Trent
“Slowly… slowly… don’t put weight on it,” Brandon calls out, holding the door open as I slide my arms into the crutches.
“Brandon, I’ve got this. I’m fine,” I say, though the wobble in my limbs betrays me as I push up from the passenger seat, muscles already complaining.
“Okay… slowly does it,” he repeats, this time locking eyes with me, a crease forming between his brows. “Find your balance before you move.”
I let out a short laugh as I steady myself, most of my weight balanced between my crutches and my good leg.
“It’s not funny,” he mutters, a scowl firmly in place. “If you fall before you even make it through your front door, your mom will kill me—and mine probably will too.”
“I’m honestly offended by your lack of faith, Brand,” I say, grinning at him.
Brandon just shakes his head. “I’m not saying you can’t do it. I’m just saying you shouldn’t rush it and end up making things worse. That’s how people end up back in the hospital.”
“Yes, Dad.” I say with a smirk.
“You know, I really hate it when you and Kade call me that,” he mutters.
“And that, my friend,” I say with a grin, “is exactly why we keep doing it.”
“Can you just concentrate on getting into your house and stop fuckin’ around?”
“Always so grumpy, Brandon,” I taunt before slowly moving forward.
The thing about Brandon is, he’s always been the serious one. Growing up, he was the sensible kid—the one desperately trying to keep me and Kade in line. Those traits followed him into adulthood, but beneath all that stiffness, he’s got a heart of gold and would do anything for anyone.
These days, he’s a little more guarded, a bit sharper around the edges. I blame his ex for that—she really did a number on him when she walked out on him and Avery, but he’s good at hiding how much it affects him.
I guess we all have our own battles we fight quietly.
By the time I make it through the front door, sweat is trickling down my back, and my arms are burning—but I’ll take this over a hospital bed any day. I hobble over the front step, and I’m instantly hit with the smell of something home cooked filling my hallway.
“Is someone cooking?”
“Our Mom’s have been here all morning, cooking up a storm,” he says.
“How’d they even get in? They don’t have a…” I stop mid-sentence, the answer obvious. “Kade,” I mutter.
Brandon just shrugs, a faint grin on his face, as my mom appears in the doorway.
“What are you doing just standing there? You need to be resting. Get your ass in the living room and sit down,” she orders.
I love my mom—truly, I do. But she’s a force of nature, and when she tells you to do something, you do it. No questions asked.
Back in the hospital, I made it clear to her that I didn’t need to come live with her while I recovered—that I’d be fine on my own. And even though she eventually stopped trying to convince me, she definitely wasn’t happy about it. Something about how a mother never stops worrying.
So, it shouldn’t have surprised me to find her and Cora—Brandon’s Mom—already in my house before I’ve even settled in, and already on my case about resting.
I shoot Brandon a look, silently begging for backup, but he just shrugs. “You heard the woman.”
I huff out a breath but obey, hobbling toward the couch with Brandon trailing close behind. The crutches dig sharply into my armpits, and every step feels like a full-body workout—but the smell drifting from the kitchen is motivation enough.
The living room looks exactly how I left it—blankets folded neatly, a pillow propped at the end of the couch, and a stack of mail untouched on the coffee table. Brandon stays close, watching quietly as I pull my arms from the crutches and hand them over before easing myself down onto the couch.
Almost immediately, Cora appears carrying a foot stall and gestures toward my leg. “Come on, up,” she says, and I follow her lead as she carefully positions the stall under my calf to take the weight off. “Want some ice?”
“I’m good,” I say, though my leg is throbbing.
“Uh-huh.” She plants her hands on her hips and gives me that look—the one she used when I was seventeen and had tracked mud through her kitchen. “I’ll get you some anyway.”
Brandon chuckles, sinking into the armchair across from me. “You’re outnumbered, man. Just let them take care of you.”
“I’ve been taken care of enough,” I mutter, sinking back into the cushions.
But when Cora returns with a tray—ice pack, water, and a plate of food—I admit defeat. Fighting them would be more hassle than it’s worth.
Besides, with my mom and Cora around, the food options in this house are about to get a serious upgrade.
“Now, are you sure you don’t want me to stay a little while longer? I don’t mind.” Mom fluffs the couch pillows for the third time and refolds a blanket that was already perfectly neat.
I bite back a sigh. If she folds that one more time, the seams are going to wear thin before I do. “I’m all good, Mom. I’m pretty wiped, so I’ll probably just head to bed soon.”
“Well, I can help.”
I raise a brow. “I’m twenty-eight, Mom. Pretty sure that’s way too old to be having you tuck me in.”
She narrows her eyes, unfazed. “You might be twenty-eight, but you’re still my baby. It’s my job to worry and fuss over you, no matter how old you get.”
There’s no winning that argument. She says it with so much conviction it almost makes me feel like I am still ten years old, laid up with the flu and her hovering with soup and cold compresses. I pinch the bridge of my nose, half exasperated, half grateful.
“And I appreciate it. Really. But I’m good, I promise.”
Her hands still on the blanket, but her eyes soften, tired in a way that makes guilt press at the back of my throat.
“When Aubrey called me about your accident,” she says quietly, “I swear it shaved years off my life.”
My head snaps up. “Aubrey called you? I thought Kade called.”
She shook her head. “No. It was that sweet sister of his. I was devastated I couldn’t get to you sooner. Of all days for you to have an accident, it had to be the one day I was out of town visiting your aunt.”
Something twists in my chest at that. Of course she did. She would’ve known exactly how worried my mom must’ve been—miles away, helpless, knowing I was going into surgery.
I clear my throat, trying to shake off the sudden heaviness. “Figures,” I mutter, though it comes out rougher than I intend.
Mom sighs and smooths the blanket one last time before finally lowering herself into the armchair across from me. “Aubrey’s a good girl like that. Always has been.”
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the way my chest tightens at her name. I thought maybe I would have heard from her today. But then I’m not surprised, the last interaction we had I snapped at her. I didn’t mean too but seeing the way her face lit up when she was texting Justin gutted me.
And of course, after snapping at her I ignored her and let her walk right out of the hospital room and haven’t seen or heard from her since.
The sound of my mom tapping her knees and standing from the couch pulls my attention away from Aubrey and back to the present. “All right. I’ll head out before you fall asleep sitting up. But you better text me in the morning, okay? Just so I know you made it through the night without any issues.”
I huff out a laugh. “Yes, Mom. I’ll check in.”
She leans down, kisses the top of my head like I’m still a kid, and for a moment I let myself sink into it—the comfort, the safety. But the second the door clicks shut behind her, the silence of the house presses in, heavy and suffocating.
And my thoughts go straight back to Aubrey.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull my phone from my pocket and bring up her number. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I already know how that would go—straight to voicemail. So I type instead.
Me: Hey. Just wanted to thank you for everything at the hospital. And for calling my mom with updates. She really appreciated that. Night, Bree.
I stare at the screen, pulse ticking faster than I want to admit. The message goes through; the ticks turn blue. Then—three dots appear. My chest lifts, hope sparking. But just as quickly, they vanish.
I wait. A minute. Then another. Each second drags, stretching thin until the hope frays. Finally, I slide the phone back into my pocket and scrub a hand over my face.
Can’t say I blame her.
Too drained to dig into it now, I grab my crutches and ready myself to move from the couch to my bed. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I’ll figure out a plan. Because losing her? That’s not an option. Not again. One way or another, I’m going to win my girl back.