Chapter 47
Colsen
When I finally catch up to Briggs, it’s going to take every ounce of willpower I possess not to punch the bastard in the face.
I understand that he’s hurt, but walking away isn’t the answer.
This is exactly why Andi still questions our loyalty, though she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
It’s her subconscious way of protecting herself from being hurt or betrayed again.
And Briggs storming out during the heat of an argument is all but confirming her fears.
As hard as it can be at times, we can’t allow ourselves to take offense to Andi’s protective reactions, not when they’re only honed as sharply as they are because of the people who’ve continuously failed her thus far.
I stare at the moving blue dot on my phone screen, the distance between us quickly diminishing as I lengthen my strides.
When I added Briggs to the tracking app we use, unbeknownst to him, this isn’t what I had in mind if there ever came a time when I had to invade his privacy and use it.
I assumed I’d be hunting him down after he spiraled into another bender, but much to my surprise and relief, Briggs hasn’t shown any hint of resorting to old coping mechanisms. That he willingly met with his therapist is still mind-boggling to me, but I’m not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I’m damn near out of breath by the time Briggs’ faded red T-shirt comes into view.
I’m at least fifty yards behind him, so it shouldn’t be obvious that he has a tail.
I pocket my phone, wanting to be alert and aware of my surroundings, given my current location.
We’ve made it to the outskirts of town, a seedier area that Briggs shouldn’t have any business visiting.
Cell reception became spotty about a half-mile back, so we’re on our own if shit goes sideways.
For a moment, I ponder if he’s leading me to a drug house, but I like to think I can read people pretty well, and Briggs hasn’t given me any reason to think he’s up to no good again.
Aside from what just happened, he’s been happier these past couple of months than I’ve ever seen him.
I will say, the ex-fiancé revelation was as much of a shock to me as it was to Andi.
Outside of Briggs getting drunk once and lamenting about his shitty, uber-rich parents who were more concerned with their reputation being negatively affected than their son’s mental health, I don’t know much about his past life.
He’s certainly never mentioned an ex, but we’ve never really had the type of relationship where we open up and confide in one another.
Not for a lack of trying on my part, but Briggs has been so shut off from the rest of the world that it was impossible to reach him–until Andi.
She’s changed all of us, but Briggs more than anyone.
Suddenly, he veers off course and enters a rundown drugstore.
I lean against the crumbling brick facade of the building across the street, deciding to wait him out.
He exits a few minutes later, several bags clenched tightly in his right hand.
I resume following him, pondering how much longer I’m willing to let this charade go on, but my curiosity is piqued, and I’m interested to see what Briggs has planned.
His direction of travel feels purposeful, not like he’s wandering aimlessly while lost inside of his head.
A few blocks later, a homeless encampment comes into view.
I slow my steps, knowing my presence can’t be hidden as well now that we’re out in the open.
Ducking beneath the awning of a boarded-up restaurant, I watch in confusion as Briggs strolls through the makeshift living space without a care in the world.
He waves to a few people, looking at ease and not the slightest bit out of his element.
My brows draw inward as I try to make sense of the scene playing out before me.
Briggs takes a seat on a stack of wooden pallets, and one by one, people begin approaching him.
Using the camera feature on my phone, I zoom in so I have a better view of what he’s doing.
I track his hand as he reaches inside one of the bags he was carrying and starts pulling things out, placing them beside him so they’re easy to reach.
I note several different bandages, some antiseptic wipes, and a tube of antibiotic cream.
To my absolute shock, Briggs begins cleaning an open wound on the man standing in front of him.
He takes his time, making sure there’s no debris in the cut, then lathers it with ointment before sealing it shut with butterfly bandages.
One after the other, he doctors up their injuries, his face free of any judgment or disgust. Briggs treats them like people, something that’s probably become a foreign concept to most of them.
It’s easy to assume the worst when you’re on the outside looking in, seeing the obvious signs of drug addiction that’s eating away at their bodies and minds, but we have no idea what these people have been through.
What paths they’ve walked that led them to being destitute.
Some of them could be war veterans, some runaways whose parents don’t care enough to bother looking for them.
But it makes us feel better when we craft our own stories and reasoning for why they’re in the position they are.
It’s easier to lay blame with them alone than to acknowledge that, just maybe, life is difficult and sometimes it fucks us over without a shred of remorse.
Royce and Rita are the sole reason I have the perspective I do.
I worked my ass off to get where I am, so it stands to reason that anyone else could do the same, but they taught me humility.
That seeing the world through such a narrow viewpoint is antiquated.
Briggs, however, has never tagged along to The Village or given any indication that he’s passionate about helping the less fortunate.
He’s never cared enough to show interest in anything I’m involved with, so it’s a bit staggering to witness someone with such an affluent background doing something that most would deem beneath him.
At least not the Briggs I know. I can picture him differently, though.
Before he was taken captive by a cartel, his only worry was how many patients he could tend to before the day ended.
I press my lips into a thin line, breathing through the pain invading my chest cavity when it becomes apparent why he’s here; why he’s doing this.
Deciding I’ve skulked in the shadows long enough, I slowly approach the encampment, trying my damnedest to appear non-threatening as a few of them give me wary looks.
I slow my steps as I draw closer to Briggs, unintentionally eavesdropping on the conversation he’s having with a middle-aged woman about wound care.
His supplies are practically gone from how many people he’s already treated, so I take a seat on the edge of the pallet, patiently waiting until there’s a lull in his line of patients.
His shoulders stiffen momentarily when he registers my presence, but he looks more defeated than angry.
“What are you doing here, Col?” He sighs in resignation, keeping his eyes averted from mine as he begins to pack away the remaining bandages and ointment.
“Every time you’ve disappeared for the past two years, is this what you’ve been doing?” I ask instead of answering.
Briggs’ snort of amusement makes me think I’ve asked something monumentally stupid, but then he responds with, “If you’re trying to downplay my drug-induced benders because you’ve caught me doing something you find redeemable, don’t waste your time.
” He braces his forearms on his knees, then tilts his head to the side to look me in the eye.
“I absolutely numbed the pain I was in with every opioid I could find. But even when I was as high as the Chrysler Building, I did what I could to help treat their injuries. Most people who are homeless don’t trust easily when it comes to authority figures.
Police officers haul their asses to jail for the slightest infractions, and doctors want to lecture them about substance abuse rather than treat whatever ailment they came in for.
“I’m not saying they’re wrong to offer them solutions or recommendations for rehab facilities, but it turns people off more often than not.
They end up forgoing clinics altogether because of the way they’re treated, which can lead to serious infections when their wounds are left exposed to the elements.
At least if I visit the encampments around the city every so often, I can ensure they’re receiving some type of care, even if it’s minuscule. ”
“You miss it,” I surmise, watching as Briggs’ eyebrows draw together in confusion.
“Being a doctor,” I explain, watching him swallow thickly before turning his attention to the skyline.
“You were obviously good at your job, Briggs. It’s ingrained in you to help those in need.
Hell, it’s a part of the oath you took. That doesn’t just disappear, regardless of how much you’ve wanted it to.
I’m not going to pretend that I understand what you went through and how it’s changed you, but you’re a good person, Briggs.
You did everything you were supposed to, so don’t let them win by stealing any more of your life.
” His jaw is clenched so tightly, I fear he might crack a tooth.
I know it’s risky to broach the subject of his past, but he needs to hear that what happened wasn’t his fault, and it damn sure doesn’t define the man he is today.