Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sawyer
I START CLEANING the kitchen not long after Jake drives away.
I need something to do, something to focus on that isn’t the look on his face when I turned down his invitation. That flicker of hurt. The one I hadn’t meant to cause but did anyway.
I didn’t intend to sound cold, but I know I did. And it makes me dislike myself in new and unfamiliar ways.
I hate this version of me.
The one who recoils instead of reaches out.
The one who doesn’t know how to be anything but alone.
I fill a bucket with water at the kitchen sink and add a splash of bleach I found in the laundry room.
The gloves I also found there—still sealed in their original packaging—make a satisfying snap when I pull them on.
I imagine my mother doing the same thing.
I imagine her humming, her hands moving across these same countertops, her rhythm steady and sure.
I miss her with a pain so sharp it steals my breath.
I set the bucket on the floor, dip the rag into the water, and begin to scrub. Hard. I don’t let myself think, just focus on each motion. I start with the sink. I scrub until the porcelain shines, until the chemical sting of bleach clings to the air like penance.
When I’m done, sweat drips down my spine, dampens my forehead. The sink gleams. The counters are clean. The room smells like something has been erased.
If only it were that easy.
If only we could scrub away the layers of what life leaves behind. The buildup of grief, regret, memory. The hardened film of everything we’ve endured, until we’re new again.
Unmarked.
Untouched.
Unruined.
Another memory slips in. The summer I was hopelessly in love with Jake.
I would’ve taken any form of him back then, friendship, silence.
I just wanted to be near him. I wonder now if he ever truly noticed me, or if I was just the awkward younger sister of his best friend.
I think about the way he always treated me—with patience, gentleness.
He never laughed when I asked a serious question, even when the answer was more complicated than I could understand.
Back then, I believed if I was just good enough, smart enough, thoughtful enough, maybe he’d see me. Really see me.
Now, my cheeks burn with shame for how desperate I must have seemed. Jake never made me feel foolish.
And that was what I loved most about him.
I wonder what might have happened if Tommy hadn’t died. If that summer had played out the way we imagined it might.
But there’s no point in wondering.
Tommy’s death rewrote everything.
Any path that might have existed between Jake and me disappeared the moment my brother reached for that cable. After that, we couldn’t look at each other without seeing what was lost. Without asking the unspoken question: Could we have stopped it?
I’ll never stop wondering if I could have. If I hadn’t been so focused on Jake. If I’d looked sooner.
Moved faster.
Noticed.
But I didn’t.
And he died.
The truth is, none of us walk away from life unweathered. The little things, the moments that don’t seem like much at the time, chip away slowly. But it’s the storms we don’t see coming that change us. That wash out the ground beneath our feet and leave us standing on something hollow.
I’ve weathered a lot in my life.
But this storm, the one I’ve been living inside these past few months, it’s the one I can’t get back up from.
For the first time, I see it clearly.
I’m not going back.
Not to medicine.
Not to the version of myself who believed she could keep death at bay.
And strangely, that realization doesn’t devastate me. It relieves me.
When I was in it, I didn’t realize how heavy the weight was. The pressure to keep people breathing. To stand in the space between life and death and pretend you’re strong enough to be okay with which way it goes.
I did my best.
I know I did.
But it wasn’t enough. Not in the end.
This wasn’t the kind of medicine we were trained for. This was war. No relief. No recovery.
Just a steady line of gurneys down the hallway, each one colder than the last.
It was the kind of nightmare I’d once imagined volunteering for, somewhere far away, in a war-torn village halfway around the world.
But I never signed up.
Because I knew I couldn’t handle it.
And the truth is, I was right.
Except this war came to me anyway. And there was no exit. No rotation. No clean escape.
I never went back after the night I collapsed in the ER hallway. Later, I made it official, sent in my resignation. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just let it happen because I had nothing left to fight for.
And I was grateful. At least I didn’t have to choose.
There’s nothing left in me to give. No spark, no calling. I don’t have the energy to figure out what comes next.
And that’s why I made my choice.
It wasn’t impulsive.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was quiet. Logical. Final.
One simple act. That’s all it would take, peaceful, certain.
And for the first time in months, the thought doesn’t scare me.
I’m not going to wake up one day and feel better.
This isn’t something you come back from.
And Jake?
I can’t see him again.
Because it wouldn’t be fair.
To him. Or to me.
He doesn’t need to carry guilt about this.
He’s already carried more than his share.