Chapter 11 Brighton
“This place reeks of death,” Boone huffs and picks at the sleeves of his shirt before deciding to roll them up around his arms.
“It’s a hospital,” I scowl.
It’d been a while since we’d been in one, but it never fails to make him uncomfortable. It’s the only time he gets antsy. Sometimes I don’t even know why he offers to do this stuff with me. Threatens. He doesn’t offer—he threatens. It's the only out of character thing that Boone does.
“What time is your appointment again?” He asks, looking down at his phone.
“One,” I tell him, just like I’ve told him every hour for the last six.
“Ten minutes,” he responds, like I’m the impatient one.
“You know you didn’t have to come with me,” I say.
“If I didn’t come, you wouldn’t come.” He argues, and he’s not wrong.
The only reason I‘m sitting here consoling his feelings is because he made sure I got in the truck. The problem is, the issues with my hands aren’t something the doctors here can do anything about.
It’s mental. The closer I get to that day, the worse it gets.
Even now, in the middle of the day, my left hand rattles against my thigh no matter how I try to calm it.
“You can wait in the truck, Boone,” I tell him, and he instantly shakes his head.
“No, I promised Sunday I’d be brave.” Boone makes it sound endearing, but I stare at him like he’s nuts.
“You told Day?” I sigh.
“He sure did.” Sunday stands across from me, in her stupid bunny scrubs with her hand on her hip.
“Shouldn’t you be in the ER?” I ask her.
“Maybe.” She narrows those judgmental green eyes on me and demands answers. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I brush her off. Boone snorts. “Shut up.”
“Bri,” Sunday’s voice drops into a territory I know well.
I lift my hand from between my legs and show her.
“It’s back.” She steps forward to get a proper look at it, and I nod.
“It’s worse,” Boone rats me out. A loud announcement comes over the hospital speakers, and I take a second to breathe as we wait for it to die down.
He’s not wrong; it is worse. The closer we get to the anniversary, the more they shake.
It’s no different than any year, but for some reason, this year, this far out from everything that happened, it’s like my brain is replaying the memories louder.
Unable to forget all the bloodshed, and it wants to remind me on maximum volume that I’m guilty.
That’s what the shake is. It’s guilt.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asks when the silence returns, no longer looking at my hand but at me.
“Because of that.” I nod at the unreasonable motherly glare she gives me in the wake of finding out my secret. It’s back. Like the tremors are some kind of unspeakable monster. “It’ll die down again in a couple weeks, we all know it, but Boone wanted to come, so here I am.”
“Are you going to let them X-ray you this time?” She questions.
“Do you know how expensive that’ll be? No.” I shake my head. “It’s not my muscles, Day, I’m healthy as ever. That’s exactly what he’s going to tell us today.”
“Okay,” she concedes. “Then therapy.”
“I’m not having this conversation again,” I shut her down as firmly as I can. A few people she knows shuffle by, and she entertains them with small talk for a moment before turning cold again. It’s a version of Sunday we rarely see. All work, no play, Day.
“You never want to, but it’s clearly the solution. You have to talk to someone about what’s going on up there, to fix that.” She points at my head, then my shaking hands.
“The therapist is as useless as the X-ray.”
Sunday huffs, completely unimpressed by my answer.
“You know what.” She laughs under her breath. “I have too much work to do to argue with this idiot. Just get a scan, please.”
“Sure Day.” I agree, but when the doctor asks, I’ll say no. When she wanders away, Boone turns his head to me and sighs.
“You’re not gonna get the stuff, are you?” He groans when I shake my head.
The doctor tells us exactly what I expect: there’s no apparent damage, and I’m in good physical shape, and then he proposes running a few tests. I politely decline them all.
“One of these days, Sunday is going to drug you, and you’re going to wake up in a fucking care home for the mentally unstable,” Boone grunts as we wander back to the truck.
“Better than her picking at shit she can’t fix with stubborn willpower.” I climb in and slam the door as he follows.
“You know she learned that from you?” Boone turns to me in his seat. “She’s just trying to look out for you, the way you looked out for us.”
“I don’t need you guys to do that,” I tell him.
“Hey,” he clips, and his voice is more serious than before, so I give him the proper attention before turning the engine on. “I’m your brother, and being born three minutes ahead of me isn’t an argument you can use here. Let me help.”
I stare at him, the scruff, the chaos, the gentle nature that rolls off him, and my brain just screams to keep him out of harm's way. To keep him at arm's length from whatever the fuck is stirring around in my brain. I’ve leaned on them enough; it’s my shift to protect.
“I just need to get through these couple of weeks, and it’ll be fine,” I tell him, and I know he’s not buying it because his lips twitch with the urge to fight it.
“Eventually, something is going to give, Bri,” he says quietly. “It’s easy to put out a small fire, but whatever you got going on, it’s bigger than that, and if you snap— None of us is equipped to put out a wildfire.”
“I hear you.”
“I don’t think you do,” he snorts, “but I said my piece. Can we pick Daisy up early and get tacos?”
I nod and start the engine. “Yeah, we can do that.”
The school is quiet when we arrive, and Boone stays in the truck as I wander through to the office.
The girl at the desk is sweet and figures out what class Daisy is in, calling down to the room so I can go get her.
I snake up through the hallways to the second-floor science lab to find her causing trouble with Lori.
When she sees me at the door, she smiles, actually smiles.
It’s big and genuine, full of excitement for her jailbreak as she collects her bag and shuffles from the class.
“Uncle B wants tacos,” I tell her as I shut the door and hold my hand out for her backpack.
“Mom’s going to flip if I skip school for that,” she laughs, handing it over.
“I’m not scared of your mother,” I groan and adjust the small bag on my shoulder. “What is in this thing?” I scowl at the weight.
“Rocks,” she declares with a straight face.
“I just need to grab something,” she says to me and picks up her pace down the hall to a room at the end of the hall.
The door is covered in crap, and the room is practically completely dark, but Daisy disappears inside, and I stand in the doorway to sneak a peek at what’s beyond the frame.
“Brighton?” Rhea’s voice is sharp, lower than normal, and confused.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t realize…”
The sign on the door is covered in crap, but it still reads ART ROOM in bold letters that have been painted over.
I turn to look at her as she approaches from behind her desk in a long dark skirt, a white t-shirt, and some sort of harness thing that buckles across her stomach.
Her hair is down today, curled around her face in all different directions.
It’s the softest I’ve ever seen her, and it’s distracting.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, crossing her arms under her chest.
“Daisy has an appointment,” I say.
“You don’t have to lie to Ms. Drake.” Daisy returns and pulls her backpack away from me to shove a messy-looking book inside. “She’s the only cool teacher in this school.”
“Oh.” I nod. “You must be proud of that distinction.”
“Quite,” Rhea beams. “It’s hard work to get a bunch of teenagers to admit you’re cool, don’t be sour because I earned it and you’re just someone's dorky dad.”
“Dorky?” I huff, feeling lighter than I have all day. “Take that back.”
“She’s right, you are kind of dorky. You own like thirty maps…” Daisy grumbles under her breath.
“At least they’re organized, look at this place,” I say, pointing lazily to the chaotic classroom.
“Freedom of expression,” Rhea and Daisy say in unison. Weirdos.
“I’m outnumbered here,” I admit defeat.
“We’re going for tacos,” Daisy tells her, handing her bag back to me.
“Jealous,” Rhea playfully hisses at her, and I watch the interaction with a foreign smile on my face. “Although Mr. Crockett is kinda cool,” she argues.
“Yeah, but he teaches Gym, and smells like it.”
“Fair point,” Rhea laughs with her, “don’t have too much fun.”
Daisy dips out of the classroom, but I stay rooted for reasons beyond my comprehension. Rhea stares at me like I’m insane, and for a long moment, the world feels a little less suffocating.
“Do you need anything else?” She asks me after a second.
I shake my head, shaking the feeling off at the same time, before digging into my pockets, “Here.” I hand her the set of keys I promised her.
“Oh, thank you.” She takes it, and her fingers brush against my palm. “Say hi to Bobo for me.”
“On it,” I note, backing out of the classroom but never taking my eyes off her.