Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Halsey
I stare at Dustin as he grips the door handle, like it’s the only thing holding him together. His knuckles are white, his breath uneven, his entire body tense as if he’s on the verge of shattering.
This poor man.
This poor, loving, lonely, scared man who has gone through so much and never gotten the help he so desperately needed since he was a child.
Back in Blissful Meadows, I didn’t see it.
How could I? I was barely eleven, too young to understand.
I only wanted to see him smile. His grandparents, kind and loving as they were, never thought to send Dustin to therapy.
But it’s now so obvious to me.
No one had ever thought about the damage that he had already suffered by living with two very narcissistic parents. A father who pushed him to be the best and a mother who didn’t care for her son at all.
His parents died. He was hounded by the media that was trying to use his sad story to sell magazines.
Dusty lost everything he knew in a single day, uprooted from the life he knew and thrown into something unfamiliar without any warning—without the guidance or support to navigate the grief.
And then he found us—me and Santos—and for a while, we were his safe place.
But we were just kids, na?ve, thinking we could somehow hold him together.
When they tore us apart, they shattered what little stability he had left.
I’m not surprised that everything he went through pushed him to drown his pain in alcohol and drugs, to numb the memories, erase the fear and the sorrow.
To bury it all so deep it would take years to resurface.
Seeing him like this . . . the panic, the fear, the way his body shakes as he fights to keep himself together—it’s too much.
I know what this looks like. I’ve seen it in patients, in people who’ve been fighting demons for too long.
And Dustin? He’s standing on the edge of that cliff, teetering, one step away from falling.
He’s pulling away, retreating into that place where he thinks he’s alone, but I can’t let him walk out like this.
“Dustin, just—just stop for a second, okay? Please.”
He doesn’t turn around, his back still to me, his voice flat. “You said you’ll help Santos, that’s all I needed.” He pauses, gripping the door tighter. “I have to go.”
I take a step forward, the words catching in my throat, but I force them out. “You have to stay.”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice wavers.
“You’re not fine,” I say, my own voice shaking now. “You’re not okay, Dusty. I can see it, and I—I don’t know what to do because I’ve never seen you like this. And it scares me.”
His shoulders stiffen, and for a second, I think he’s going to leave anyway. He doesn’t turn, but I see the tension in his body—the way he’s barely holding himself together.
My heart aches, but I step closer, trying to reach him. “Talk to me,” I plead, my voice softer. “Please, don’t shut me out.”
When he finally turns to face me, his eyes are wild, filled with a storm of emotions—fear, shame, anger—all fighting for control. “What do you want me to say, Hals?” His voice cracks, raw and strained. “All I need is for you to help him.”
Of course. It’s always about Santos or anyone else. Always about saving others but not himself because Dustin thinks he’s beyond saving. He’s convinced that all he’s good for is protecting others, that he’s not worth the effort. My poor lost boy.
“You need me to help him because you couldn’t back then,” I say gently and now I get why he’s looking for me. He doesn’t need a doctor. He can get one of those anywhere. “You love him so much that you want to give him everything, even the girl, don’t you? You want him to be whole.”
He nods, just a small dip of his head, like it’s the only truth he knows.
It breaks my heart. Dustin’s always been willing to sacrifice anything for us. If it were me who needed help, he’d be asking the same thing—trying to save me, no matter the cost to himself. But I can’t let him disappear into this self-sacrifice.
“What do you need?” I ask, my voice soft but firm.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, his eyes darting away. “I’m fine.”
“Dusty, you’re not okay,” I say, stepping even closer. “Tell me how I can help you. What’s going on?”
His hand drags through his hair, and I see the tremor in his fingers, the desperation barely hidden behind his calm facade. “I’m one step away from—” He stops himself, swallowing hard, and I feel a chill run through me. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I know what he means.
Dustin’s not just struggling. He’s fighting something bigger than either of us. The craving, the urge to give in and let the drugs take the pain away. It’s right there, pulling at him.
I move closer, my hand hovering near his arm, my heart in my throat. “Dustin,” I whisper, my voice trembling, “please. Don’t do this. Don’t let yourself go down that road.”
I want to beg him to stop for me, but I know it’s not fair. This isn’t about me—it has to be for him. If it’s not, it won’t mean anything.
He closes his eyes, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
I can see the war raging inside him, the way he’s holding everything together by a thread.
But it’s slipping. I see it in the slight tremor in his hands, in the tension in his shoulders.
The strength he’s trying so desperately to cling to is fading.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to help. And that’s the most terrifying part. I’m supposed to be good at this—I’m a doctor. I fix people. But right now I feel utterly powerless.
His breath hitches, and I know. He’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that could take him away from me again.
“Dusty,” I whisper, my voice breaking, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He opens his eyes, and the pain in them—raw, unfiltered pain—rips through me. “You say that now, but no one stays,” he murmurs, his voice cracked, barely holding it together. “And what if you have to leave? What if something or someone takes you away?”
Tears sting the back of my eyes. I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay calm.
“I won’t this time,” I promise, though I know those words alone won’t be enough.
Not for him. Not after everything. “The time I did . . . was because they took me away. I didn’t have a choice.
But then when I tried to reach out to you . . .”
He frowns, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What do you mean, you reached out to us?”
“I sent you messages on social media,” I say. “The first time you responded, you said you didn’t have time. The second . . . I was blocked. I even tried getting through to San—through his agent, his team—but nothing. No response.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. His expression hardens, jaw tightening. He’s angry, but it’s not with me. He’s angry at the lost time, at whoever kept us apart.
“If someone kept you from me and San—” His voice drops, filled with an edge I haven’t heard in years. “Whoever they are, they’ll pay for it.”
“Okay,” I murmur, trying to steady myself. “So we’ve gone from you almost breaking down to ready-to-burn-the-world anger.”
He shrugs, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve got a lot of issues. Too many to even count them.”
I can’t help but smile. “We can work on those, too,” I offer gently.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at me with that unreadable expression. But then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he nods. It’s small, barely there, but it’s enough to make the tension ease just a little from my chest.
He’s not okay. Not even close. But maybe, just maybe, there’s a flicker of fight left in him. And for now, that’s all I can hope for.
“Let’s have dinner,” I suggest, trying to sound steady. “We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
He hesitates, his eyes darting to the door like it’s his escape, a way out of everything pressing down on him. For a second, I think he might bolt, but then he nods, almost imperceptibly. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dinner is a small step, but it’s something.
Tomorrow, though? Tomorrow, I have to find out what’s happening with Santos’s care, then figure out how to get Dustin the help he so clearly needs.
The question that lingers in the back of my mind is whether I can do anything to save either of them—and if I’ll make it through this intact.