Chapter 21 Maybe Trish is Right
TWENTY-ONE
MAYBE TRISH IS RIGHT
JACOB
The emergency van reeks of antiseptic and exhaustion.
Trish doesn’t speak as she yanks open the first aid kit. Metal clatters. The bite of alcohol burns the air. I flex my fingers.
Bad move.
Pain rips across my knuckles, raw and throbbing, crawling up my arm to settle behind my eyes. Skin shredded. Blood caked. Bone-deep ache in every joint.
Worth it.
But I should’ve seen this coming. I always should.
Why do I keep screwing it up? Hurting the people I’m supposed to protect? Always hitting back too hard, too late. Never in time to stop the damage.
“Sit.”
Trish’s voice cuts through the silence. No softness.
I drop onto the cot, elbows on my knees, head low. The weight in my chest hasn’t moved since my fists started swinging.
Outside, the camp’s quiet. Maybe they’re giving me space. Maybe they don’t want to see me like this.
I don’t look at my hands. Can’t.
Did I go too far? Or not far enough?
Trish moves with the quick, sure hands of someone who’s done this too many times.
Gauze. Tape. Disinfectant. But her jaw’s tight.
Eyes hotter than the sting of the alcohol she pours over my knuckles.
It burns like hell. I suck in a sharp breath, jaw locked.
She presses a cloth to the mess, the gauze blooming red.
“You don’t always have to do this.”
That’s the thing about Trish, she never lets anything slide. Calls us out. Keeps us honest. Especially when it hurts. It’s one of the many infuriating things I love about her.
The mind-reading part’s less cute.
“You don’t always have to be the one bleeding,” she adds, softer.
But I do.
I owe these people everything. My mom kept me steady after my dad bailed. Edith and Earl pulled me back more than once. Leon beat the arrogance out of me. Trish has been the mirror I can’t look away from. Jessica, even after Sheila died, made sure I didn’t fall apart.
So I give what I can. And when it’s not enough, I give blood.
“You think I don’t see it?” Trish’s voice tightens. “Every time shit goes sideways, you take it all on yourself. Like carrying it makes it better for the rest of us.” She tugs the bandage tighter. “You did the right thing.”
“Did I?”
Her hands pause. Then keep moving, wrapping my hands like she’s trying to patch the cracks in me. “That bastard locked us in and left us for dead. He’s lucky you let him walk away. I was ready to shoot him myself.”
The weight in my chest doesn’t move. “Everyone saw, Trish. They saw the part I bury. The part that always got me in trouble.”
That part’s been with me since my dad walked out—rage, sharp and hot. I used to control it. Fight fires, drag people out, spar with Leon until I bled. That pain had purpose. Now it builds until I can’t keep the lid on.
And when I let it loose, it scares me.
I should’ve done it differently. Quiet. Out of sight. Leon would’ve understood. But the others? They weren’t supposed to see the version of me that doesn’t stop. The version that doesn’t want to stop.
I should’ve been better. For Sheila.
That guilt sits in my ribs like stone.
As if reading my damn mind, Trish pulls back, eyes fixed on mine. “What happened with Sheila wasn’t your fault.”
I freeze. Breath locked in my chest. “You don’t know that.”
“I know you, Jacob.”
She’s wrong. She doesn’t know what I did. What I didn’t do.
The thought creeps too close to the surface. I slam the door on it before it spills out.
“You can’t change the past,” she says. “But you can stop letting it bury you.”
I huff a bitter breath. “Got a manual for that?”
“Nope.” She shifts, leaning on the counter. “But I’ve got a question. What do you want?”
“For people to stop making stupid decisions.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, dumbass. I mean, what do you want—for you.”
I blink. The question feels foreign, like I lost the right to it. But Trish doesn’t let me run.
“I’ve only seen one real spark in you since all this started,” she says, nodding toward camp. “And it sure as hell wasn’t Pete.”
My heart kicks.
Lyla’s fire. Her sharp tongue. The way she moves like she’ll burn the world to protect what’s hers. She lives in the quiet corners of my mind. The kiss earlier—heat, weight, the pull I haven’t felt in a long time—slams into me.
I want her.
Trish sees it on my face before I say anything. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I don’t.
Lyla sees me, the parts I keep locked away, and she doesn’t flinch. It’s like her demons recognize mine. And instead of running, they reach out.
For the first time in too long, I want to be seen.
Then—Sheila.
The guilt slides in fast. I don’t deserve this. I failed her. And I’m afraid I’ll fail Lyla too.
No one knows what really happened before Sheila died. They think she was ripped away from me. They don’t know what I said. Why she was alone that night.
I press my eyes shut. The worst part? I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell them.
“You ever think about what comes after this?” I murmur.
“All the time,” she says.
I trace circles over the ink on my wrist—the roots of the tree. The one I got when I thought I was finally growing out of the anger. When I thought I was finally grounded. “I don’t know if I get to have an after.”
“Why the hell not?”
I don’t answer. How do you explain carrying something that broke you while pretending you’re still whole?
She exhales, rolling her shoulders like she’s shaking off the bullshit.
“Look, Jacob. I don’t know what kind of demons rattle around in that thick skull of yours.
But I do know this, you can’t spend your life carrying a ghost while you still have breath in your lungs.
” Her gaze sharpens. “You want to live? Then live.”
When I let myself picture it, I see Lyla—smirk sharp enough to cut through fog, eyes that see every shadow I hide. She challenged me from the moment we met.
I flex my fingers against the fresh bandages. I’m not free of the past. The guilt’s still there. The truth no one else knows. But something cracks open.
And I think, maybe, I want to try.
With Lyla.
If she’ll take me, broken pieces and all.