Chapter 22
Shit.
This day just keeps getting worse with every passing second.
I press a hand to Weaver’s chest, not knowing what to say. I can’t blame him for wanting to hold my father accountable, but…he’s my dad. As disappointed and angry as I am with him, I don’t want to see him in prison.
“I’m sorry,” Weaver murmurs beneath his breath, clearly sensing that I’m upset. “But I can’t let him get away with this. If you won’t stand up for yourself, I’ll do it for you.”
I swallow but don’t say a word. I don’t know what to say, I only know that assault charges are going to make an already awful situation even worse. By the time we’re done, we’ll be lucky if the Tripps and Sullivans aren’t warring in the streets of Sea Breeze.
The thought is so sickening, I’m honestly not sure if it’s my injury or my misery making my stomach roil as Weaver sets me on my feet by the desk, and I fight to give the woman my insurance information without getting sick again.
“Listen, she’s in a lot of pain and vomited right after the assault,” Weaver says to the woman in blue scrubs with bright pink glasses perched on the end of her nose. His voice is tight but respectful as he adds, “Isn’t this paperwork something she can do while she’s in the exam room lying down, waiting to be seen? Or after the CT scan? She was hit hard enough that I’m concerned about internal bleeding and organ damage.”
The woman nods, her expression compassionate as she taps the bottom line of the form on the counter in front of us. “Of course, you poor thing. I’ll call for wheelchair transport. Just sign the bottom to indicate you’ll take responsibility for the charges, and we’ll get the rest sorted out when you check out.” She shifts her focus back to Weaver. “And what about you, sir? Do you need to be seen?”
“No, I’m fine,” Weaver says at the same time I say, “Yes, he does.”
“You need to be seen,” I say when Weaver insists that he isn’t seriously injured. “I saw what happened. He hit you at least a dozen times. He only hit me once.”
“But he was closer to me,” Weaver says. “He didn’t have time to build up any momentum, and I saw him coming and locked my muscles. You didn’t have time for that before you were sucker punched in the gut.”
His eyes glitter with a cold fire that I know means a truce between my father and my boyfriend is never going to happen. Not if we all live for a thousand years and go to therapy every single day.
“He didn’t know it was me,” I remind him.
“He didn’t know who it was,” Weaver counters. “And he didn’t care. He’s dangerous.”
He’s right, I know he is, but I can’t help wishing…
Fuck, I don’t even know what to wish for at this point, not with my entire life turning into a shit show at a breathless pace.
“Just, please,” I beg. “Get checked out. For me. For my peace of mind?”
Weaver hesitates another beat, but after a hum of agreement from the woman at the front desk, he relents. “All right. But I’ll go to the urgent care near Sea Breeze later. I don’t want to waste emergency room resources.”
“But—” I start, only for Aunt Cathy, who I’d honestly forgotten was standing behind us, to pipe up, “That might not be a bad idea. They get to people so fast over there. Even on the weekends.”
“Go now, then. I’m fine, and I have family here if I need someone.” I don’t want him to leave, but it’s probably for the best. I have no idea where my dad is or what’s going to happen when the rest of my family hears what went down by the elevators. They might be grateful to Weaver for carrying me to the ER or they might decide to come take a swing at him themselves.
I never should have let him come here. I knew it was a bad idea, though I never could have dreamed it would end this badly.
“You’re sure?” Weaver asks, and I nod again.
“Please. Yes. I just want to know you’re okay,” I say, ignoring Aunt Cathy’s increasingly wide eyes as she apparently gets the memo that Weaver and I care about each other’s welfare a little too much for complete strangers.
“I’d like to talk to you before you leave, sir. Get your statement if you have time or at least a phone number I can use to follow up,” the large man in the vest says. I can read the “BPD” emblazoned across the front of it now. He’s definitely a cop.
Ugh. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to me, too.
But thankfully a nurse appears beside the desk with a wheelchair at that moment, calling my name. I tell Weaver goodbye and assure Cathy I’m fine to go back alone while she returns to the rest of the family with those snacks we were fetching before everything went to hell.
And then I’m gone, zooming through cool, antiseptic-scented air down a short hallway. I’m then steered into a larger open room, divided into exam areas by pastel bubble print curtains that are far too cheery for the ER.
Once I’m settled in my bed, I’m left alone to listen to the old man moaning across from me, the gunshot victim cursing about his “fucking leg” next door, and what sounds like a two or three-year-old screaming bloody murder in between bouts of vomiting a few curtains down.
“Happy bubble” is definitely not the vibe here.
I feel like I’m in a nightmare.
A nightmare that continues as I’m poked and prodded by a nurse, then poked and prodded by a frazzled young doctor with freezing fingers, who pops my shoulder back into place amidst much air-sucking and nearly passing out on my end. Afterward, the nurse helps me into a sling she says I’ll need to wear for at least four days and gives me an ice pack to hold on my stomach while I wait for someone to fetch me for the CT scan.
Eventually, I’m sent to lie in a terrible vibrating coffin for what seems like hours before once again being returned to my curtained bed, where the only improvement is that the puking baby has apparently been treated and discharged.
Cathy checks in on me via text from upstairs on the third floor with the rest of the family, but there’s still no news about Gramp’s surgery.
Her only significant update comes in the form of a text promising—I’ll keep my mouth shut about you and that man, but you need to take care of that, Gertie. Whatever’s going on there, it’s no good for anyone. Especially not your father. Hasn’t he been through enough with Weaver Tripp?
I lie back with a sigh, resting my head on the scratchy little pillow. I’m the one lying in a hospital bed, waiting to find out if my father damaged my internal organs when he punched me, but he’s the one Aunt Cathy’s worried about.
I might cry about it if I had any energy left.
But I don’t. I’m so beaten down and exhausted by the insanity of the morning that I’m almost asleep when my phone rings. I startle out of my near-slumber, shifting the ice pack on my stomach to the table as I fumble to fetch my cell from beneath the thin blanket.
When I hold it up, the screen says the call is coming from a local police station. I move my thumb away from the answer button and silence the call, waiting for it to go to voicemail. I don’t have it in me to give my statement right now. The officer can leave a number, and I’ll get back to him once I’m out of the emergency room and know Weaver and Gramps are going to be okay.
It’s definitely a “one crisis at a time” kind of day.
A few moments later, the voicemail notification pops through. I tap the play button and put my cell to my ear, only to be surprised by the sound of my father’s voice.
He sounds like absolute hell…
“I’m so sorry, honey. You have no idea how sorry. If I could go back and redo one thing in my life, it would be what happened this morning.” He clears his throat before continuing, “That’s why I’m using my one call to call you, not a lawyer. I need you to know how sorry I am. And that I’m going to make a change. It’s time. Past time. You deserve a father you can trust, one you know is never going to hurt you, not even by accident.” He pauses, exhaling a breath that hitches into a sob.
I press my fist to my lips, fighting tears.
“I’m just so sorry, baby girl,” he wheezes. “I swear, I’m going to get better. I’m going to be the dad you deserve. Even if I have to do it in prison. I’m going to get sober and stay sober. I love you, and I always will, even if you decide you never want to talk to me again, which…I would understand. You’re a good person, Gertie. You’re so funny and you work so damn hard. And you’ve got the best heart. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have put up with a deadbeat like me for so long. Whatever you decide, just know I’m so proud of you.”
The call ends, and I let my phone fall into my lap.
My dad has never expressed any interest in getting sober. Not once. He isn’t that kind of alcoholic. He would never admit he had a problem in the first place, let alone think about getting help. He always made other excuses for why he couldn’t work or function like other human beings—the accident, his brain injury, his back pain, his depression, his untreated ADD, even.
To hear him actually owning the disease and expressing a desire to get better is huge, though I know it won’t be that simple. Dad’s in so deep that he’ll need medical care to survive getting off alcohol without killing himself. He’ll start going into withdrawal in a few hours and be in bad shape by tomorrow morning.
But I’ve already vetted several local rehabilitation centers. I did a deep dive back when I was sixteen and still believed helping Dad was just a matter of getting him through a pair of sliding glass doors and into the care of medical professionals. There’s even one that takes patients on a sliding scale. They’ll probably treat Dad for close to free if they have a bed available.
I could text him, give him some names of places and their phone numbers…but he won’t be able to see the text or claim a rehab bed if he’s in jail.
“Shit,” I mutter, my stomach starting to ache again at the thought of what I have to do.
But I have to do it. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t at least try to help Dad now that he’s finally asked for it.
So, I lift my phone and send a message that might very well destroy what’s left of my budding romance.