20. Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Bexley
"H ey, Sandra!" I greet, horribly overcompensating my tone with warm pleasantries to mask my physical dishevelment. "Sorry I'm a bit later than usual. I hope you don't mind me visiting now. I know visitor hours have finished for the night."
Sandra peers up from the nurses' station, eyes wide at my flustered appearance. "Bexley—you're here."
"Of course I'm here," I say awkwardly with a dry laugh. "I said I'd be back to see her. I just got caught up with some stuff. How's Mom doing?"
Thankfully, Rylan didn't question why I wanted to go to the hospital, but he did crack some joke about me needing medical attention after what we did in his truck. I slammed the door shut in his face after he muttered the words ' ice pack '.
Shit—that reminds me. I need to message Archer and let him know I'm not coming to the beach. Reaching into the pockets of my shorts—wait, skirt now—I tense up when I realize my cell isn't there. Double shit… I must have left it in Rylan's truck after it fell out of my pocket. I'm sure Archie will be fine. I'll use Mom's cell to message him. Mom… I quickly turn my attention back to Sandra when I realize my thoughts drifted because she never responded to my question.
My eyes glance over at the door across from the desk, frowning. It's partially open, the bed shielded from view, but from this angle I can see the shelves that line the wall of the room. All Mom's belongings are gone, including the flowers I dropped off this morning.
"What the—" I mutter, stepping toward the room, feet near stumbling over themselves.
"Wait, sweetheart," Sandra shoots out in a desperate plea. "We tried to call you."
I push the door open without stopping for her, eyes falling onto the empty bed. It's made perfectly with fresh sheets—and no sign of Mom or her belongings anywhere.
"Where is she?" I ask, fighting back the urgency and nerves. Spinning around, I find the nurse that has brought me so much comfort recently. "Sandy, what's going on? Did they move her?"
Sandra braces herself against the doorframe, the look on her face sending every single nerve in my body into a full-blown panic. "We tried to call you," she repeats softly.
Nothing happens immediately because my brain refuses to connect the dots. "My cell—I left it in his… someone's car," I fumble over my words, pausing as I shake the thoughts and get back on track. "Where is she? Where is my mom?"
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. She passed away about an hour and a half ago."
My heart clenches painfully in my chest. She's lying. She has to be. I just saw her a few hours ago. Mom wasn't doing great today, but she was sitting up and talking to me, joking about this stupid weather. The past week I finally saw the old version of her—happy and content, smiling like she wasn't destroyed four years ago. Like she hadn't wasted the last few years of her life, shattering all she worked hard for because one man decided to do irreparable harm. Besides, she was only in the hospital for monitoring… for a few tests. Wasn't she?
Oh, my fucking God.
It isn't until Sandra lets out a squeak and pain radiates up my legs that I've realized I've fallen to my knees. My hands reach out in front of me, pressing flat against the hospital floor, lungs struggling to take in oxygen as I start to get lightheaded. "She's dead?" I whisper, failing to choke back a small sob.
This can't be right… The hospital was only temporary. We had a plan. She was going to come home and get help. She was going to get better. I have pamphlets of AA meetings and detox programs on the kitchen table waiting for her. We had a plan.
We had a fucking plan. It was going to change everything.
"Let's get you into the chair," she says, grabbing my arm.
"No!" I yell, making her jump. "I need… I need to get out of this room."
Pushing myself to my feet, I bolt past her. She calls out to me, begging me to stop but I ignore her, not bothering to wait for the elevator.
I sprint down the stairwell of the emergency exit as spots start to appear in the corners of my eyes.
I can't breathe. Why can't I breathe?
People stare at me with alarm and disapproval as I rush through the main reception of the hospital, not stopping until my feet hit the asphalt outside. Rain patters the ground, coming seemingly out of nowhere again. Large droplets start to soak me as I hunch over, bracing my hands on my knees.
She can't be gone. I just saw her. We had finally reconnected—exactly what I had wished for so long. She was battling her demons, ready to face life again.
We. Had. A. Plan.
Suddenly, it's like a brief second of clarity, my mind replaying the last few minutes. Sandra's words circle back through my mind, and I clutch onto the only tidbit of information that I deem important.
"She passed away about an hour and a half ago."
I'm nearly two hours late, held up by…. I can't bring myself to admit the words. I was in such a foreign, peaceful daze in Rylan's truck, the two of us chatting easily like we aren't mortal enemies. It was something… an intense feeling I've never experienced before. But if the cage hadn't broken and I hadn't gotten into a heated argument with Hunter, I wouldn't have ever been in his truck. I would have gone to the beach like I planned and been here on time.
I would have been with her in her final moments.
Sobs break out against my will, my frame heaving as I fight the wave of heaviness that threatens to send me to the ground again.
Forcing myself upright, I choke back the tears as I do what I've always done best. I push all the emotion away, compartmentalizing it until I'm nothing but a numbed, soaked mess on the curb.
My feet start walking on their own accord, my body no longer feeling the cold rain as I start the trek home in the dark. Cars pass without a care in the world, and it dawns on me the sickening realization that the world keeps turning. Just like when Dad left. Even at fourteen, I understood that life can be cruel, but I forced myself to turn off the grief, pushing on like it didn't tear me apart.
But…
I did that for her . It was never for me. I just knew I needed to step up, to care for her like she had done for me all of my life. That's what love is—it's about sacrificing your needs when someone you care about has greater ones. And now, I have nothing—no one.
They still need you, Bexley… You have to push it aside. Don't give up. Don't let this drown you. You're stronger than your demons and worst nightmares.
Getting home is an eerie daze. By the time I open the front door, completely drenched from head to toe, I have no recollection of my journey home, and it hits me again that I'm alone.
Did she lie? Did she know she was dying? Is that why things changed?
Was I not enough in life but I was in death?
The house is unnaturally quiet, and my feet automatically carry me to her bedroom door. Every time it was quiet in the past, I would find her here, sleeping peacefully. But now, her empty bed stares back at me, sending me spiraling into the icy cold grips of reality. The room still smells of her floral perfume, a pile of her clean clothes yet to be put away on the end of the mattress.
I slam the door shut when I can't bear to look at her room anymore, the hinges rattling with the force. Turning, I go to my bedroom, letting my body take the lead in autopilot mode while my brain shuts down and blacks out. And after that, it all becomes a blacked-out blur, and I remember nothing.
"Bex," Archie says, frowning from his seat beside me in American Lit. "Are you okay? You're… I don't know. You seem different today. And you never made it to the beach last night. I tried to call."
"I'm fine," I mutter quietly, cracking a forced smile. "Negotiations just took longer than expected and then it started raining again so I figured it was best to head home. I didn't sleep much so I'm just tired today."
Archie nods, his worrisome expression not faltering. "Alright…" he concedes. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right? I can cancel my date with Abby tonight if you need anything."
My body jerks with a silent, sarcastic laugh that I quickly shove back down. I know he's asking about the negotiations—assuming something must have gone wrong since I never showed or answered any calls. Everyone probably just assumes we had a classic Bexley-Rylan fight and left it at that. They have no idea that the complete opposite happened in his car before he dropped me off at the hospital where everything went to shit.
"Everything is fine," I repeat, attempting to placate him. "Go on your date, Arch. It's been a long time coming. And you don't have to worry about the Willowbrook bastards."
A few people hear us, whipping their heads to glare at me, their white jerseys reminding me that I'm, in fact, still in Willowbrook territory. And just my luck, my comments will no doubt filter down the line of gossip until it reaches the people we're speaking about.
He nods again, finally falling silent. Even though he turns his head to face Mrs. Camerons, I still spot his eyes darting sideways to me every so often.
It takes everything in me to keep my body seemingly relaxed and fake a picture perfect expression of composure. I know I should tell someone or, at the very least, ask for help… but I don't know how. It's rare I ask for help, and even then, it's never for something personal. I don't know how to ask. The option has never been available to ask for help, and I'm left saddled with the fear that I'll be turned away if I do. What if I'm too much? What if my problems are too complex? What if someone takes my pain and tries to hurt me with it? I'm already in pain—I can't handle any more.
How the hell do I say to someone ' I need your support to plan my mother's funeral. Yeah, she was in the hospital for a bit. Died while I was at some shitty warehouse instead of being there with her in her final moments '? I don't even know how I'm going to be able to pay for it. We had nothing, but we had each other, and that was enough. Now, I'm left with a gaping hole in my chest and I'm staring down the barrel of financial ruin at eighteen. Funerals are expensive, aren't they? That's why people often need to do Go-Fund-Me's and turn to family for help. But I don't have that option.
I don't have anything or anyone at all.
I can't do it. It's already hard keeping this information to myself. But to have people look at me with pity? To try to use her death to paint me as weak? No—just no. I can't. It puts everything at risk. I won't be able to cope with having people look at me like I'm a charity case. I'm already the girl whose father walked out on her. I don't need them slapping the alcoholic dead mother label on me too. I'll crumble, and truth be told, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to pick myself up again if that happens.
But if there's one thing I'm absolutely certain about, it's that I'll never forgive myself for having a moment of weakness with Rylan Astor when I should have been with her in her dying final moments on this earth.
After third period, I had officially reached the point of breaking. It was getting harder and harder to stay focused and have conversations as if I wasn't falling apart. I faked being ill with stomach cramps and went home. I lied to the school nurse and said that Mom was in the hospital and that she would be fine with me leaving. I hated having to admit that she is—or was—in the hospital, but it was the only way to keep my secret. Nurse Millar didn't want to call and disturb Mom—jokes on her, I suppose—so she went against policy and let me go home without making parental contact.
School has barely finished for the day when a knock pulls me out of my catatonic state, forcing me off the couch where I have been for several hours just gazing blankly at the ceiling.
When I open the door without thought, I immediately try to shut it, but Rylan shoves his foot in the gap, blocking it from slamming closed.
"What the fuck, Bex?" he grunts, wiggling his foot in pain. "You slammed the door on my goddamn foot!"
"What do you want, Rylan?" I snap, not bothering with pleasantries. "I'm really busy."
It's a lie—kind of. But if I want to lay and dissociate from reality for a few hours, that's my prerogative.
He straightens up, huffing slightly as he glances down at me, taken aback by my sudden change in attitude. "I tried to catch you at school but apparently you left early. You left your cell in my truck. The damn thing hasn't stopped ringing." I finally notice it in his hand, seconds before he holds it out toward me.
It feels like there's a boulder-sized lump in my throat. He's being nice again, and on any other given day, I might have felt guilty for my cold demeanor.
"You didn't answer it, did you?"
That seems to catch him off-guard, face upturning. "Of course not. It's your cell."
"Funny," I say without laughing. "Never stopped you butting into our personal shit before."
On more than one occasion the Kings of Willowbrook have proven to be snakes. Why would I ever believe a word that comes out of Rylan Astor's mouth? At least… that's what I'm trying to tell myself. I'm trying to convince my mind again that he's our enemy, not the sweet guy he's pretending to be right now—or the past week. Or last night.
He has a way of bringing down my walls, and I can't let him do that. I can't let him see the broken person I'm fighting hard to hide.
"What the hell is up with you today?" he snaps back in frustration, folding his arms. "If this is because of last night—"
"Don't!" I yell, cutting him off as I shake my head. "Just… don't ." The last part comes out in a whisper because I no longer trust my voice not to crack and reveal my secrets. I can't have anyone knowing what happened, especially not him.
Rylan uncrosses his arms, bringing one up to the doorjamb as he leans forward. "Bex, talk to me," he says softly, the tone nearly unravelling me right then and there. "What happened at the hospital?"
"No," I respond quickly, clearing my throat. "I have nothing to say to you. And as far as I'm concerned, last night never happened."
His brows furrow, lips pursing as confusion and anger washes over his face. "I thought we were moving past all this animosity. Or was it all just a game to you? Some kind of ploy to fuck me over?"
I close my eyes, blocking him out of sight. Because truthfully, I don't want to admit that a part of me—a small part— was starting to like him. I had no regrets about last night until Sandra had to break my heart. I'm not sure where my mind was before that, but for the first time, peace looked a hell of a lot better if we had to co-exist in one school—a part of me even wondered if we could be friends after I left his truck. But now, I can't do peace while violence is raging inside of me.
But that's okay. Anger is easy. I can hold onto that, wielding it like a shield. But devastation? Sadness? I run from those types of feelings. They only lead to trouble.
Finally, I open my eyes again, still finding him staring at me with sharp blue eyes. "Don't kid yourself, Rylan. And don't insult me. We both know that it was just a game for you too ," I linger and emphasize the last word, trying to make a point. "You even said it yourself: ' We can go back to hating each other tomorrow '. It was just a moment of weakness, a means to an end. I had a need, and you were there to fulfill it."
His eyes flash, hurt reflecting back at me. But as quickly as it comes, it's replaced by burning hatred—and I know I'm on the right path. I cut him off again before he can respond.
"We're never going to be friends ," I remark, spitting out the word like its poison. "A truce was never going to be a viable option. Let's just keep to ourselves until we're back at Cedar Heights and things return to normal."
"You're playing a dangerous fucking game, Bexley," he murmurs, voice dark and low. I know my words have hit a sore spot—just as I needed them too. "You're basically declaring war again."
I shrug lazily, still struggling to look him in the eye. "Then it's war time, Astor. Now, please leave. You're not wanted here."