Chapter 42
Evie
It’s so cold. Mind-numbingly frigid, in fact, like I’m trapped inside a freezer.
My seatbelt cuts into my midsection as I hang upside down, feeling more hopeless than I have in a long time.
I’ve been trapped in this ditch for an eternity, waiting for rescue as the snow piles up around me and clouds my windshield.
If the paramedics don’t arrive soon, I’m going to die in my car, buried beneath an avalanche of snow.
God? Are you there? Do you even care?
No answer.
Why doesn’t Brandon want me, Jesus? Why am I not good enough for him? For You?
I’m starting to lose feeling in my hands and feet. My teeth chatter as I attempt to move my fingers, to keep the blood flow there, but they’re too heavy. Too stiff.
I’m going to freeze to death.
Panic sets in, and I thrash against the seatbelt, banging my palms against the steering wheel as I fight for my life. “God! Why? Help! I don’t want to die!”
Silence. More snow.
“Where are You?” I bawl, kicking and thrashing. Pain slices down my backside as I squirm around, like I’m breaking down the center. I might as well be. I don’t feel whole, and I haven’t for a very long time.
On the inside or the outside.
“Don’t You care about me?” I sob into the void. “Don’t You love me?”
Everyone is so convinced that He does, but it seems like whenever push comes to shove, He’s silent.
“Evie!”
My head is jerked to the side. A sharp smack registers against one frozen cheek, then the other. The sting bites so hard that I cry out in pain. “Evie! Stay with me. Open your eyes, baby.”
“Brandon?” I croak.
As soon as I open my eyes, I purge the contents of my stomach. Half a bottle of whiskey gushes down my naked chest like the rush of a river. I cough and sputter, wiping the sting of tears from my eyes as I come to.
Slowly, I return to Earth. Brandon has my hair twisted around his fist at the nape of my neck. He’s holding my head upright against a chilled tiled wall as a jet of ice-cold water streams down around us. When I’m finally more alert, it dawns on me that I’m in the shower.
Grandma’s shower.
Reality strikes me like a brutal slap. I’m not dead. I’m not even dying. I passed out in the shower.
“Evie,” Brandon yells, slapping my cheeks again. Water oozes into my eyes. “Baby, wake up. Come on.”
I don’t remember getting into the shower.
In fact, the last thing I remember before blacking out is shooting off a series of unhinged, hysterical text messages to what used to be my Mom’s cell number, begging her for answers.
When I close my eyes again, the messages are burned behind my retinas, mocking me.
Where are you?
Why won’t you answer me? I need you.
Why don’t you want a relationship with me?
I’M YOUR DAUGHTER. WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE YOUR SILENCE?
You’re a waste of space. I would have never abandoned my baby.
Each message bounced back as undelivered.
Once Brandon sees I’m awake and responsive, he sits me up and reaches over to turn the water off.
The sudden silence is deafening.
Neither of us speak. I’m shivering so hard my teeth are chattering.
I can’t believe this is happening.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say, shaking as the chill creeps into my bones.
Brandon says nothing, just grabs the towel hanging from the hook.
He wraps me up before hoisting me out of the tub bridal style.
His jaw is tight with tension as he carries me from the bathroom, down the hall, and into my old bedroom.
He kicks the door open with his foot, and I flinch, realizing he’s upset with me.
He has every right to be. This is bad. Bad, bad, bad . . .
Shocked by the emptiness of the room, Brandon pauses in the doorway. The only things the movers haven’t removed yet are the bed and nightstand. Most of my belongings have been packed up and put in storage for the time being. Everything except my collection of stuffed animals, that is.
I donated that.
Brandon gently lowers me onto the bed. “This isn’t what it looks like,” I whisper.
His glare could smite a villain. “Like you were unconscious on the shower floor?”
“I swear, I wasn’t trying to hurt myself. I swear.” Growing up, Brandon was the only one who believed me when I insisted that I wasn’t suicidal.
Will he believe me now?
I shake like a leaf caught in the wind as he towers over me, his normally light blue eyes as dark and tempestuous as a summer storm.
He sinks down next to me on the bed and lowers his face into his hands.
“I thought the worst, Evie. I thought you’d hurt yourself.
Thought you were”—his voice breaks—“I thought you were dead for a second.” He grits his teeth. “Worst second of my life.”
“Well, I’m not,” I say, stroking his hair. “I’m okay.”
He groans into his hands.
I wait patiently for his fear and adrenaline to subside before breaking the silence. “What are—” My throat feels raw. I pause and clear the gravel from my voice. “What are you doing here?”
He lifts his face. “The better question is what were you doing passed out in the shower?”
“I had too much to drink,” I admit as I touch a sore spot on my forehead. “I must have slipped and hit my head.”
Brandon struggles to keep the outrage out of his voice. “You could have died, Evie.”
My gaze sinks to the floor. “But I didn’t.”
He sinks to his knees in front of me, ducking his face into my line of vision.
I tighten the towel around my body, embarrassed by my nakedness.
I feel so exposed. In more ways than one.
“I didn’t like the way we left things,” he confesses.
“I was going to give you some time to cool off, but I had this feeling . . . that I should come check on you. I’m glad I did. ”
“I’m sorry.” Sniffling, I avoid his eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I was just upset, and I didn’t want to—”
“Harm yourself?” he guesses. I nod curtly, ashamed. “So your solution was to get drunk instead?”
“Look, cut me some slack,” I clap back, feeling defensive. “I’m trying to get my act together, okay? But it’s surprisingly difficult, alright?”
His eyes soften.
I look down at my hands. I came to Grandma’s house to cool off after our conversation.
I tried journaling about it, but it wasn’t taking the edge off.
Sometimes, only the blade can do that. But I promised myself I was done with that.
Promised my therapist, too. So when I found a stray bottle of whiskey in Grandma’s basement, well . . .
Brandon sighs again. “Oh, Evie. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
A shiver rips through me, and Brandon hastily removes his coat and wraps it around my shoulders. I burrow into it, luxuriating in its warmth. “Shouldn’t have done what?”
“Fired you.”
“You said it was God’s will.”
He moans. “I don’t know that for certain. Maybe I was just scared and convinced myself it was. I don’t know. All I know is that I keep making mistake after mistake with you, baby. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t blame yourself for this,” I whisper, gesturing to my shivering body. “This was all me.”
“I drove you to it.”
“You did not,” I insist. “So stop that. You’re not responsible for my well-being, Brandon.
Or my happiness.” His head sinks to my knee like he can no longer hold the weight of it.
I run my fingers through his silky soft hair, scratching his scalp in that way I know he likes, attempting to soothe him.
“I know I’ve been hard on you, but you need to stop blaming yourself for every little thing. It’s not right.”
He nods against me, seeming to take what I’ve said on board.
“Besides,” I tease. “Not everything is about you, Brandon. Get a grip.”
He laughs once. “I know. Pretty arrogant of me to assume so.”
“You’re prone to it.”
I feel his smile against my skin.
“Yes, getting fired was a little triggering,” I admit quietly. “But . . .” I shift around, unsettled by the truth. “This was more about . . . Mom.”
His head lifts. Curious blue eyes settle on mine. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I purse my lips, undecided. Seeing as it’s a Saturday and my therapist probably isn’t available, unloading all my emotional baggage on Dr. Brandon Wright is probably the next best thing. “Sure.”
Nodding, he stands and helps me to my feet. “Let’s get you dressed and warm first.”
***
Brandon cradles me in his arms, toeing the rocker we’re reclined in back and forth. We’ve been talking for so long that the sun has gone down. The movers have already taken the bedside lamp, so the room is dark.
But the conversation is bright.
“I want what you have,” I whisper into his shirt.
“And what’s that?” he questions before dropping a kiss to my temple. He’s been peppering me with kisses nonstop. On my hairline, my forehead, my temple, my nose, my cheeks.
Everywhere but my lips.
“The assurance that God loves me. That He hears my prayers and cares.”
Brandon’s chin settles on the top of my head. “What would that assurance look like to you?”
Good question. I’ve never thought about that. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just tired of having to assume that God loves me. It’s hard for me to believe He could love someone like me.” The words are a shock to my own system.
Brandon’s quiet for a moment, pondering what I’ve said. “I feel the same way sometimes.”
I glance up, surprised. “You do?”
Nodding, he strokes my hair, then presses my head back down onto his shoulder. “Every time I mess up, I have to stop myself from believing that He’s going to abandon me like I’m some kind of lost cause.”
I hold him tighter. “You’re not a lost cause. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Not as many as I have.”