Chapter 11 | Heather #2
But as I tucked her back into bed and smoothed her wild hair away from her face, I couldn't shake the image of Jude's cold smile or the casual way he'd talked about our home's "potential."
After wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand, I made my way to check on Mom.
The medication had given her the deepest sleep she'd had in weeks, but Jude's visit had left me paranoid about everything.
.. what if the stress of the day had been too much, what if she only had days left to live?
What if she'd heard the threatening voices from downstairs and was lying awake worrying about problems she couldn't solve?
I eased her door open carefully, trying not to let the hinges creak loud enough to wake her if she was truly resting. The room was dark except for the weak streetlight filtering through curtains that had seen better years, casting everything in shades of gray.
But she wasn't asleep. Her eyes were open, reflecting what little light managed to penetrate the darkness, and they tracked toward me as I stepped into the room.
"I thought I heard voices," she said, her words barely above a whisper but clear enough to carry the strain of questions she was afraid to ask directly.
"Just some people from town," I said, settling into the chair beside her bed. "Nothing to worry about."
She studied my face, even weakened by illness and medication, she could still see through my careful facades with the precision of a surgeon cutting away everything false to reveal the truth beneath.
"Come here," she said, reaching out her hand toward me.
I took her fingers in mine, feeling how fragile they'd become. But her grip was surprisingly strong when she squeezed my hand, pulling me closer to the bed so she could speak without raising her voice above the careful whisper that wouldn't wake the children.
"Save yourself," she said, and the words hit me like a physical blow. "Not this place, not me. Save yourself."
"Mom—"
"Promise me," she continued, her voice gaining strength from desperation. "When I'm gone, when there's nothing left to hold you here, promise me you'll run. Find somewhere safe, somewhere you can build a life that isn't built on other people's cast-offs and hand-me-downs."
The tears I'd just finished wiping away threatened to start flowing again. "I'm not leaving the children. I'm not abandoning everything we've built here."
"What we've built here is held together with hope and stubbornness," she said, and there was infinite sadness in her voice. "It's not sustainable, Heather. You're killing yourself trying to keep everyone else alive."
"I'm fine," I protested, but even as I said it, I knew how hollow the words sounded. When was the last time I'd eaten a full meal? When had I last slept through the night without waking to check on someone or worry about money or listen for sounds that might mean trouble?
"You're twenty-four years old," Mom said, her grip tightening on my hand. "You should be figuring out what you want from life, not spending every waking moment trying to patch holes in a sinking ship."
"This isn't a sinking ship," I said fiercely, tucking the blanket more firmly around her shoulders. "This is our home. This is our family. And I'm not giving up on either one."
She sighed, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her damaged lungs. "You're as stubborn as I ever was. Maybe more."
"I learned from the best," I said, smoothing her hair away from her forehead the way she used to do for me when I was small and frightened by thunderstorms or nightmares.
"Those men who helped us today," she said after a moment. "They care about you."
"They're kind people who saw someone in trouble."
"No," Mom said, and there was a certainty in her voice that cut through my careful dismissal.
"I've seen how men look at women they want to protect, and I've seen how women look at men who make them feel safe.
What's happening between you and them...
that's not charity Heather. That's something else entirely. "
I felt heat rise in my cheeks, grateful for the darkness that hid my blush. "It's complicated."
"Love usually is," she said simply. "But sometimes complicated is worth the risk."
Before I could respond, she closed her eyes and let her breathing settle into the steady rhythm of sleep.
I sat beside her for several more minutes, listening to the sound of air moving in and out of lungs that were working better tonight than they had in months, trying to process everything she'd said about saving myself.
When I was sure she was truly asleep, I kissed her forehead and made my way back to my own room.
But sleep felt impossible now, my mind was racing.
My body felt restless, coiled with energy that had nowhere to go except inward, where it would feed the anxiety that was already threatening to consume me from the inside.
I pulled on my running clothes, laced up my shoes and headed for the front door, opening it and slipping out into darkness that wrapped around me like a familiar embrace.
The night air was cool against my face, carrying scents of distant rain and construction dust, and as my feet found their rhythm I breathed in relief.
Running past homes where families slept behind windows that glowed with security lights, past empty lots where buildings used to stand before the earthquake taught us that nothing was permanent, past construction sites where crews had left equipment that looked like sleeping titans in the darkness.
The running helped, the way it always did.
My body felt tired and achy, yet free. Each footfall was a beat that matched my pulse, each breath a reminder that my body was still strong even when my spirit felt broken.
The physical exhaustion that built in my legs and lungs left less room for the emotional exhaustion that threatened to drown me when I stayed still too long.
I ran past the hospital where Mom had spent the morning fighting for breath, past the school that had been torn down and never rebuilt because the neighborhood couldn't support the tax base necessary for proper education.
But my feet carried me inevitably toward the restaurant, in the district where businesses that survived the earthquake were slowly rebuilding.
Most of the buildings showed signs of repair, with new windows fitted into old frames, fresh paint over patched walls, signage that promised normalcy even in the middle of reconstruction.
I slowed as I approached Dante's restaurant, drawn by warm light that spilled out onto the sidewalk through windows that had been recently cleaned. The building looked solid, prosperous in a way that spoke of owners who cared about both the food they served and the space where they served it.
Through the large front window, I could see them sitting around a table in the dining area.
Four men who had somehow become central to my thoughts in ways I was afraid to examine too closely.
Bennett sat with his back straight, his posture suggesting he was running some kind of meeting or discussion.
Dante had his sleeves rolled up, gesturing animatedly as he spoke about something that was making the others laugh.
Angus took up twice as much space as anyone else, his bulk somehow projecting comfort rather than intimidation.
Cole sat slightly apart, listening more than speaking, but clearly part of whatever conversation was unfolding.
They looked like what they were—a pack, a family, a group of people who supported each other through whatever challenges life presented. There was an ease in their interaction that spoke of years of trust, shared decisions, and loyalty that didn't need to be proven.
I pressed my palm against the cool glass of the window, watching them through barriers that suddenly felt both enormous and insignificant.
They were so close I could have knocked on the glass and caught their attention, but they felt as distant as stars, visible but unreachable, beautiful but belonging to a different world entirely.
Dante looked up from whatever he was saying, his eyes moving toward the window as if he'd sensed my presence.
For a moment, our gazes met through the glass, and I saw recognition flare in his expression, followed by something that might have been an invitation.
He rose from his chair, probably intending to come outside and talk, to ask what I was doing running alone through empty streets at an hour when most sensible people were asleep.
But I stepped back from the window, giving him a small smile that I hoped conveyed gratitude, without promising anything I wasn't ready to give.
Then I turned and continued running, letting my feet carry me back into the darkness where I belonged, leaving behind the warm light and the sense of belonging that felt too good to be real.
Because real life was waiting for me in a building held together by stubbornness and hope, full of children who needed someone to be strong for them and a dying woman who wanted me to save myself instead of everyone else.