Chapter 54
“Whoa!” The bathroom door whips open, and Brighton stands there with glazed eyes. I pull off my headphones and set them slowly on the counter. “Brighton?” I stare at him, not daring to move an inch because he’s not focusing on anything.
His breathing is ragged—chest heaving like he can’t catch it. The door is split at the top, wood splintered in a jagged crack down the center, and his hands are bloodied, no doubt from hitting it.
“Hey,” I say, putting my hands up. “Hey,” I whisper, stepping forward.
I’ve never seen him so far gone, but it’s not scary, it’s heartbreaking. The tears are pouring from him like he can’t stop them, and his entire body is shaking violently. I move toward him, each step more terrifying than the last. I have no idea what he’ll do. This isn’t sleepwalking.
He’s awake—just not here.
My phone is in my back pocket.
Call Boone.
My brain screams at me, but every muscle in my body tells me differently, Don’t do that. I step forward, and Brighton doesn’t move. His hair is damp around his collar, and it’s so clear he’s in distress, but I don’t know how to help him out of this. It’s not the same.
“Help me out here, Brighton.” I chew on my lip and step forward again.
His hand swings out. I step back just in time—close enough to feel the air of it, but it shakes me.
Worse, it puts us off balance, and I'm still cornered in the bathroom. His foot jitters. He’s counting himself down—seven taps, a long pause, then again.
I tried to remember all the conversations I had in therapy, every time my therapist told me that it wasn’t my problem to solve. That my father’s trauma was his own. All I can do is prepare, watch for the signs, understand the trauma, and be aware.
The Six. Brighton was the only survivor. It should have been seven.
Ever since he took that call this morning, he’s been bent, different. He hasn’t been himself. And he isn’t now. Something along the way triggered this.
Nausea hits hard. Gun oil and freshly cut grass flood my nose, and suddenly I’m not here anymore. Stuck rewatching my worst nightmare happening just out of reach.
“Control your movements. Inhale before you take the shot.” Dad sits at the shabby picnic table in the backyard while Reid swings his hockey stick, sending pucks flying one after another. They hit the back of the net with delicate swoosh sounds as Dad pulled apart his shotgun.
“Like that?” Reid asks, barely big enough for the stick he was bought, and Dad nods with pride. It’s a good day. But I know what happens next, I’ve watched it play out a million times. Reid pulls back, and instead of the puck hitting the net, it smashes hard against the shed, and Dad’s on his feet.
He stomps across the grass toward him, and before Reid understands that it’s not Dad anymore, he’s in the grass beneath him, gasping for breath.
He claws at the ground as Dad screams about the enemy.
“Run, Rhea!” he yells at me, and my body seizes.
Reid is turning blue, his green eyes so vibrant before they lose their light for good.
Do something, Rhea. Do something! Protect yourself!
Bang.
It might be a mistake—but it feels good. You aren’t small anymore, Rhea, you made sure of that. You never have to be small again.
I step forward, using both hands, and shove him as hard as I can.
“Wake up, Brighton!” I scream, shoving him again—again—until he gives ground.
“Wake the fuck up!” I yell, over and over until we’re pushed so far back that I’m free of the tiny bathroom and have room to breathe.
Once the crying starts, it doesn’t stop.
I can’t control it. I don’t want to do it, but it starts.
I push on his chest again, harder this time.
“You know where you are,” I whisper, tears streaming. I don’t shove that time, I wrap my arms around him. I squeeze tightly, trying to slow down his breathing enough for him to regulate his mind. “Please, Brighton,” I beg. “Come back.”
I sound pathetic, I can hear the whine in my voice, but trying to convince myself that he’s okay is getting harder and harder. The barriers between him and what happened all those years ago start to break down.
“Please.” I press my face against his chest and feel his legs give out as he buries his face into my hair, and we collapse to the living-room floor in a tangle of limbs and breath. His hands wrap around me tightly, and he pulls me as close as I can get.
I can hear him repeating himself over and over, his voice hoarse and muffled against my head, and his fingers dig into my skin like he’s trying to ground himself. I inhale, finding whatever courage I have left, and pull back from his chest.
Seeing him like this, so small and broken. I feel the second my heart shatters like glass.
He reaches up with a hand and stops, his eyes widening on the blood, and he freezes before he starts frantically looking me over.
Stop, stop, stop. I grab his face, making him tense in my grip and look me in the eyes. “Are you okay?” I ask him, and he flinches.
“Me?” His heavy brows furrow. Brighton sets me to the floor, breaking contact completely, and slides back until he’s against the wall.
He looks over at the door and starts to piece together what happened.
The door was a goner, it hangs funny on the hinges, and there are tiny pieces of wood splintered across the bathroom floor.
Brighton’s hands are still bleeding, and he looks down at them with a shaky lip. His hair falls against his forehead, and I can see him trying to gain control of the shallow breaths without results.
“Brighton?” I reach out across the floor, giving my hand to him.
He continues to stare at his own, his jaw grinding as he silently reasons with himself.
Talk to me. My heart is racing unevenly in my chest, and the color of my shirt feels suffocating around my throat as I wait in silence for him to do something, do anything.
I feel like an idiot waiting for him to reach out for me.
“Bri,” I whisper, half his name broken on my lips.
“Don’t call me that.” He goes rigid. “Not you.”
I feel like a scolded child.
“He was right.” Brighton tries to shuffle to his feet, but his body is still weak, and he stumbles a little before sliding back down against the wall.
“Who was right?” I ask him, trying to ignore how jittery I feel. Any sharp movement he makes turns me rigid and makes me flinch. He’d never hurt you. Very convincing.
“He doesn’t trust me, and he shouldn’t,” Brighton grumbles.
“I don’t understand…” I say, I shift to my knees and put both hands flat on the floor.
“You don’t need to,” he snaps, looking up at me. “It doesn’t matter.”
That stings.
“What the hell do you mean it doesn’t matter?” I stare at him without blinking.
“It doesn’t fucking matter, Rhea. Any of it. This—” When he finally looks up, the pain I feel is worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. He means us. You.
I inhale slowly, trying to control my thoughts as they whip around my subconscious like a hundred tennis balls. “Will you just talk to me?” I grind out.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He shakes his head.
“No, you don’t get to do that to me!” I cry out. “You’re going to tell me what is going on right now!”
“It won’t change anything!” His hand shoots out, and I flinch. Even worse, he catches it. His head cocks to the side, and he swallows tightly. “See.”
“I—”
“What am I supposed to say that takes it back?” His bottom lip trembles like he’s working his hardest to shove down everything else. “Sorry?” he huffs. “It’s done, Rhea. You know it.”
“I’m asking you to talk to me!” I slam my hand on the ground, and the sound echoes out in the silence around us. “Just talk to me!” I repeat myself.
“I can’t,” he whispers.
“Yes, you can,” I snap at him, and he tenses. “You don’t want to.”
Brighton’s eyes darken, and his tongue darts out over his bottom lip. He’s shutting down on you. You lost this fight the second it started.
“I know about them,” I say, aware that it’s not my finest moment. “The Six.”
“Don’t you dare.” He shows his teeth—strangled, feral. His eyes are completely void of light again, and my heart clenches painfully. For a little while there, his stupid eyes were so reflective and blue. Now there’s nothing.
“Today, with your friend dying.”
“Rhea.” His voice is a warning. Stop pushing.
“It was too much for you to carry alone,” I say, ignoring the tone.
“I shouldn’t have hit that guy,” Brighton says. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not about that idiot!” I point to the door he’s destroyed. “You’d rather do that then…”
He looks at the door and closes his eyes.
“But I’m right here, and you won’t even talk to me. I thought…”
Brighton stares at me, and the look on his face makes me want to cry.
I’m never going to win this.
“No.” He gives his head a soft shake. “I saw it that day, I see it now…” his jaw clenches. “You absorb everything from everyone, it’s exhausting just to watch.”
“I do not,” I scowl.
“You do!” He raises his voice at me, and my body goes rigid. “With your friends, with your family. You’ve been nurtured by this toxic need to fix everything for everyone, because if you don't, you might get in trouble.” He swallows hard. “I won’t let you fix this. It’s not yours to fix.”
I settle on my heels, completely defeated.
“Alright.” I nod, feeling like a burden.
He’s trying to protect you. It feels a hell of a lot like an eviction notice.
I push to my feet, my legs feel like jello, and I’m doing everything I can to keep from crying.
I move toward my room with the intention of collecting a bag and dragging it over to Kaia’s, but I stop.
I turn back to look at him. “You don’t have to shove me away, Brighton,” I remind him. “This isn’t what scares me.” I point to the destruction. “Today—when you got that call—what I saw wasn’t grief, Brighton.”
His eyes are so blue it stings as he rakes his eyes up to mine, locking our gaze.
“It was jealousy.”
Recognition crosses his face, and his trembling hands flex at his side. He knows I’m right, and it’s why he doesn’t respond.
“You know what I said to Sunday?” I say to him, and he looks up at me. “When she asked why I like you?”
He doesn’t say a word.
“I…” I swallow the need to cry again. “I told her that you take care of me. Like that was some huge romantic gesture. She looked at me like I was insane.” I let go of a heartbreaking laugh that turns into tears.
“Maybe I am.” I shrug. “I need you to find someone to take care of you. And if you refuse to let me, at least find someone.”
I don’t wait for him to speak because the chances of him actually doing it are low.
I wander to my room and grab my duffle, stuffing it with just enough for the night.
When I return to the living room, he’s gone, and it takes everything in me not to go searching for him.
The worry gnaws at me violently as I grab my keys.
Just go. He doesn’t want you here.
On the way out to the Bronco, I text Kaia, and she responds instantly with a phone call.
“Come to Boone’s.” She drops the pin, and I start the Bronco.