walk silently to my truck. When I go to open Ellie’s door, she catches my hand in hers. I can hardly see her eyes in the dim light of the parking garage, but I can tell they’re just as mournful as my own. When she pulls me into a hug, I lose myself in Ellie.
Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing to say, nothing to make this better or to verify it’s going to be okay. So we just cling to each other wordlessly.
The last few months, I’ve been trying to be Ellie’s rock … but right now, she’s mine. I cradle her head against my chest as her hands tighten across my back. She’s standing on tiptoes; her pregnant belly pressed between us.
When I feel something squirm against me, I pull back.
“Are we squishing her?” I wonder aloud, my hands going instinctively to Ellie’s stomach.
I feel a bit of pressure against my palms, as if Sweetpea is pressing her own hand against mine.
As if she’s saying, it’s going to be okay.
Tears choke my throat and I have to give a gruff cough to clear them.
“You should be asleep, young lady,” I say as I rub her belly.
Ellie gives a little laugh, which I can feel through my palms still on her.
I sigh, feeling a little lighter. Then, before I realize it, Ellie’s on tiptoes again, her lips against my cheek.
It’s so fast that I don’t have time to respond.
But when she scrambles awkwardly into the cab of the truck, her scent sticks to me and I carry it with me all the way home.