Chapter 10
Keaton
The drive to the hospital felt like it lasted five minutes and five hours at the same time. My hands gripped the steering wheel until my fingers ached, but I couldn’t seem to loosen them.
At every red light, I peeked at Rowan out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t say anything from the passenger seat, and I was relieved. My mind raced, and talking felt impossible.
All I could do was replay the scene in the driveway—seeing my dad on the stretcher, the oxygen mask strapped over his face—over and over again.
He collapsed.
The words echoed through my head.
When we arrived at the hospital, it took longer than expected to find an open spot in the parking garage, and then we rushed to the emergency department. My mom stood near the entrance, staring off into the distance.
The moment she saw me, her face crumpled. “Keaton,” she sobbed.
I hurried over to her. “How is he?” I asked, hoping she’d have some insight since she rode over with him.
“They’re working on him.” Her voice shook so badly I could barely understand her words. “They took him back, but he wasn’t breathing on his own.” She wailed louder and fell into my arms.
I looked over her head toward Rowan, who seemed just as lost and helpless as I felt, but I was still thankful to have him with me. I guided her inside, and we found a few empty plastic chairs to sit on. None of us said a word. Mom cried softly, while I stared at the floor.
It didn’t take long before a woman in scrubs stepped out of a side door and asked, “Is anyone here for Curtis Stafford?”
Mom stood right away. “I’m his wife.”
She gave a polite smile. “Please follow me.”
I got up too. “Can I come with you?”
“He’s my son,” Mom clarified.
“Of course,” the woman replied.
I faced Rowan, who was still seated.
“I’ll stay here. Let me know if you need anything,” he said, and I nodded.
My mom and I followed the lady to a small room with a few chairs and a couch pushed against the wall. Mom sank into one of the chairs immediately, pressing her hands over her mouth, but I remained standing.
“I’m Dr. Young,” the woman introduced herself. “I’m very sorry.”
My ears began ringing.
“We did everything we could,” she explained. “Your husband experienced cardiac arrest. As you know, the paramedics attempted resuscitation during transport, and our team continued those efforts when he arrived, but unfortunately, we were unable to revive him.”
The room felt like it was spinning, and my brain struggled to keep up.
Cardiac arrest.
Unable to revive him.
My dad was dead.
Mom sobbed so intensely it seemed painful.
“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Young repeated.
My body felt unusually numb, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do at that moment.
The doctor eventually asked if we wanted to see my dad, and she arranged for someone to take us to the room he was in.
He lay on the bed, completely still. The oxygen mask was gone, and his eyes were closed. For the first time in my life, he looked peaceful, which was so different from the man filled with rage I was used to seeing that I almost didn’t recognize him.
My mom rushed forward and took his hand. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her reach for him instead of pulling away from him.
She started crying again and mumbling about how much she loved him. Those weren’t words I heard often in my home, and it threw me for a loop. In fact, a few days earlier, I’d listened to them yell about how much they hated each other.
Eventually, she leaned over and kissed his forehead. I stayed where I was, content to say my goodbyes silently from a distance.
In the hallway, Mom wiped her face with a tissue. “I’m going to find out what else the hospital needs from me before we leave. Do you want to pull your car around, and I’ll meet you out front?”
“Sure.”
I returned to the waiting room and saw Rowan sitting in the same chair where I’d left him.
The moment he saw me, he stood up, his face searching mine for something. “Hey.” He walked toward me slowly. “What happened?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, I said, “We’re leaving.”
Confusion flashed across his face. “Leaving?”
“Yep.” I began walking. He followed right away. The automatic doors opened, and we stepped outside.
He grabbed my arm gently. “Keaton. Your dad?”
I paused, and for a moment, I just stared at the ground. Then I forced the words out. “He died.”
Rowan blinked. “What?”
“They tried everything but couldn’t save him.”
“Oh shit,” he breathed. “I’m really sorry, man.”
I shrugged but didn’t know what to say.
He studied my face for a second, as if he was trying to understand how I was feeling.
Good luck with that. I don’t even know.
Instead of continuing the conversation on the sidewalk in front of the hospital, I said, “My mom’s meeting us out here in a few minutes. I need to go get my car.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Okay. Let’s go.”
When we got to our house, Mom got out of the car and rushed inside while Rowan and I stood awkwardly on the sidewalk.
“Are you going to be okay?” he finally asked.
I let out a deep breath. “I guess.”
He didn’t question that, like some people might. He knew things were complicated at best with my parents. He nodded. “I’m going to go home, but text me or come over if you need anything.”
“I will.” I went inside.
The house was quiet. As I walked past my parents’ room, I heard what sounded like muffled crying from the other side of the door.
I understood that my father’s death must have been a shock to her.
It definitely caught me off guard as well, but I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of mother didn’t even check on her son after he lost his dad.
The whole time we were at the hospital, I was so focused on her grief that it didn’t even occur to me until now that she never tried to comfort me or ask if I was okay.
Deciding I needed something to eat before going to bed, I made a detour to the kitchen.
As I went to the pantry, I saw a broken glass lying on the floor, its shards scattered across the tile.
I stared at it for a moment before a question came to mind: Was my dad holding that glass when he collapsed or was it another he’d thrown in a fit of anger before dropping dead on the floor?
I could picture him standing in front of my mom, his face red and spit flying as he cussed her out about something. She’d glare at him, call him a miserable bastard, and then dishes and anything else they could grab would start flying.
After I finished cleaning the kitchen, I ate a sandwich and then got ready for bed. I crawled under the covers and lay on my back, but sleep didn’t come.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the stretcher again.
I saw my mom crying.
The doctor’s face when she said my dad was dead.
And the worst part was, I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about it.
Part of me felt sad. He was still my father after all, and we had a handful of fun memories. But another part of me felt something else. Something like relief.
Relief that the yelling would stop.
Relief that my mom wouldn’t be spouting off more excuses for his behavior while sporting a black eye he’d given her.
And somehow that felt worse than anything else because who feels relieved when their dad passes away?
I rolled onto my side and stared at the wall. Minutes passed. Then an hour. Eventually, I threw off the sheet and got out of bed. I didn’t think about it. I just needed to be somewhere that wasn’t there in that house.
I headed toward Rowan’s house and tapped three times on his window like I always did. It only took a couple of seconds for him to slide it open.
My face must have given something away as soon as I climbed inside because he pulled me into his arms. My chest clenched, and tears started streaming down my cheeks.
He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to fix anything.
He just held onto me as I pressed my face into his shoulder and gripped the back of his shirt.
Every emotion imaginable washed over me at once. Sadness. Anger. Relief. Guilt. Fear.
His hand moved slowly up and down my back. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.
Those three words calmed something inside me, and the crying slowly stopped, leaving me exhausted afterward.
He led me to his bed and pulled the blankets over both of us, and kept an arm wrapped around me as we lay facing each other.
I didn’t say thank you.
I just snuggled into him, and sleep finally came.
The next evening, I was back in Rowan’s room, not wanting to sit at my house with memories of my dad hovering around every corner.
Rowan was sitting at his desk, swiveling in his chair as he talked about some flight simulator game that had just come out, but I wasn’t really listening.
I was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the low rumble of his voice wash over me.
It was the only thing in my life that felt normal at the moment.
“… and then you can customize the cockpit. How cool is that?” he asked, but when he didn’t get a response, he paused. “Keaton?”
I turned my head to look at him. “Sorry. What?”
He stopped spinning, his expression full of compassion that felt both strange and entirely welcome. It was exactly what I needed right then. “You don’t have to apologize. You don’t have to talk at all, if you don’t want to.”
I pushed myself up onto my elbows. “But I want to. I want to think about something else. Anything else.” I wanted to feel something other than the confusing knot of grief and guilt that had taken up residence in my chest.
He got up and came over to the bed, sitting on the edge near my feet. “We can do whatever you want.”
The words hung in the air between us.
Whatever you want.
My gaze fell to his lips. I sat up completely to close the small gap between us. “This is what I want,” I whispered, and then kissed him.
Neither of us held back. His lips were soft yet firm against mine, matching my intensity with his own. His hands rose and his thumbs gently stroked my jawline as he deepened the kiss. It felt like he was trying to find the broken pieces of me and hold them together.
When I moved closer, my knees brushed against his.
One of my hands gripped the back of his neck, the other rested on his shoulder.
The world outside his room faded away. Only Rowan’s warm, solid body existed—the scent of his laundry soap, the taste of his mouth, and the low hum he made in the back of his throat as I gently nipped at his bottom lip.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breathing slightly ragged. “Keaton.”
“Please,” I breathed, not even sure what I was asking for. More. Less. Something to make me feel good, not just numb.
He seemed to understand. He lay back on the bed, pulling me until I was hovering over him, with my forearms on either side of his head.
When I saw nothing but trust in his eyes, all the crap I’d been dealing with since the day before faded away and I only saw him.
I leaned down and kissed him again, this time more slowly, savoring it.
His hands moved from my shoulders down my back, tracing the line of my spine before settling on my hips.
He pulled me closer, and our bodies aligned seamlessly.
I could feel his erection pressing against my thigh, and my body responded instinctively.
I rocked my hips against his in a slow grind that took our breath away.
It was exactly what I needed. Not just the physical pleasure, but the connection.
The feeling of being seen, of being held, of not being alone in the dark.
His hands slid under the hem of my shirt, his warm palms pressing against the skin of my lower back.
I shivered, breaking the kiss to gasp for air.
He took the opportunity to trail his lips along my jaw and down my throat.
I fumbled with the button on his jeans, and he lifted his hips to let me pull them down, just enough. He did the same for me, his knuckles brushing against my stomach. Then his hand slipped into my boxers, and I was touching him too. The only sounds in the room were our heavy breathing.
And for the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt like I could finally relax.