Chapter 9 #2
I fight a satisfied smirk. “Well, I used to be.”
“Your coach says you’re improving. You told me that.”
There’s something in her eyes—pride, like she’s behind me. On my team. Not Candy Kane’s team. Mine. Someone who sees past the performance. Past my careful control.
I remember that feeling…from Barcelona. It’s addicting.
My phone rings.
I glance at the screen.
Dad.
My stomach drops.
It’s almost ten p.m. My father never calls this late unless—
Unless something’s wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Chloe. “I have to—”
I answer. “Dad?”
But it’s not my father’s voice.
It’s a woman. Professional. Calm. “Is this Brody Kane?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Hennepin County Medical Center. Your father, Robert Kane, was brought in about an hour ago. You’re listed as his emergency contact. We need you to come to the hospital as soon as possible.”
The world tilts.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He was in a car accident. You should come. Soon.”
The line goes dead.
I’m staring at my phone. My hand is shaking.
“Brody?” Chloe’s voice is gentle. Worried. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my dad. He’s in the hospital. I have to—” I’m already standing. Throwing cash on the table. Too much, but I don’t care. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Okay.” She’s grabbing her coat. Her purse. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m going with you.”
“Chloe—”
“Brody.” She takes my hand again. Firm. Grounding. “I’m going with you. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
I should argue. Should tell her this isn’t her problem. Should maintain the careful distance between professional arrangement and whatever this is becoming.
But I can’t.
Because my father is in the hospital.
And I don’t want to face it alone.
“Okay,” I manage.
We leave the restaurant together, the Barcelona magic dissipating into the cold February night and the smell of car exhaust and the sound of my heart pounding too fast in my chest.
The perfect evening is over.
And I have no idea what’s waiting for us at the hospital.
But Chloe’s hand is in mine.
And somehow, that makes it bearable.
CHLOE
Hennepin County Medical Center smells like antiseptic and bad coffee and anxiety in the way only emergency rooms can.
I’m standing next to Brody in a temporary ER bay—curtains for walls, beeping monitors, the constant shuffle of nurses and doctors moving between patients—watching a young doctor with cartoon penguins on her scrubs explain Brody’s dad’s discharge instructions.
“Broken collarbone,” she’s saying. “It’s a clean break, so it should heal in six to eight weeks with rest and physical therapy. We’re prescribing pain medication and a follow-up appointment with orthopedics.”
Robert Kane is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, looking significantly smaller than I expected.
I don’t know what I imagined. Some larger-than-life figure, maybe. The kind of father whose shadow you can’t escape.
But he’s just…a man. Mid-fifties, graying hair, weathered face, wearing a hospital gown, and looking deeply, profoundly embarrassed.
“Was he drinking?” Brody’s voice is carefully controlled.
The doctor’s expression shifts. Sympathetic but honest. “His BAC was point-one-two. Just over the legal limit. He drove into a light pole. It could have been much worse.” She glances at Robert. “You’ll be hearing from the police about charges. But medically, you’re clear to go home.”
Brody’s face goes carefully blank.
That Candy Kane expression I’m starting to recognize as his default when emotions get too big to handle.
“I can get dressed,” Robert says quietly. “Give me five minutes.”
The doctor nods and disappears through the curtain.
Silence.
Brody is staring at the floor. Jaw tight. Shoulders rigid.
I want to say something comforting.
I have no idea what that would be.
Your drunk father wrapped his car around a light pole, but hey, he’s not dead doesn’t exactly inspire warm fuzzy feelings.
“I’m sorry,” Robert says finally. His voice is hoarse. “I know you’ve got better things to do than—”
“Just get dressed, Dad.” Brody’s voice is flat. “I’ll bring the car around.”
He walks out before Robert can respond, leaving me standing there awkwardly with his dad.
“Brody didn’t really get a chance to introduce us,” I say, trying my best to fill the silence. “I’m Chloe, the girlfriend.”
The word rolls off my tongue. I like the sound of it a little too much.
“Ah, it’s nice to meet you, Chloe,” Robert says, wincing as he extends a hand. I take it. He pulls back, reaching for the clothes hanging on the chair. “I’m sorry you had to see this. Not exactly the best first impression.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” He meets my eyes. “But thank you for being here anyway.”
The drive to Brody’s childhood home is silent.
Robert sits in the back seat, arm in a sling, staring out the window. Brody drives with both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched, not speaking.
I’m in the passenger seat, trying to figure out what my role is here.
Supportive girlfriend? Professional arrangement fulfillment? Random person who decided to insert herself into family drama?
All of the above?
We pull up to a house that makes me blink in surprise.
Because this is not at all the house I imagined.
I don’t know what I pictured—maybe something small and run-down, a bungalow barely holding together, evidence of years of struggle and chaos.
Which would have been just fine.
But this?
This is a historic brick Victorian—probably 1920s, based on the architecture—with arched windows and a covered front porch and this beautiful gabled roofline that makes it look like something out of a storybook.
Small, yes. Modest too.
But gorgeous.
The kind of house that has character. History. Bones.
“Wait.” I’m staring. “You grew up here?”
“Sure, if you count middle school as ‘growing up.’” Brody’s voice is flat. Embarrassed, maybe. “It’s not much.”
“Are you kidding? This is beautiful.”
He glances at me. Surprised.
“I saw the magazine spread,” I continue. “The one with your penthouse in Minneapolis. All glass and steel and minimalist furniture. Very fancy.”
“That’s for show.” He turns off the engine.
The words sit in my chest.
Because of course Brody Kane would grow up in a house like this, then end up somewhere sterile and modern for his public image.
Because nothing about his public life is real.
Brody helps Robert inside while I stand by, trying my best to be helpful without getting in the way.
The interior is dated—wood paneling, worn hardwood floors, furniture that’s seen better days—but clean. Organized. Lived-in.
Not the chaos I expected from Brody’s description of his father’s drinking.
Just…a house where someone’s been trying.
“Couch,” Robert says. “Can’t deal with stairs right now.”
Brody gets him settled. Pillow, blanket, TV remote within reach, and with every passing moment, I’m feeling more and more useless. So I do the only thing that makes sense to me. I head to the kitchen and start rummaging.
The kitchen is small. Galley-style. White cabinets that could use a fresh coat of paint. Brody’s head pops through the door a moment later, brow cinched. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for hot chocolate.” I open another cabinet. “Found it!”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.” I keep stirring. “But it’s hot chocolate. Universal comfort food. And also, I don’t know what else to do with my hands right now.”
He almost smiles.
Almost.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, his head resting on the doorjamb. “For coming. For staying. For—” He stops. “For not running away screaming.”
“The night’s not over yet.”
That gets a real smile. Small, but real.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Embarrassed. In pain. Trying to pretend he’s fine.” Brody steps farther into the room, leaning up against the counter. “Standard Dad behavior.”
“You can’t control what other people do,” I hear myself say. “You know that, right? His choices aren’t your responsibility.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“I feel like I’ve been trying to fix him since I was fourteen,” he says finally. “Since my mom died. Hasn’t worked yet. But I keep trying anyway.”
My chest aches. “That’s not fixing. That’s loving someone even when it’s hard.”
He looks at me. Something vulnerable in his expression. “When did you get so wise?”
I shrug. “Sunday? Just plagiarizing my pastor.”
“Well, your pastor’s smart.”
I pour three mugs of hot chocolate, hand one to Brody, and pick up the other two. “Come on.” I nod toward the door.
Robert is grimacing when we enter, trying to adjust his position on the couch. Clearly struggling with the sling.
Brody sets his mug down.
“Here.” He reaches down. Helps him reposition. Adjusts the pillow.
The gentleness surprises me.
All that careful control, all that hard Candy armor, and underneath, he’s just a son taking care of his father. Something about the moment gives me pause, and I stop at the door, giving them some space.
“Thanks,” Robert says. Then, looking at Brody, “I’m sorry. I know I keep saying that, but I mean it. I’m sorry you had to—” His voice catches. “I’m trying. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m trying.”
“I know, Dad.”
“I hadn’t had a drink in three weeks. That’s something, right?”
“Yeah, Dad. That’s something.”
“But I screwed up. Again.” His dad shakes his head. Lets out a weighted sigh. “Story of my life.”
Brody doesn’t respond.
Just stands there, his shoulders rigid, his whole frame controlled.
I don’t know what possesses me. Call it cliché. Or maybe the Holy Spirit. Or maybe just a blip in my ability to read the room.
“Would it be okay if I prayed?” I ask quietly. “For both of you?”
Both men turn to stare at me. Robert glances at Brody. Then back at me. What in heaven was I thinking? No, of course they don’t want me to—
“Actually, that’d be nice—yeah,” Robert says.
Oh. Okay then.
I set down the hot chocolate. Close my eyes.