Chapter Thirty-Eight Lexie #2
I need to call Mia, or Julie, to talk through the devastating weight dangerously close to crushing me in this moment.
I need someone to comfort me, tell me that everything will work out.
I need advice on where to go from here, and what steps I need to take to heal from all of this.
I need a voice of reason to talk me down from the emotional ledge I’m teetering on right now, dangerously close to free-falling into the knowledge that my life is over.
I need understanding and logic against the irrational thoughts dragging me towards a spiral away from the person I’ve worked so hard to become, and back to the broken person I was before.
But I can’t.
I can’t tell anyone any of this. Legally, and morally, I can’t say a fucking word. Even if the NDA I signed wasn’t gagging me, there’s no way I could ever drag the people I love into this hell. The only person I can turn to for refuge is the man who caused all of this.
Instead, I cry myself to sleep.
My phone ringing yanks me out of a restless sleep. I’m exhausted and my eyes are tear swollen when I force them open to reach for the device. A photo of me and Mia on a wild night out lights the screen, her name written across the top. Taking a deep breath, I press the button to answer.
“Hey Mia.” I force a cheerful tone despite my wrecked voice. Turns out spending the whole night sobbing uncontrollably really does a number on the vocal cords. “What’s up?”
“Lexie.” The way she says my name has me sitting up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your sister’s here at the hospital.” There’s something in her tone that has a new knot forming in my stomach. Trying not to assume the worst, I ask for clarification.
“Samantha’s there, like, to visit?”
“She’s going into surgery; I wanted to call you before I scrub in. You’re still her emergency contact.” Mia’s voice is more serious than I’ve ever heard it before. This is real, the knot tightening painfully.
“What happened?”
“Looks like a hit and run. Her car rolled; she hasn’t regained consciousness.” I’m already up and moving. Woah I’m kind of dizzy—last night’s episode really did a number on me. It feels like an emotional hangover.
“How is she?” Stumbling into the closet, I’m shoving clothes into my carry-on suitcase before I have a chance to look at what I’m grabbing. Anxiety is starting to build in my chest, pressing against my rib cage like a corset several sizes too small.
“She has a severe concussion. We won’t know the extent until she wakes up.
The imaging showed massive internal bleeding.
She’s at risk of paralysis and organ failure.
We’ll know more after we open her up, but she’s stable.
” Mia’s professionalism is impressive as she delivers the update of such an emotional personal topic.
I can hear the hospital chaos around her, and I try not to picture my little sister part of the urgency.
The corset strings tighten painfully.
“I’m coming. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Bras and panties are being hastily tossed into the bag without consideration.
“I have to get into the O.R.” Mia’s voice is soft and riddled with restrained concern. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Okay,” I breathe. “Thank you for calling, I’ll let you go. Bye.”
“Of course,” Mia responds sincerely. “Bye.” Standing in the center of the closet—that looks like it was hit by a tornado—I look around feeling lost. Tugging on a clean pair of leggings and an oversized crewneck sweatshirt, I stuff my sock-clad feet into my white tennis shoes.
Stepping over the piles of strewn clothing, I move to the bathroom to collect my toiletries before adding them to my bag. Zipping the carry-on closed, I rush to the kitchen, trailing the suitcase behind me.
My phone is already open looking for flights from NYC to Oregon.
Last-minute flights are so expensive and have multiple hour-long layovers.
Overwhelmed and already emotionally raw from last night, the phone is shaking in my hand.
Deciding just to pick the best of the shitty flights, and the most expensive, I struggle to fill out the ticket information.
I need my damn credit card.
Grabbing my handbag from the far edge of the counter, I’m digging through it frantically when I hear Callum enter the kitchen behind me. “What’s going on?”
Even after shoving everything aside, my wallet is still nowhere to be found. “Where the fuck is it? It has to be in here.” I force out a shaky breath, my frustration level rising.
“What are you looking for?” he asks, getting closer.
“My wallet. I can’t buy a plane ticket without my fucking credit card.” Fed up, I take the bag and turn it upside down to empty the damn thing out on the counter. All my shit comes tumbling out, scattering across the island and falling onto the floor.
“Plane ticket?” His voice is confused, but there’s an undertone of trepidation in his question. “Where are you going? Tell me what’s happening.”
“I need to get back to Oregon.” I sift through my makeup bags, crumpled receipts, and packets of tissues. “Mia called; my sister is in the hospital. She was in an accident.” It’s not here. Why isn’t my wallet here? I take a step back to look around me.
“What’s her condition?” Callum’s question barely registers when my eyes catch on the pink leather peeking out from under the cabinet near the toe-kick.
“Here it is,” I hiss, grabbing the wallet. My fingers are trembling as I unsnap it. When I struggle to pull my credit card loose from its place in the card holder, a strong hand is covering mine to stop me.
“Hey, take a breath and talk to me.”
“Samantha’s car rolled, she’s going into surgery,” I stammer. “I have to get there.”
“You’ll get there.” Callum presses his phone to his ear, stealing my wallet from my hands as he waits for whoever he’s calling to pick up. “I need the plane fueled and ready to go. How soon can it be ready?”
“What are you doing?”
“Good, get it done.” He ends the call to answer me. “My jet is the fastest way to get there. It’ll be ready in an hour.”
“Give me my wallet back, I need it.”
“No. I’ll give it back once I’m packed.”
“What?”
“I’m coming with you,” he announces.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s my sister, Callum. This is my family business.”
“I know,” he states firmly. “I’m coming with you.” Holding up my wallet tellingly, he backs out of the room to go pack. I’m not going anywhere without my ID and credit cards, he knows that. He’s effectively clipped my wings.
Son of a bitch.
My feet can’t stop moving, the anxiety making me restless. If I stop long enough to sit, then the what ifs start to take over. And I can’t bear the thought of what might be happening with Samantha on the operating table right now. She’s the only family I have, I can’t lose her.
I end up in my bathroom, standing in front of the sink. Looking in the mirror is a mistake; my reflection is pitiful. Disturbing. My face is puffy from crying under the crusty remnants of yesterday’s makeup. Looking at myself, it’s a wonder I don’t feel as gross as I look.
Turning on the sink, I cup my hands to splash my face with water.
The cold liquid feels refreshing against my skin.
As each thought about what’s happening comes, both with my sister and with Callum, it’s forced out of my head.
I focus solely on my task as I scrub the last twenty-four hours from my skin.
“There you are.” Callum’s deep voice sounds as he steps into the doorway. “I thought you’d left for a minute there.”
“I can’t go anywhere, you made sure of that,” I reply flatly, my words heavy with meaning.
Reaching for a towel, I pat the moisture from my face before letting it drop back on the counter.
My hands are on autopilot carrying out the next few steps of my skincare regimen.
Keeping my eyes averted, I turn around to leave the room.
But he’s right there, standing in my way.
He’s always right fucking there.
“I made you a sandwich, you need to eat.” Callum’s tone is firm. I try to step around him, refusing to meet his eyes. But he follows my movements, his giant frame blocking my path. I can practically feel his eyes on me, burning a hole into the top of my head.
“Leave me alone. I’m not hungry.” Lifting my eyes, my gaze lands to focus on the top button of his dress shirt. I don’t have it in me to look at his face right now.
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon,” he points out. Of course he knows that, leave it to Callum to track my eating habits even when I’m furious with him.
Control freak.
“I said I’m not hungry. You don’t get to control everything about me,” I snap, the frustration in my voice more than obvious.
When I move to turn away, he catches me.
One of his large hands clasps my shoulder, the other lifting my chin until I’m forced to look up and meet his eyes.
Callum’s expression is one of unwavering determination.
“You’re angry at me, I get that. You’re allowed to be.
” His gaze drills into me. “But what’s not allowed is for you to stop taking care of yourself because you’re upset.
” The message hits home, landing heavily in my chest. It’s exactly what my therapist would say—“you can’t pour from an empty cup.
” This tends to be a pattern when I’m emotional about something.
Self-isolation and restriction—it’s how I self-sabotage.
He’s right, and I fucking hate it.
“Fine. I’ll eat the damn sandwich,” I grit out, and I don’t miss how the harsh edges of his face soften in concern.
I look pointedly at his hands, and he very reluctantly lets go of me.
Taking a step back, he doesn’t go too far.
His eyes are watching diligently as I walk to the kitchen and sit at the island to eat the plate he prepared for me.