Chapter 17 Darla #2
What have I become? I shot Trent to escape, to reclaim my life, and yet the thought of that violence hangs over me like a dark cloud. Each bruise tells a story, but this one—the one from the gun—feels like a mark I’ll never wash away.
A familiar sound pulls me from my thoughts: the front door creaks open again. Low voices drift in—East’s deep tone followed by a woman’s voice, cool and composed. Sloane.
Footsteps approach, moving with the rhythm of people accustomed to navigating tension without causing a stir. There’s a knock at the bedroom door.
“It’s me,” East calls out. “Sloane and Knox are here.”
I step out of the bathroom and open the door slowly.
Sloane steps inside, her arms full. She’s not just carrying her medical bag, but a large paper grocery bag, too.
She’s still clad in dark blue scrubs, a zip-up hoodie draped over her shoulders, her hospital badge clipped to her collar.
Her hair is pulled back into a low bun, though loose strands escape and frame her face.
The scent of antiseptic mingles with something warmer and more inviting, a reminder of safety.
Knox remains in the hallway, his presence quiet but steady.
He and Sloane share a look as she passes him—a flicker of something tense and unreadable that makes my stomach clench in recognition.
It’s the look of two people sharing a space, but not a life.
He gives me a brief, polite nod, his eyes carefully blank, then turns his focus back to the hallway, a silent guard.
“Guest room’s perfect,” Sloane states, placing her medical bag on the dresser and handing me the paper bag.
“The girls put this together for you. Clothes, toiletries… the essentials.” She shrugs, a small, wry smile touching her lips.
“Frankie threw in some, uh, 'spiritual protection,' too.” I peek inside and see a bundle of sage tied with string resting on top of a folded T-shirt.
“And Ruby added a bag of gummy bears that are probably 90% vodka.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed as Sloane pulls out her supplies. There’s no small talk, just the business of healing. “Let’s start at the top,” she says, tilting my chin gently upward. Her fingers are cool yet confident as she examines me.
She shines the flashlight into my eyes, her brow furrowing slightly. “Pupils are tracking well. No signs of concussion. But if you feel dizzy or throw up, you call me. Or Knox if East’s not around.”
I nod, swallowing hard, grateful for her thoroughness but also struck by the vulnerability of being cared for. It’s an unfamiliar sensation; one that feels both welcome and unwelcome.
Her hands move lower, pressing along my ribs. I can’t help but flinch when she hits a tender spot, a sharp gasp of pain hissing through my teeth. “Still hurts,” I mutter, wincing.
“Yeah, it’s going to hurt like a bitch for a few weeks,” she replies, her tone matter-of-fact, yet laced with empathy.
She continues her work, and I focus on breathing through the discomfort. Her touch is efficient, almost clinical, yet there’s a kindness in the way she handles me. Next, she examines my wrist, her fingers brushing over the swelling that has become more pronounced now that I’m seated.
“You must have landed on it—or twisted it pulling away from Trent,” she observes, her voice steady. “Mild sprain,” she concludes after a moment. “You’re lucky.”
As she wraps it with a compression bandage, snug but not too tight, I break the silence that stretches between us. “How do you know when it’s safe to stop holding everything together?”
She pauses, her hands stilling for just a heartbeat. Her gaze remains focused on the bandage, avoiding mine. “When someone lets you fall apart without walking away,” she finally responds, her voice soft yet resolute.
I stare at her, at this beautiful, composed woman who seems to have it all together.
In that moment, I see it. It’s the same stillness I’ve seen in my mirror.
The same armor. She’s a lonely girl, too.
She’s hiding a secret. I don’t know what it is, but I recognize the shadow it casts.
Just like that, a silent, invisible thread connects us.
I don’t reply because I can’t find the words.
The weight of her statement hangs in the air.
It’s a tangible force that presses down on me.
Sloane zips her bag with a swift motion, the sound sharp against the quiet room.
She stands, her posture radiating purpose.
Before she leaves, she places a small canvas pouch on the nightstand, its fabric soft and worn.
“Painkillers, tea, arnica, muscle rub,” she lists, her voice steady.
“Use what works for you. The rest? Burn it.”
I glance at the bag, trying for a joke. “Burning things seems a bit extreme, don’t you think? With how often we all get hurt, I might as well open a pharmacy in here,” I say, trying to inject some levity into the moment, but the truth is, I’m unworthy of this kindness.
Sloane almost smiles—just a flicker at the corner of her mouth, but it’s enough to see the warmth beneath her cool exterior.
“You’d be busy, that’s for sure,” she replies, her tone lightening just a touch.
“Girls’ night is coming soon,” she adds, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Once you’re healed enough to drink and insult men properly, that is. ”
Since stepping into the clubhouse, something inside me shifts.
A crack in the heaviness that isn’t pain.
I take a shallow breath, which makes my ribs twinge, but I laugh a small, rusty sound anyway.
“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, grateful for the distraction, but a part of me wonders if I truly deserve to be part of that camaraderie.
Sloane lingers in the doorway, her gaze softening as she looks back at me one last time. “You’re not alone, Darla. Even if it feels that way,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, a promise woven into her words.
Then, with a final nod, she slips out, leaving me wrapped in the quiet warmth of the room, the canvas pouch a symbol of care and camaraderie—and the possibility of healing, both physical and emotional.