Chapter 22 Braxton #3
She doesn’t look at me when she finally says, “Gracie wasn’t hurt because Paisley decided you were her next trophy.
” There’s a long pause, the air thick with tension, before she continues, “And if you don’t understand that, there’s really nothing I can say to help you.
” The knife falls to the counter with a clatter as she turns to face me again, her eyes overly bright.
“I’m struggling, Brax. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel right now because I know you’re struggling, too.
We all know, but you won’t let us in to help you. ”
I clench my hands around the melting ice pack, watching my mother cautiously, swallowing back every word that bubbles up to my lips. It isn’t my turn to speak, and I need to let Mom get it out.
“I look at you, and I remember this little boy who would get the tiniest scratch on his knee, and he’d wail the house down. The little boy who would demand the biggest bandage for that minuscule scratch, and then he’d spend hours cuddling into my side before he decided he felt better.”
“Still had to limp, though,” I add quietly. The memories of that time are hazy, but it’s a story that’s been shared more than once over the years. “Otherwise, you’d forget.”
“Right.” Mom’s smile is wobbly, wistful.
“I look at you, and that’s the boy I see.
Not this man who’s fumbling through life, unable to see the forest for the trees.
Not this man who’s blindly and willfully caused so much damage that I’m not sure it can ever be repaired.
And I’m struggling, because how can I love one version of you so much, and be so…
enraged with the other?” Mom’s lashes lower, masking her eyes, but when she lifts them again, her eyes are red and watery.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” she interrupts. “Gracie is gone, and while seeing that picture might have been the last straw, this has been coming for a while. Tell me you don’t know that.”
I swallow thickly, dropping my eyes to my hands.
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize how badly that accident was affecting me, and then everyone kept telling me how I must be feeling and what I should be doing and…
I felt cornered, Mom. Everyone else seemed to be dealing with it fine, but I wasn’t. And I felt…”
It feels like my insides have been carved out with a rusted spoon. My chest is still too tight, the air I’m pulling in filled with sharp needles and thorns, shredding through me on the way to my lungs. After a moment, I forcefully exhale, pulling my eyes open and locking stares with my mother.
“I felt like a failure,” I confess. “I can’t tell you how much I thought about quitting these past few weeks. I feel less. If I couldn’t save that little girl…”
Mom collapses into the seat across from me, her face pale and drawn, and I hate that I’m responsible for causing her this much worry. “Why didn’t you just talk to us?” she asks. “Why didn’t you talk to Gracie?”
I moisten my lips, trying to find the words to explain.
Mom doesn’t rush me, taking the warming ice pack and swapping it for a fresh one from the freezer.
Before dropping back into the seat next to me and pressing it back to my nose again.
She’s sitting close enough that I can see flecks of hazel in her eyes—so familiar and usually filled with warmth, but right now, she just looks sad.
“You chose Gracie to go on this journey with you, Brax, and then you stole it away from her. And you didn’t even tell her why.”
“Mom…” I whisper.
“I’ve missed my son,” she whispers back. “This last month, I’ve missed him. And I’ve missed Gracie, too. It’s like you were both standing in front of me, but you weren’t really there.”
I lean forward, dropping my forehead to her shoulder, groaning when her hand ends up shoving the ice pack too hard into my face.
“Sorry, not sorry,” she teases. I know she’s trying to lighten the mood, but the heaviness of it all weighs down on me. We sit like this for the longest time, neither of us saying a word. Eventually, she sighs. “I need to fix lunch, and you have another conversation to have.”
“Huh?”
Mom waits until I’ve lifted my head, her eyes solemn as they meet mine. “Your dad’s out in the shed.”
I push open the creaky wooden door, stepping into the dust-filled shed with a grimace.
The only light comes from a low-hanging bulb, and it’s doing a crappy job, shadows still stretching from each corner.
Each wall is covered in shelves, stacked high with Dad’s tools and clutter that he’s collected over the years.
Mom never comes out here. She can’t stand the disorganization and chaos, but Dad insists that everything has its place and he knows exactly where it is.
He’s standing at the workbench, an uncharacteristic scowl on his face as he stares down at a…toaster?
The appliance is lying on its side, and there are several pieces next to it that look suspiciously like they should be inside it. Dad doesn’t look up as I draw closer, staring down at the dissected toaster, the murder weapon—a screwdriver—in his hand.
“Does Mom know you have that?”
He doesn’t look up. “No, and you’re not going to tell her.”
“Alright.” I agree easily, peering over his shoulder. “What are you trying to do with it? Make it hotter? Faster? Broken?”
My humor falls flat, Dad’s mouth barely twitching as he sets the screwdriver down, turning to face me, his brown eyes searching my face. He takes in the bruises, and the only outward sign of his reaction is a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“How are you?”
“You heard?” I ask instead of answering.
“I’m pretty sure Joanie McFarrel heard, son, and she can’t use a cell phone to save her life.”
I let out a low curse, propping my hands on my hips, head hanging low, hating the situation I’ve unwittingly dropped Gracie in.
I didn’t treat her as I should’ve, like an equal partner in our relationship.
I shut her out when I needed her the most, and then left her wondering what she had done wrong.
“It’s not what it looked like,” I mutter before filling Dad in on everything that happened, watching as his expression darkens further and further with every word.
“My instincts reared up the minute I heard she was coming back,” he grumbles. “I don’t even know what it was, but every time her name came up, my skin started itching like I was having an allergic reaction.”
“It’s not all Paisley, though, is it?” I ask weakly, picking up a metal spring from the workbench and flicking it with my nail.
I can feel Dad’s eyes on me, but I don’t look up, shame coursing through me.
I don’t want to see the disappointment linger in his gaze, hating even the idea of letting him down.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on with Paisley,” he says quietly, “but what she did is a completely separate problem from what you did, Brax. You aren’t responsible for Paisley’s choices, but you are responsible for the lack of loyalty you showed to the woman you profess to love.”
The tension in the room ratchets up another notch, making it hard to suck in air. My heartbeat whooshes in my ears, so loud I almost miss his next words.
“Do you remember the first time you told me you wanted to be a firefighter?” I glance up at his pensive expression, shaking my head mutely. “You were about four or so,” Dad says, holding a hand out by his thigh. “Still short enough that I worried you weren’t going to grow into your ears.”
A startled laugh leaves me, even as I reach up to cover one. “Leave off, old man. Your genetics screwed me before I even had a chance.”
Dad cracks a smile. “Every man dreams of having a child follow in their footsteps, and it felt…” He sighs. “It was pretty damn special to have you look up at me with this hero worship in your eyes. Your mother was less than impressed.”
“Not much has changed,” I say, and he shakes his head.
“No, but she’s had a lifetime of worry to fall back on. Mom knows, from firsthand experience, what this job costs—a toll we never stop paying.” He slicks his tongue over his front teeth, eyeing me. “She didn’t want that for you, Brax.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I know all this.”
Dad narrows his eyes on me—a look that says shut up and listen.
“I didn’t give what your mother said much credence.
I was arrogant, believing that it was going to be different for you.
You had a ready-made support system, one that understood exactly what you were going through.
Now…I’m left wondering if I was wrong.” He blows out a heavy breath, shoulders sagging, and my gut sinks.
“I can’t help but think that I did you a disservice by encouraging you to take after me.
I was so focused on the shared bond we would have that I just ignored everything else. ”
“Dad,” I rasp, my heart aching for him. I don’t ever want him to think that either of us was wrong in choosing this path—not when it has always meant so much to us. And even going through these last few weeks, I don’t regret it.
“This isn’t on you, Dad. No one could have guessed how that accident was going to go, and the way I’ve been since…It’s on me. Not on anyone else.”
Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s where you’re wrong, Brax. You’ve pulled away from everyone, and you don’t even see it…but we all feel it. Gracie, your mom, me. Even Annie’s noticed.” He tips his head to the side, watching me carefully. “Ryan came to me just before Christmas.”
“What? Why?”
Dad gives me an exasperated look. “You’re not just his crew, Brax. You’re his friend. He struggled in the aftermath of the crash, just like you, constantly asking himself ‘what if.’ And now, he’s blaming himself for missing it.”
I don’t want to ask, but I do. “Missing what?”
“The way you’re spiraling. Ryan’s blaming himself, thinking he should’ve seen it sooner. That he should’ve pushed you harder to get help, to talk about it.” I stare at him, mouth parted, devastation creeping through my veins. Dad sees it, and he nods. “The moment you crash and burn—”
“Jesus, Dad,” I exclaim in shock, because what a fucking analogy to use.
He ignores me, even if the corner of his mouth twitches.
“—so does every single person in your circle, because you matter to us. You’re important, and your health—mental, physical, or otherwise—is important.
” His shoulders tense, and I brace myself.
“Now, I’m not saying that you aren’t good at what you do.
Monroe sings your praises far and wide, and you give it your all.
I know that. I am so glad that little girl had you in her last moments. ”
It feels like he just punched me in the chest, and I stumble back a step, my shoulder hitting the shelf behind me. Dad doesn’t move, his hands loose at his sides, just watching me.
When I pull my shit together and feel like I can breathe again, he keeps talking, “I know, even without being there, that you eased Allison’s pain and fear.
You made sure she was okay, and that means more than anything else possibly could.
I know her family is grateful for that, even on the darkest day of their lives.
” He squeezes his eyes closed as mine start burning, my vision going watery.
“But now,” he says, voice croaky, “her death needs to mean something, and it can’t just be a symbol of loss.
And it can’t be you losing everything because you haven’t learned how to lean on your support and ask for help. ”
A choked noise leaves my throat, and I slump back against the shelf. Everything goes fuzzy as his words claw through my skin, sinking in deep, and then I’m no longer looking at my dad in his shed…but seeing the way Allison smiled before the world turned to fire and chaos.
I cover my face with my hands, trying to stop the despair that’s overflowing, but it’s like Dad’s kicked in the dam I built to keep it all back.
Every word is landing like a blow, taking me back to that day and every moment since—everything I’ve done to bury it all down and pretend it didn’t happen.
“Braxton.” Dad’s voice is closer, and then his hands land on my shoulders, his fingers gripping me tightly.
“You’re self-destructing before our eyes, and it’s breaking us to know we can’t stop it.
Not unless you let us in.” He gives me a little shake, and then his arms are around me, yanking me into his chest, squeezing me until my ribs ache.
“We’ve got you, Braxton,” he whispers above my head. “And you need to lean on us now, because we won’t lose you over this.”