CHAPTER FIVE
Life Is Full of Hard Things
I wake to a yellowing popcorn ceiling and the smell of bacon. A cruel reminder I’m not in LA anymore.
For a fleeting moment, I forget where I am. But the tight ache in my chest, the lump forming in my throat, it all comes rushing back. I let out a sigh and decide the only way to deal with this day is to start it with a long, hot shower.
Dragging myself out of bed feels like wading through quicksand, my legs heavy as I swing them over the side and force myself to stand.
The short walk down the hallway feels longer than it should, every bone in my body protesting.
Seeing Dad yesterday in that hospital bed—frail and unrecognizable—was like an out-of-body experience.
So much time has passed since I last saw him, and now it feels like I’m intruding on a life that’s been moving forward without me.
Jasper’s been here—and so has Brooks—holding down the fort, while I’ve been out chasing my dreams. I was too harsh on my brother yesterday. I know that. But the stress of coming home, I didn’t expect it to bring out the worst in me.
When I reach the bathroom, I jiggle the doorknob. Locked. Great. I groan and knock lightly. "Jasper, I need to shower."
No response.
I knock louder, more impatiently this time. "Seriously. Open up."
Still no response.
I’m about to unleash a full barrage of complaints when the lock clicks and the door swings open. But it’s not Jasper standing there. It’s Brooks. Annoying and overly-smug.
"Why are you here?" I blurt, crossing my arms and scowling.
He leans casually against the doorframe, his damp hair falling messily across his forehead.
"Good morning to you, too, Sunshine."
I swear, he exists just to provoke me. He always has.
I scrunch my nose. "That didn’t answer my question."
"Breakfast," he replies matter-of-factly as he brushes past me, leaving a faint trail of steam in his wake. "It’s Waffle Sunday. Don’t you remember?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose with a sigh. Of course. Mom and Dad have been doing Waffle Sunday since forever. How could I have forgotten?
"Does Jasper know you’re still mooching off his childhood traditions?" I call after him.
He stops mid-stride, turning to face me with a smirk. "Mooching? No. Contributing. I made the bacon, thank you very much."
"Oh, well, I guess you’re officially part of the family now," I reply dryly. "You shower here? That’s weird. Even for you."
"Guess I’ve been waiting for your blessing, Elowen," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm as he disappears down the hall.
I roll my eyes, muttering to myself as I finally step into the bathroom and shut the door. Brooks. He’s one part charm, two parts irritation, and somehow still impossible to ignore.
I forgot how terrible the water pressure is in my childhood bathroom.
Every time someone turns on the kitchen sink, a blast of ice-cold water shocks my system.
So much for a long, hot shower. I let out a frustrated growl, twisting the faucet off and grabbing a towel.
As much as I’d love to crawl back into bed and pretend none of this is happening, there’s no avoiding the inevitable. Waffle Sunday.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, the smell of fresh waffles fills the air.
Mom is darting between the stove and the waffle maker, her movements rushed but purposeful.
She flips scrambled eggs in a skillet, then swivels to pour more batter into the waffle iron.
It’s the same scene I’ve walked into a thousand times, but today it feels like a cruel performance.
Right now, Dad—the supposed love of her life—is lying in a hospital bed, alone, his future hanging by a thread.
She should be there with him, holding his hand, telling him it’s going to be okay.
But instead, she’s here, making waffles as if nothing’s changed.
As if everything isn’t about to change forever.
Something hot and angry stirs in my chest. I don’t bother softening my tone. "What are you doing?"
Mom doesn’t look up, her hands too busy flipping a waffle onto a plate. "Making breakfast," she replies, too light, almost dismissive. "What are you doing?"
I glance over at Jasper, sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and a folded newspaper, pretending like this is all perfectly normal. My mouth falls open in disbelief. "I’m wondering why we’re still doing Waffle Sunday when Dad is in the hospital."
Mom freezes for half a second, a flash of something—guilt, maybe?—crossing her face. Then she busies her hands again, as if moving will make the question disappear. "We have to eat, Elowen."
"There’s food at the hospital, Mom," I snap, the words sharper than I intend.
Jasper lowers his newspaper and rises from the table, stepping between us like a human shield. "Ellie, not now."
My throat burns as the words tumble out. "Please, Mom. Please go see him."
Mom doesn’t answer. Her back is to me, her shoulders rigid as she focuses on the stove. The sound of the eggs sizzling is the only response I get.
Jasper crosses his arms over his chest, his stance firm. "She’s not going to the hospital, Ellie. You know that. And right now, I think you need some fresh air. Maybe some space."
The betrayal stings, sharp and cold. Jasper taking Mom’s side isn’t just frustrating, it’s infuriating. He’s supposed to understand. He’s supposed to agree with me. Instead, he’s standing there like some kind of enforcer, making it worse.
"I don’t need space," I bite back, my voice quivering with barely contained anger. "I need Mom to stop pretending this is fine. And I need you to stop defending her."
"Don’t start," Jasper warns low, but firm. "Not this morning."
I shake my head, incredulous. "We have to stop pretending everything is normal, Jasper. We can’t keep pretending waffles will fix this."
The words are barely out of my mouth when Mom drops the skillet of eggs with a loud clang. The sound echoes through the kitchen, followed by a sharp cry as she backs away, her hands trembling.
Jasper and I both move at the same time.
I grab the skillet before it scorches the floor, the weight burning through my nerves as much as the heat.
Jasper rushes to Mom’s side, wrapping a steadying arm around her.
As I straighten, skillet in hand, the difference between us hits me like a slap to the face.
I’m always the one putting out the fires.
And Jasper? He’s always the one wiping Mom’s tears.
For a moment, the realization tears through me like a band aid ripping off skin. Maybe this is why I left in the first place. Because I couldn’t be both the fixer and the comforter. And no one ever asked Jasper to carry both. Just me.
Now that I’m back, it feels like the same old roles are snapping into place, whether I want them to or not.
"Mom," Jasper says softly, calm and soothing. "It’s okay. It’s just eggs. We’ll clean it up."
Mom’s hands still shake as she nods, her eyes wide and glossy. She doesn’t look at me, though. Only at him.
I grip the skillet tighter, my knuckles whitening against the handle. "I’ll clean this up," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. It’s easier to focus on the task than on the gnawing ache in my chest.
As Jasper gently leads Mom out of the kitchen, a warm hand lands on my shoulder. I flinch, spinning around to see Brooks standing there, his expression softer than I expect.
"I’ll help," he says simply, taking the skillet from my hand and walking it over to the sink.
For a second, I just stand there, watching him rinse the pan. I should say thank you. I know I should. But the words stick in my throat, heavy and impossible to swallow. I don’t feel like I belong here. I don’t feel like anyone even wants me here.
"It’s going to be okay," Brooks says as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile quiet. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps scrubbing the skillet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
"No," I finally reply. "It’s not."
Brooks lets out a low whistle, setting the clean pan on the drying rack. "Do you remember the time Jasper and I got in trouble for stealing your dad’s truck and going off-roading?"
I scoff, bending down to scoop up the scrambled eggs from the floor. "How could I forget? You two were fifteen. Neither of you even had a learner’s permit."
He leans casually against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "After your dad tore us apart for an hour, you said something to me that’s stuck with me."
I glance up, skeptical. "What did I say?"
"You told me I was lucky I didn’t die because if I had, you would have brought me back just to make me clean the mess."
I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the flicker of warmth that tugs at the corner of my mouth. "And that’s stuck with you?"
He shrugs. "We’re all just one bad decision away from losing it all. But you? You’ve always been the one who steps in when things go south. You tell people to pull it together. Not everyone has that."
I straighten, narrowing my eyes. "Are you trying to guilt me for not being here?"
Brooks shakes his head, his expression serious now.
"No. I’m agreeing with you about your mom.
She has it hard, sure. But life is full of hard things.
I know that better than anyone." He glances toward the hallway where Jasper disappeared with Mom, his voice dropping.
"Some people just… need more help to handle it. "
"If you think Jasper is too soft on Mom, then why don’t you tell him?" I snap, my tone sharp enough to cut through the tension.
Brooks meets my gaze, his jaw flexing. "Because Jasper can’t handle it. You know that as well as I do. That’s why you didn’t threaten him to clean up the mess back then. You came to me."
"That doesn’t mean I wanted to," I mutter, but the truth hangs between us, weighty and undeniable. He’s right. I never yelled at Jasper because I knew Brooks would keep him safe. Even then, I knew Brooks could handle the hard things Jasper couldn’t.
He’s quiet for a second, his eyes not leaving mine. And suddenly I see it. The same exhaustion, the same heaviness I’ve been dragging around, mirrored right back at me.
"You and me," Brooks says, stepping closer. "We’re built differently. We can take the hard truths. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy."
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, exhausted. "I don’t want to be here."
"I know," Brooks says, his gaze softening.
"I just want to go home," I whisper, the words cracking at the edges.
"Life’s full of hard things," he repeats, quieter this time. And I believe him. Not because it comforts me, but because it sounds like something he’s had to survive.
I look up at him, his eyes steady on mine. He understands. That’s what makes it worse. Because if Brooks is right, then life isn’t just full of hard things, it’s about deciding which ones are worth staying for.