Chapter Twenty-Seven
CAN’T SAVE EVERYONE
Andi
I’m curled up on the couch, half-watching some reality show that’s rotting my brain, half-staring at my phone.
Cole usually checks in by now. Sometimes it’s something dumb like “Tell Beef I said hi” or “How’s the world’s bossiest person today?
” Sometimes it’s just a photo—like the one he sent yesterday, him in his turnout gear, face smudged, grinning like an idiot with some little kid wearing a plastic fireman’s hat. He’s not subtle, but I like it.
I like him.
Which is probably why this weird silence feels like a missing limb.
I glance at the time—almost eight. He said he was working today, but still. He usually texts me something by now. I type out a text and erase it three times before settling on:
You alive?
Simple. Non-needy. Fine.
I toss the phone on the coffee table and go back to pretending to care about which rich housewife is fighting now. A minute passes. Then two. The phone buzzes.
Cole: Yeah. Just got home.
That’s it? My eyebrows scrunch. No dumb joke. No asking what I’m up to.
Me: Everything okay?
Three dots appear. Then vanish.
Then, finally, a reply.
Cole: Bad day at work. Not really in the mood to talk right now. Raincheck on hanging out?
I sit up straighter. Raincheck?
My stomach twists. He’s never... distant. Not with me. Not like this. I stare at the screen for a second, trying to decide if I’m being dramatic or if I should push.
I push.
Me: Did something happen?
It takes longer this time.
Cole: Fentanyl overdose. Kid didn’t make it. I’m fine. Just need space.
Crap. That’s brutal.
I deal with the aftermath—cold, clinical, and already over.
But Cole? His job is personal. He’s the one kicking down doors, running into bedrooms, looking people in the eye while they beg him to save someone they love.
He’s the one trying to bring them back. And when he can’t… he’s the one left carrying it.
Something inside me twists.
And I grab my car keys.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing outside his house with a pint of cookie dough ice cream and no real plan. Beef’s leash is in my other hand because I figured if I showed up with emotional support and ice cream, it might be just the right combo.
I knock twice and wait.
Nothing.
I knock again, louder this time.
When he opens the door, his face is a mess. Not physically—he still looks like him. But his eyes are dark, hollowed out in a way that makes me want to cry and shake him at the same time.
“You didn’t have to come,” he says, voice low.
“I know.”
I hold up the ice cream. “But I brought this. So.”
He steps aside. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
Beef trots in like he owns the place, flopping down in Cole’s living room like this is just any other night.
But it’s not.
Cole drops onto the couch, elbows on his knees, head hanging. I shut the door and walk over slowly, like if I move too fast, he’ll bolt. Even Beef seems to sense something’s wrong. He lays practically on top of Cole’s foot—right up against his leg.
“You don’t have to talk,” I say, sitting beside him. “I’m just here.”
He doesn’t answer, just leans back, running both hands over his face. I can see it now—the weight he’s carrying, the way it’s digging into his shoulders. I shift closer, gently reaching up to rub them. He tenses at first, then lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped inside him all day.
“He was sixteen,” Cole says, voice rough. “We got there too late.”
I keep my hands moving, slow circles. “I’m so sorry.”
“I keep thinking... what if we’d gotten the call sooner? What if—”
“Cole.” I slide in front of him now, kneeling between his legs, forcing him to look at me. “You did everything you could.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. He just drops his forehead to mine, like he’s barely holding on.
“I hate this part,” he whispers.
“I know.”
I pull him into a hug, wrapping my arms around his waist, holding tight. He holds me back like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“You can’t save everyone,” I murmur.
“I wanted to save him.”
I press my cheek to his chest, feeling his heart beat like a drum. “It wasn’t your fault.”
For a long time, we just sit like that. No words. No noise except Beef snoring nearby and the sound of Cole’s steady heartbeat.
Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look at me. “Thanks for coming.”
I smile, even though it’s sad. “Always.”
I press a soft kiss to his lips, and he lets me.
“Want some ice cream?” I ask.
“Sure.” He gives me a small, sad smile.
I rise to my feet and head to his kitchen. It takes me a few minutes, but I locate bowls and spoons by pulling open a bunch of cabinets and drawers. Eventually, I get it all sorted out.
I return with two bowls of ice cream, but his eyes are closed. His head is resting on the back of the couch, and I don’t want to wake him. I go back to the kitchen and place his bowl of ice cream in the freezer and take mine to the other end of the couch. I eat it quietly while I watch him.
He never acted like his job took much of a toll on him—he’s always all smiles and easygoing charm, so it’s strange seeing him like this.
He looks like he’s carrying the weight of it, and it’s strange—unsettling—to see him this way.
Something inside my chest pinches. Beef looks up at me with sad eyes. I don’t understand how dogs are so perceptive, they just are.
“I know,” I say, patting his head.
After a moment, I get up and make a mug of tea. Not because he asked, but because it feels like something a person does. I bring it over, nudging his arm gently.
He stirs, groggy, and gives me a tired smile. “Thanks.”
“Drink it, then get in the shower,” I tell him. “Hot water helps.”
I’m kind of making this up as I go along.
Truthfully, I’m out of my element. I’m not used to having people who rely on me.
Not to mention this is Cole, who’s basically a real-life superhero.
It’s tough seeing him shaken, and I want to do anything I can to help.
Hot showers usually calm me, so that’s what I try to push on him.
He doesn’t argue, just rises slowly and disappears into the bathroom.
I clean up what little there is to do, tidy the kitchen, and try to pretend like this is normal.
Like people do this kind of thing for each other all the time.
It’s weird, being needed. I’m used to being the one people avoid until they need something clinical and sterile. That’s where I’m in my element.
But this? This is something else.
He emerges a little while later, hair damp, face flushed from the heat of the water, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants.
I’m sitting on the edge of his bed when he walks in, and he doesn’t say anything—just crawls in beside me, pulling the blankets up and tugging me close like he needs me here.
He wraps one big arm around me, and my head finds his chest.
“Stay,” he murmurs.
My throat tightens. I nod. “Okay.”
And I do.