Chapter 50
Tristen
I was supposed to hug my best friend the next time I saw him for more than two seconds.
Instead, he’s offering me another stupid fucking sad smile from the driver’s seat of our rig.
It’s one of those that makes my gut twist instead of settling.
I’d told him once we got out on our first call. Cried all over his shoulder while he petted my hair and then hopped out of the bus the second we stopped. Like nothing had ever happened.
I’m getting too good at that.
“You wanna know what I really think, Ten?”
He completely skips the sad smile this time and just stares right through me for a beat before flicking his eyes back to the road. Then to me. The road. Me.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask softly and run my nail over the seam in my pants.
There’s a jump in his jaw and a tightness to his brow that’s not normally there.
My stomach drops even farther.
“You’ve got a long road ahead of you.”
That ever-present burning is back to blur my sight, and I bite my lip to keep it from wobbling.
“Whether it’s you sticking it out with Em or following through with the scholarship program or just …
being here. Like this.” He gestures out toward the road then grips the steering wheel tight.
Tighter than normal. Enough that it’s got his knuckles going white.
“Our paths were never meant to be easy. Painless. Fucking … winnable.” My heart thunders with every word.
A forced pulse. A defeated beat. “But that doesn’t mean we just keep …
surviving … and that’s it. There’s more, right? Whatever makes all the shit worth it.”
I don’t even bother hiding the tears that fall as I stare at my best friend’s profile.
“What are you saying?”
The breath he pulls is audible, and he throws the bus in park before meeting my gaze with an intensity I rarely see shining in his eyes.
“That you deserve to be happy, fool. Whatever that means.” He shakes his head and thrums his fingers on the wheel before unsnapping his seatbelt. “I love you, and Em. But for the love of all that is holy, please be careful.”
He doesn’t elaborate. Just hops out, slams the door behind him, making his way to the sidewalk without me before I realize it. Grabbing my go-bag, I spill out of my seat after him, wiping my bruised face as I go.
I know I look like even more shit than I did before he went and made me cry again but the caller doesn’t seem to mind much once we get inside.
It doesn’t take long to get the patient loaded into the back.
Shortness of breath. Pain in the chest. Numbness of the arm.
No history of mental health concerns.
Clear cardiac event.
Traffic is nonexistent at this time of night, making the drive back to the hospital just as easy.
Too easy.
It’s got my neck itching, and my hackles raised.
As if I wasn’t already on high fucking alert and drowning in an emotional hangover.
What the fuck am I gonna do with Emmett?
The fact that I don’t know what’s green and what’s green is weighing so fucking heavy on my chest.
How do I trust anything he says?
But, fuck, maybe that’s the problem.
I’m the one desperate to trust him. Help him. Be with him.
Never once did he offer any of it up on his own.
Maybe he never wanted any of it.
Did he ever … want me?
Quiet.
I dig the heels of my palms into my stinging eyes, my stomach like a rock in my gut.
Did I misread it all?
Our patient is wheeled off into the building by the staff, relieving me of my duties, and my best friend rests a hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do, Hat.”
Together, we drop to the back bumper of the rig, and he offers a prepackaged sandwich.
“Talk to him, genius,” he finally says once I take the meal and rip it open. It smells like it’s on the verge of going bad, which is probably how my best friend managed to get it, or maybe I’m just put off. Disconnected from my senses. Sinking under the current sweeping my feet.
Quiet.
I take a bite, though it makes my stomach roll, and force it down.
“I know. And I will when we get home. I just have no clue what to say.”
He hums thoughtfully around his mouthful. “Start with how you feel.”
Nodding to himself like he just gave me the answer to everything, he shoves another bite in his gullet, and I scoff.
“You’re so smart, aren’t you.”
“Sure am.”
His smile is so wide, it makes his eyes crinkle, and for a moment … my best friend actually looks his age. Not like the recovering addict, the weathered survivor, I know him to be.
The next bite goes down even drier than the first.
“You are right about one thing.”
There are crumbs all over his chin when his arched brow wings my direction. “Wassat?”
“We don’t have to just survive.”
He stares at me for a long while, his eyes shining like he’s hearing the message for himself just the same as he delivered it to me before finally nodding.
“Let’s see what dispatch is up to. It’s been quiet.”
My agreement is silent as I stand and brush off my ass, handing over the last half of my sandwich to him. He swallows it in two bites and slams the doors closed, tapping on the faded 122 fondly.
“Tristen? Tristen!”
Stomach dropping at the panicked sound of my name from a familiar voice, I spin to find Bobbie running through the double doors toward us.
I meet her halfway, catching her by her biceps as her breath pumps like she just raced through the entire emergency department to get here.
It’s the first time we’ve crossed paths since Em was here, and while a part of me is happy to see her, the look on her face has all of my internal warning bells blaring.
“Bobbie? What is it?”
My heart is in my throat when she grips me right back, her nails digging in and reminding me of Emmett.
Please don’t let it be something with Emmett.
I’ll never forgive myself if he’s in there and I didn’t know.
Fuck, what if he—
“Do you know where Emmett is? Have you seen him?”
“I … is he here?” She shakes her head and my brows furrow when her grip tightens. “He’s been staying with me—us. At the house. Didn’t he tell you?”
The shake of her head is somber.
Of course. He doesn’t have a fucking phone.
Guilt slams me and I’m preparing an apology when Bobbie shakes her head again like maybe she’s struck with disbelief.
“It’s Charline,” she chokes out, mist gathering in her eyes.
Everything stills, though I don’t know the name.
My fingers tingle.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“Char—she’s here. Emmett … he needs to know.”
“I’m confused, Bobbie. Who’s Charline?”
Her grip grows tighter; her eyes get wetter.
“Emmett’s mother.”