Chapter 41
chapter forty-one
Christine fucking hated hospitals.
Not just the smell, lights, or the way the chairs always felt slightly too small, but the waiting. The powerlessness. The quiet that wasn’t really quiet.
The waiting room hummed with artificial stillness. It was too bright and too sterile, the kind of place where the walls pressed in and the air sat stale and unmoving, thick with disinfectant and the bitter trace of old coffee.
And Spencer was somewhere behind those doors. Unconscious. Bleeding. Alone.
Christine hadn’t moved in over an hour.
She couldn’t.
Silver went to the restroom fifteen minutes ago and didn’t return.
Christine’s stomach tightened.
Where the fuck is she?
Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her fingers went stiff, nails digging into the flesh of her palm, but she didn’t loosen her grip. If she did, she wasn’t sure what would happen.
She rechecked the hallway. Nothing. Just the same fluorescent hum and empty space where Silver should be. She swallowed against the rising panic.
Fifteen minutes wasn’t long.
Fifteen minutes was an eternity.
She tried to focus on the cold plastic of the chair beneath her and the harshness of the fluorescent lights overhead—anything but the image that kept forcing its way into her mind.
Spencer.
Spencer, lying on an operating table.
Spencer, her head tilted at the wrong angle, blood seeping into the pavement.
Spencer, skull cracked open under the weight of the impact, bone splintering, the soft tissue of her brain swelling against the cage of her skull, fighting for space it didn’t have.
Christine’s breath hitched.
She squeezed her hands tighter, grounding herself in the sharp bite of her own nails.
Spencer was alive.
She was alive. For now.
A slow exhale passed through her lips, but it didn’t ease anything.
Across from her, Derek shifted. Winced.
The movement was slight, but it looked like hell.
His ribs were wrapped so tightly it was a wonder he could breathe, and his right eye was swollen shut. The bruising along his cheek deepened to a sick, mottled purple, spreading like ink beneath his skin.
He looked like he shouldn’t be upright. Like he should be in a hospital bed, still hooked up to IVs.
But he wasn’t.
Because he was cleared to go home.
If home was even a place that still existed.
Christine watched as his hands curled into fists against his knees. His posture was too tight, too controlled, too careful. It was like he needed to think through every movement before attempting it.
Then, softly?—
“I’m so sorry.”
His voice was raw, thick with pain, thick with guilt.
Christine barely registered it at first.
Then she looked at him.
Derek’s good eye was red-rimmed and wet, his whole expression drawn tight like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“I didn’t mean for this…” His voice cracked, and he inhaled sharply, his jaw twitching from the effort. “I just, I thought I was doing something brave.”
Christine opened her mouth, but Oakland spoke first.
“You were.” Her voice was quiet but not empty.
Derek shook his head. “It’s not worth this,” he muttered.
Christine should be furious. She was furious. But anger needed a target, and Derek was already too broken to hit. So she swallowed it down, bitter and burning.
“You didn’t hurt Spencer,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
Derek’s throat bobbed. He turned his face away.
Stillness filled the room.
Christine inhaled deeply, slowly. “My parents are on the way.”
Derek nodded stiffly, not looking up.
Oakland shifted as she looked at Derek, her voice careful, quiet. “Have yours called?”
Derek froze.
For a second, he didn’t answer. He just sat there, blinking like he was trying to make sense of the question. Then his expression cracked, and he let out a short, brittle laugh.
“No.”
His voice was flat, dull.
Christine’s stomach twisted, but she knew she could never understand it the way Oakland could.
Christine’s parents were coming. They called. They were worried.
Derek’s wouldn’t.
Oakland’s wouldn’t either.
Derek swallowed, his jaw tensing as he forced himself to keep talking.
“They won’t.” His voice was hollow, brittle. “They probably haven’t even watched the news. And if they did? If they saw me like this?”
His bruised lips curled into something self-deprecating, humorless, and broken.
“They’d think it was what I deserved.”
Oakland just sat there, her jaw tight, her fingers curled into fists. She knew exactly what that felt like. She knew exactly what it was to lose family, not to death or distance, but to rejection.
She reached out and pressed her hand over Derek’s.
Just that. No words, no pressure to speak.
Derek inhaled shakily, and for the first time since the fight, he let his eyes fall shut.
Like for just a second, he could let himself be seen.
* * *
Oakland stared at the wall like it might crack open and deliver a miracle.
Everything under her skin was vibrating—rage, grief, helplessness. It thrummed through her veins, fast and hot and constant, like her body didn’t know how to hold it all.
She bounced her leg in a restless rhythm, hands clasped between her knees. She didn’t notice it until Christine placed a steadying hand on her thigh.
She didn’t notice a lot of things.
Like how Dax and Eden moved closer.
And how Dax was whispering to Eden.
Urgent. Low.
Something fast and sharp, too quiet for Oakland to catch.
Eden, still as ever, listened. Her arms were crossed, her gaze careful. Calculated.
Then, finally, she spoke.
“It’s not the right time.”
Christine blinked, pulling herself out of whatever daze she slipped into.
“Not the right time for what?”
Dax went still. His hands were jammed deep in his pockets, his weight shifting like he was deciding whether or not to say something himself.
But Eden?
Eden was focused. Serious. Too serious.
“Something’s happening.”
Christine let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Yeah. No shit.”
Eden didn’t react.
“No, I mean, out there.”
Eden glanced around the waiting room like she could feel it. The shift. The whispers. The way people were checking their phones, scrolling through something unspoken. She could feel people’s eyes on them.
Then she turned back, glaring at Oakland. Her voice was quieter now. “You.”
Oakland stilled. She didn’t like how Eden looked at her or how Dax went quiet.
“What about me?”
Dax dragged a hand over his jaw, hesitant.
“People saw what happened.” His voice was careful, measured. “They saw you fight. They saw you pull that guy off of Derek. They saw you stand your ground.”
Eden’s gaze didn’t flinch. “They know who you are,” she said. “Bishop Pratt’s gay daughter.”
She said it like a headline. Like she had rehearsed it before.
“Your name, your face. It’s everywhere. People are reposting the video nonstop. It’s already viral.”
Oakland’s pulse slammed against her ribs. A cold, creeping pressure clawed its way into her chest. She inhaled slowly, keeping her voice flat, even as her world tilted.
“What does that mean, Eden?”
Eden hesitated.
“You’re the face of this now,” Eden said.
No.
Oakland’s stomach lurched. She shook her head immediately, like she could physically undo the words.
“No. No, I’m not.”
“It’s not up to you,” Eden said, quiet but sure.
Oakland stepped forward, her voice dropping into something sharp and dangerous.
“The fuck it’s not. I didn’t ask for this.”
“You think it matters if you asked?” Eden met her eyes. “I chose you for a reason.”
Oakland blinked, fury flaring.
“I’m sorry… did you just say you chose me?”
Eden looked down. “Look…”
“No. No, don’t ‘look’ me,” Oakland snapped. “Did you plan this?”
Eden glanced at Derek, and that was answer enough.
Derek exhaled. “Okay, yeah. We planned it, but it wasn’t just Eden. It was both of us. We needed someone people would see and say, ‘Oh, she’s the moment.’” He gave a half-smile. “And babe, like it or not, you are.”
Christine stood before Oakland could speak, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. Her voice was calm, but there was steel in it.
“You made that decision without telling us? Without telling Oakland?” Christine’s voice shook with restrained fury. “That wasn’t your choice to make. That was a massive violation of trust, and look what it cost us.”
Eden’s voice dropped. “Oakland wouldn’t have agreed.”
She paused, visibly shaken.
“It was the only way to cut through. The story people needed. And I’m sorry about Spencer. I really am. If I could undo it, I would. But this is where we are now.”
It didn’t help. Not even close.
The fire in Oakland’s chest surged, blistering, and nowhere to go.
They were all looking at her. Waiting.
Waiting for her to accept something she never asked for.
“You’re the only one who can speak to both sides,” Derek said softly, voice ragged. “You’ve lived them.”
Oakland’s breath caught.
“So have you, Derek,” she said, bitter. “So why not you? You started this. Why can’t it be your face, or whatever?”
“Because my dad isn’t the Bishop of the Mormon Church,” Derek said. “You’re not just part of the story, Oakland. You are the story.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
And in the silence that followed, the truth pressed in.
She could almost understand why they’d done it. She could see the logic, the urgency. The story needed a face. And she was convenient. Symbolic. Known.
But if they had just brought her in—if they had trusted her, respected her enough to let her choose—maybe Spencer wouldn’t be in a hospital bed.
They could have prepared better.
The thought cut off, sharp and final.
Because it didn’t matter.
Not anymore.
Oakland looked up, her gaze cutting through the room until it shifted between Eden and Derek. She didn’t need to raise her voice—every word came low and steady, heavy with warning.
“If you ever pull something like this again, I’m walking,” Oakland said, her voice steady, cold with restraint. “I need to be able to trust you.”
Eden swallowed hard and offered a slight nod, eyes dropping to the floor.
Derek raised his hands in surrender, a sheepish half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Copy that. Loud and emotionally clear.”