Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dustin
The driver takes us through the streets of Portland.
It’s overcast but warm enough not to need a jacket, which I left in my duffel bag.
Halsey sits beside me. She’s quiet, staring out the window.
She’s been like that ever since I hung up on her mom and told her off.
Someone should give me a medal because I measured my words.
There’s a lot more that I could’ve told Mrs. Lahey, but I didn’t.
Halsey’s hand trembles slightly, still clenched in her lap, like she’s gripping the last thread of her composure. Her jaw is tight, her lips pressed into a thin line.
It’s not just anger—it’s that deep kind of hurt, the kind that twists and knots in your chest until you can barely breathe.
I saw it when she was talking on the phone, the way her voice would harden, then crack, as if she was trying to keep it all together but unraveling with every word her mother threw at her.
She didn’t show it then, but I could tell—I could feel it—the way her heart was breaking all over again.
What is going on with her and her family?
Mrs. Lahey used to be a nice person, they had a good relationship and now it seems like . . . Well, I’m not sure but I don’t like the way things developed as I was watching Halsey’s body language.
I glance at her, wanting to say something, to ease whatever’s tearing her apart, but I don’t know where to start. Her silence is thick, heavy with things unsaid, and I know better than to push.
“So . . . what exactly is happening with Brielle?” I ask, trying to break the tension, even if only for a moment.
Her eyes flicker, just for a second, but she doesn’t turn away from the window. “She’s getting engaged,” Halsey says flatly, her voice colder than usual, like the news doesn’t even surprise her anymore. “Mom’s throwing a party this weekend, says I ‘have’ to be there.”
Brielle. Her little sister was the mean girl of town, the one who ruled her little world with a smile that could cut you down just as quickly as her words could. If there was a yearbook superlative for “Least Likely to Care About Anyone but Herself,” she would’ve been voted queen of that, too.
“And what? Your mom expects you to drop everything and play supportive big sister?” I can’t hide the sarcasm in my voice. I know exactly how Halsey’s mom works—expecting her to be everything for the family, bending her into some image she’ll never fit into.
I don’t think Halsey used to see that before, because at least Mrs. Lahey was a loving, doting mother. Mind you, the woman was always vicious when someone pissed her off.
Halsey lets out a bitter laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Oh, she’s not expecting it. She’s demanding it.
It’s Brielle, after all. Plus, even when my parents can’t stand me, they always want to brag about the doctor in the family, because that’s all they care about.
Their image and their perfect family.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, but underneath, I can hear the hurt.
Her fingers tap restlessly on her knee, and I can feel the anger bubbling up again, the frustration she’s been carrying for so long it’s like something she’s never been able to let go of.
“Mom’s just doing what she always does—reminding me I messed up when I was a teenager.
That it caused this ripple effect and now I’m here, single and childless and .
. . apparently in need of marrying the ‘right’ guy.
Like I’m not the daughter they raised me to be. It’s always the same story.”
“I wish I could say something to make this easier for you,” I say, keeping my voice soft, because I know she doesn’t need pity or platitudes. She just needs someone to hear her. “But you don’t owe them anything, Hals. Not your time, not your energy, and definitely not your forgiveness.”
She finally turns to look at me, her eyes dark with emotion, and for a second, I think she might cry. But she doesn’t. Halsey doesn’t cry. Not over them, not anymore.
“I know,” she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t stop it from hurting. No matter how much I try to block it out.”
I reach over and gently take her hand, squeezing it just enough to let her know I’m here. She squeezes back, her grip tighter than I expected, as if she’s holding on to me like I’m her lifeline. Maybe I am.
“You’re not a screw-up,” I say, my voice firm. “You’re one of the strongest people I know, and none of this—what they think, what they say—defines who you are.”
“I understand all that, but after all, they’re my parents.
I want them to love me, you know? It’s human nature,” she says, her voice soft but laced with resignation.
She lets out a long sigh, resting her head gently on my shoulder, her fingers weaving through mine as if seeking some kind of anchor in the storm of emotions she’s been holding inside.
We sit there in silence as the car winds its way through the dimly lit streets, the rhythm of the city outside a stark contrast to the quiet between us. I can feel the tension in her body slowly easing—not gone, not by a long shot—but enough to let me know she’s starting to let her guard down.
“So, they liked Carson, huh?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light, but there’s a hint of some jealousy in my voice.
She lets out a small, amused huff. “You heard the conversation, did you?”
“Umm, she wasn’t exactly whispering,” I reply, trying to defend myself with a slight shrug. “She made it sound like good ol’ Carson was the perfect candidate for their precious Halsey.”
She rolls her eyes, though there’s still a shadow of sadness behind them.
“Carson wasn’t ‘the one,’ he was convenient.
He checked off their boxes. Rich, good family, socially acceptable.
The kind of guy who’d make Christmas dinners bearable for my parents.
He fit their picture of what my life should look like. ”
I smirk, amused but not surprised. “So, what? You dated him because he fit your family’s perfect little mold?”
She rubs her temples, as if the memories of that time in her life bring her more exhaustion than clarity. “I guess. At the time, I thought maybe if I just . . . do what they wanted, maybe if I followed the path they laid out for me, life would be easier. But it wasn’t. It was suffocating.”
“You could always tell her your boyfriends are pretty well off,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. “Wealthy enough to check off her boxes and pay for a lobotomy that’ll make her a better person.”
That does it. Halsey bursts out laughing, uncontrollable and unfiltered, her head thrown back as the laughter tumbles out of her in waves, filling the car with the kind of sound I haven’t heard in what feels like forever.
It’s the kind of laugh that’s contagious, the kind that makes you forget, if only for a moment, about everything weighing you down.
When she finally calms down, wiping away the tears that have gathered at the corners of her eyes, she smiles. “You’re no longer my boyfriend—neither is Santos. And to be honest, I don’t think there’s a lobotomy that could give her empathy.”
“We never broke up,” I say, a little too earnestly, holding onto the thread of playfulness but also, maybe, a touch of something real.
Halsey rolls her eyes again but with a smile that’s warmer this time, more genuine. “My mom still thinks I missed out on ‘true love,’ like I’m doomed because I didn’t settle down with Carson. But how can you miss something that was never real?”
Carson might have been the guy who fit her parents’ picture-perfect dream, but he wasn’t the guy who made her laugh like this. He wasn’t the guy who saw her beyond the boxes she was supposed to check. And I guess, deep down, she’s always known that.
“We were never meant for those molds, Hals,” I say quietly, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “And thank fuck for that.”
I nod, the words hitting me harder than I expect. “Yeah. That’s the thing about true love. It’s not something you can just fake your way into.”
The car falls into silence for a beat, and I can feel her eyes on me now, weighing what I just said.
“You think true love is still possible?” Her voice is quiet, cautious, like she’s not sure she’s ready for the answer. “Not that you can love and find it, but that you can live that happily ever after life when you finally have it.”
I glance over at her. “I think we already found it,” I say, my voice steady. “With us. With Santos. It was real, Halsey. It still is. We just have to figure out how we’ll make it work out now that we’re adults and no one can take anything away from us.”
“We’re still true love, right?” I ask, my voice softer now, as if I’m afraid that any louder and the fragile thread we’re clinging to might snap.
She doesn’t answer right away. But when she finally speaks, her voice is so low, so quiet, that I almost miss it. “I don’t know if love can ever stop being true.”
It’s not the answer I was hoping for, but it’s enough—for now. It’s a small glimmer of hope, something to hold on to. Maybe she’s not ready to say more, but at least she hasn’t let go entirely. We’re still here. We’re still something.
The car pulls into the hospital parking lot, and the driver brings the vehicle to a stop. I turn to him, my hand lingering on Halsey’s for just a second longer before I let go. “Take our luggage to the Merkel Hotel,” I tell the driver. “The concierge will know what to do.”
We leave the car and head toward the hospital.
The receptionist directs us to the orthopedic wing, and we take the elevator to the fourth floor.
The ride in the elevator is fast. When we step off, the sterile smell of the hospital hits us, sharp and cold.
The fluorescent lights hum above us as we walk down the long hallway, our footsteps echoing in the stillness.
Halsey walks beside me, her gaze focused ahead, her expression unreadable.