Chapter Thirty-Five
WHEN THINGS FALL APART
Andi
The clock won’t stop ticking.
Every second punches through the silence like a countdown, but to what, no one can say. I’m sitting in the same seat I sank into twenty minutes ago, or maybe two hours ago—I don’t know anymore. Time feels elastic. Unreal. Like it’s only moving to keep my body vibrating with dread.
My knee bounces uncontrollably. I dig my nails into my palm to make it stop. It doesn’t help.
I keep thinking about how this is exactly what it felt like when my parents died.
The phone call. The rushing. The white walls and that smell—sanitized, like even grief has to follow hospital protocol. The waiting room. Time seeming to slow. And even Jack.
He was there that day too.
Standing off to the side, quiet and serious. Same as now.
I hate it.
I glance at him across the room, where he’s talking softly to Kate. She hasn’t moved in over an hour. I don’t think she’s blinked in twenty minutes. Her hands are clenched in her lap like she’s holding her own heart together.
I can’t do this again.
Not like this.
Not with Cole.
A surge of emotion rises hard and fast in my throat. Anger. Terror. That helpless, frantic energy that makes you want to punch through drywall just to feel like you’re in control of something.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
Trey sits down a few seats over and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey. I’m heading to the cafeteria. Want anything?”
I shake my head. “No. Thanks.”
“You sure? Coffee, water—something to throw at a wall?”
I try to smile. It doesn’t land. “I’m good.”
He nods and stands, then gives me a look that says I’ll check in later.
The second he’s gone, Jack moves toward me, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving me space to bolt if I want to.
“I was thinking we could take a walk,” he says. “Just for a few minutes. There’s something I want to say.”
I shake my head before he finishes. “No. I can’t leave.”
“We won’t go far.”
“I can’t leave. What if they come out? What if something happens?”
“I’ll have someone come get us the second they do,” he says gently. “I promise.”
My heart slams hard against my ribs. I hate this. I hate being asked to move when all I want is for time to stop until I know Cole is okay. Until someone says the words I need to hear.
But there’s something in Jack’s eyes—something calm and quietly determined—that unsettles me just enough.
I nod, even though it feels impossible.
“Okay,” I whisper. “But not far.”
He places a hand on my shoulder, a reassuring squeeze.
“We’ll stay close.”
We walk to the exit and the glass doors slide apart for us. The air outside is more humid than I expected.
I draw a breath, hoping to clear my head—but there’s no such thing in the emergency bay.
I wrap my arms around myself as Jack leads me toward the edge of the overhang, near the ambulance zone.
It’s mostly empty now. Just a couple of units parked, engines off, doors shut. Waiting, like the rest of us.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A discarded latex glove flutters across the pavement like a ghost.
Jack stands beside me with his hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the horizon like there’s something out there to anchor to.
He doesn’t speak right away. I don’t either. Because honestly, what is there to say?
My heart’s still racing. My stomach’s doing somersaults. My thoughts are tangled and sharp, a mess of what-ifs and memories I’ve tried for years to bury.
He finally breaks the silence. “You okay?”
It’s so gently asked, I almost don’t answer.
Then I laugh, humorless. “I’m freaking out.”
“That’s what I figured.”
I press a hand to my chest, like I can force it to stop vibrating. “It’s like… I keep waiting to hear the worst. Because that’s what happened last time. I waited, and then—” My voice catches. “Then I didn’t have parents anymore.”
Jack nods, quiet. “That’s what I was worried about. You’re back in that headspace.”
“I never really left it,” I admit. “I just got better at living with it.”
He lets that settle between us for a beat.
“I remember everything about that day,” he says quietly. “When the doctor came out and told you. When they said there was nothing they could do.”
I nod, throat tight.
“I remember how you looked. And how still you went. Like the world stopped spinning for you, and you weren’t sure it was ever going to start again.”
I blink fast. “Feels like that right now.”
He turns to face me. “But this time, it’s different.”
“How?” My voice cracks. “How is it different?”
“Because Cole’s not gone. He’s in there. And until someone tells us otherwise, he’s still fighting. Which means we hold the line.”
I exhale a shaky breath.
“Sometimes the waiting is the worst part,” Jack continues. “But you’re not alone in it, Andi. And you’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel strong.”
“You don’t have to. You just have to stay standing.”
I’ll try.
His voice softens. “I know it feels like you’re right back in the wreckage. But this isn’t then. It’s not over.”
I swallow hard, eyes burning. “I want to believe that.”
“I know.” He steps forward and pulls me into a hug. Strong arms, warm and steady. The kind of hug you don’t realize you need until you’re in it.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “No matter what happens. You’re not going to be alone in this.”
I close my eyes and let myself lean into it, just for a second. Just until I can breathe again.
Even if nothing feels okay, I believe that.
He’s not going anywhere.
The waiting room feels colder when I step back inside.
Kate’s still in the same chair, staring straight ahead, unmoving. Trey’s across from her, scrolling through his phone with a blank expression that I know too well—the I-need-to-distract-myself-or-I’ll-lose-it expression.
I ease back into my seat and fish my phone from my pocket with shaking hands. It takes me a second to type.
Me: Something happened. It’s bad. Cole’s in the hospital.
Me: Please don’t freak out. I just needed to tell someone.
Me: I’ll text again when I know more.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over send. Then I hit it before I can change my mind.
Shay responds almost immediately.
Shay: WHAT.
Shay: ANDI. WTF.
Shay: I’m on my way.
I don’t text back.
Because now it’s just me and this seat and the wall clock and the echoing nothingness of waiting. Again.
I lean my head back and close my eyes.
Cole’s face flashes behind my eyelids—stupid handsome and way too cocky. That grin he gets when he knows I’m trying not to laugh. The way he looks at me. Holds me…
I think about that night in his bed. My face pressed against his chest. His voice, low and certain: I’ve got you.
I want to believe it still.
I want him to keep having me.
I want there to be a next time.
The door opens.
“Kate Hartley?”
The name is like a shot through the room.
I shoot to my feet before I realize I’ve moved, heart leaping into my throat.
Kate stands too—slow, like her body’s forgotten how—but I’m already halfway to the nurse, hands clenched at my sides, pulse roaring in my ears.
Please, please, please.
Just let him be okay.
The doctor approaches. Mid-forties, scrubs beneath a surgical gown, mask pulled down around his neck. He looks tired. Focused. Like someone who’s walked into too many rooms like this and still doesn’t know how to soften the blow.
Kate steps forward slowly, her posture stiff, like her whole body’s bracing for impact. I hover just behind her, my hand ghosting near hers in case she needs it.
“I’m Dr. Sen,” he says. “I’m the attending trauma surgeon overseeing Cole’s case.”
Case. Like he’s a file. A name on a chart. Not him.
Kate’s voice is barely audible. “How is he?”
“He made it through the first part of surgery. He sustained multiple blunt force injuries from the blast—broken ribs, a lacerated spleen, and a puncture to the liver. There was internal bleeding, but we’ve controlled it for now.”
For now. My stomach twists.
“We’ve stabilized his vitals,” Dr. Sen continues. “But he’s not out of the woods yet. It’s still touch and go.”
Kate nods slowly, eyes locked on his.
“He’s young,” the doctor says, softer now. “Strong. That’s on his side.”
Kate sways, just slightly, and I step closer. My hand finds hers and she grips it like a lifeline.
“We’ll keep updating you as things progress,” he finishes. “We’re doing everything we can.”
She nods again, her mouth moving but no sound coming out.
“Thank you,” I say for her.
Dr. Sen gives a quick nod and walks off down the hallway, leaving silence in his wake.
Kate turns toward me, eyes glassy and wide, and I don’t even think. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight, tighter than I ever have before. She clutches me right back.
“He’s alive,” I whisper. “He’s still fighting.”
But before we can even take a breath—before the weight of it settles—a second set of doors opens.
Another doctor steps out, this one slower. Shoulders slumped.
Across the room, I see Brennan’s mom and dad stand up. They’d arrived while I was outside with Jack, someone said. They’re holding hands.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor says gently. “We did everything we could. He didn’t make it.”
The cry Brennan’s mother lets out cuts straight through me.
Like something breaking in real time.
Her knees give, and his father catches her, just barely. Around us, the entire room goes still—no one moves, no one speaks. Trey presses a fist to his mouth and turns away. One of the younger firefighters sits down hard and drops his head between his hands.
Kate’s hand finds mine again and squeezes. I squeeze back, hard.
The pain is too big for the room. It spills out everywhere—into the sterile air, into our chests, into the spaces between words.
Cole’s still alive.
But Brennan isn’t.
Brennan—who cracked jokes and teased me endlessly—but who always held the door for me.
I didn’t know him well. Not really.
But I remember his laugh. I remember how much Cole trusted him. I remember watching them at O’Malley’s—shoulders pressed together, joking over beers—and thinking, they’re lucky to have that kind of friendship.
And now he’s just… gone.
Like someone snapped their fingers and erased him from the world.
I feel it like a whiplash. Hope and heartbreak colliding so fast I can’t tell one from the other.
The sliding doors hiss open again, and this time it’s Shay.
She moves fast, eyes sweeping the room like she’s ready to throw hands if someone doesn’t point her toward me immediately.
Her hair’s pulled up in a messy twist, oversized sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, and she’s still wearing her work apron over leggings and boots like she left in the middle of a blowout.
When she spots me, she doesn’t say a word—just beelines straight over and drops to her knees in front of my chair.
“What happened?” she whispers. “Tell me everything.”
I try.
I open my mouth, and the words just… get stuck.
“He’s—he’s in surgery,” I say finally. “There was an explosion. Tanker truck. Highway pile-up. Internal bleeding. Something with his liver or his spleen, I don’t—”
My voice catches. Everything blurs again.
“I should know this,” I whisper. “I work in a hospital. I should be able to say it right. Remember everything the surgeon said.”
Shay grabs my hands, squeezes hard. “Stop. That’s not your job right now.”
“But I—”
“No.” Her voice is firm, like she’s anchoring me. “Your job is to breathe. Sit. Hold Kate’s hand. Let them work. That’s it.”
I shake my head, blinking too fast. “He said it was touch and go. That they stopped the internal bleeding but…”
Shay pulls me into a hug so tight I can’t even move.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” she murmurs. “You just have to let the people who love you keep you standing.”
And I do.
I let her hold me. I let myself shake. I let the tears come again, and I don’t bother wiping them away this time.
And I know—no matter what happens next—none of us walk out of here the same.