CHAPTER EIGHT
The Space Between
Morning light spills through the trees as I drive the winding road home, every blink a battle to stay awake. I rub them with the back of my hand, trying to stay focused. Dad’s vitals looked better last night. Something about trending upward. A good sign. Hopeful. Fragile.
I stayed by his side all night despite the nurse telling me I needed to go home and rest. Instead, I stayed, curled uncomfortably in the hospital chair, waiting for something—anything—to happen.
This morning, the monitors still looked promising, but no one could say for sure what came next.
The hope I felt was short-lived, like a thread stretched too thin.
But even with the faint glimmer of good news, I couldn't shake the gnawing guilt that had been building inside me since I got here.
It started small, like a whisper, and now it feels like a shout.
For years, I've convinced myself that leaving this place was the only way to move forward.
But sitting in that hospital room, all I could think about was how I'd left Brooks to carry this family alone while I chased dreams that felt emptier by the day.
I let out a long sigh as the house comes into view, the familiar sight oddly comforting despite the tension that seems to follow me everywhere.
This morning, I promised myself I'd help Jasper—and Brooks, apparently—with their foraging.
Leaves, rocks, pinecones, whatever it takes to create Jasper's latest naturescape.
It feels trivial in the grand scheme of things, but maybe that's why I need to do it.
To remind myself that not everything has to be big or important to matter.
I park behind Brooks' truck in the driveway and let out a long, tired sigh.
Sometimes I wonder why he doesn't just move in with Mom and Dad.
He's here when I go to bed, here when I wake up, and even swings by during his shuttle van breaks.
He's all over Jasper's artwork, too. Filming, editing, and posting videos like it's his full-time job. It’s… a little confusing. Doesn’t he have a life outside this house? Outside us?
Inside, the living room is dim, the muted news playing softly on the TV.
Mom is curled up in the recliner, her breathing slow and heavy.
I've noticed she's been sleeping here since I got back.
I don't have the nerve to ask if it started before Dad's stroke or after.
It feels easier not to know. The less I know, the less it'll hurt when it's time to leave.
I grab the throw blanket draped over the couch and gently tuck it around her.
She murmurs softly in her sleep. For a moment, I just stare at her face.
Her laugh lines are deeper now, her forehead creased with wrinkles.
There are small patches of dark skin on her porcelain cheeks, like shadows of the life she used to have.
She was always beautiful—blonde hair like Jasper, green eyes like the forest Dad loves so much.
What happened, Mom? When did you become this fragile shell of the person I grew up with?
I remember her dancing in the kitchen once, music blasting, arms waving like she didn’t care who was watching. That version of her feels like a dream now.
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind me snaps me out of my thoughts. I jump, spinning around, fully expecting to see Brooks with that smug look on his face. But it's Jasper, holding out a steaming cup of coffee.
I take it without a word, and he motions toward the front porch. I follow him, each step louder than the last.
"How's Dad doing?" Jasper asks as we sit on the worn wooden bench. The air is cool and crisp, filled with the chatter of birds and the rustling of leaves. A pair of squirrels dart up a tree, their tiny claws scraping against the bark.
The words I want to say catch in my throat.
Maybe you'd know if you showed up at the hospital.
But I hold them back. Jasper's been here, living in this house, absorbing Mom's fears and habits like a sponge.
What if her anxieties have bled into him, keeping him tethered here, too afraid to leave?
What if I wasn't around to protect him when he needed it most?
What if... all of this—our family being a mess—is my fault?
"His stats are improving," I finally say, my voice steady despite the storm of thoughts in my head. "They're hopeful he'll wake up soon."
"What happens if he doesn’t wake up?" Jasper asks, his tone careful, like he's unsure if it's okay to even think the thought.
I nod, taking a sip of the coffee. It's too hot, but I don't care. "They were ready to give up on him yesterday, but somehow... he pulled through."
Jasper leans back, letting out a long breath, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Dad's tough," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
We sit there in silence for a beat, the early morning sounds of nature filling the space between us. The coffee warms my hands, but it does little to ease the cold knot of guilt twisting in my chest.
My whole life, Mom drilled it into me: it's my job to protect Jasper. He's younger. He needs guidance. He needs someone to check on him. But no one ever stopped to ask what I needed. Who was supposed to look out for me?
"Brooks insisted I go foraging with you guys," I say, breaking the silence with a thin attempt at small talk.
Jasper sighs, a soft laugh escaping as he leans back on the bench. "He's been trying to get you to tag along with us for years."
I raise an eyebrow. "Really? Why?"
He chuckles, but the sound is light, almost evasive. "I don't know. Ask him."
Typical Jasper. No follow-up, no elaboration. I shake my head, letting the question hang between us.
A moment of silence passes before I say, "I'm proud of you, you know."
His eyes flick to mine, startled for a second, but then he nods. "I know." His voice is quiet but sure. "You like every video I post. I've seen you reshare a couple of them, too."
I look down, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "You're very talented," I say, soft but genuine.
Jasper clears his throat, and I catch the faintest blush creeping up his neck. "It was Brooks who pushed me to put it online," he admits lowly, like it's a confession he's been holding onto.
“I'm glad he did," I reply, meaning it. "The world deserves to see what you can do."
Jasper shifts uncomfortably, like he's not used to hearing this kind of praise. "I never thought I could make a living off my art," he says quietly, almost to himself. "It doesn't even feel real sometimes."
I study him, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, his hands clasped loosely around his coffee mug. For the first time, I see him not just as my little brother but as someone with his own dreams, his own quiet strength.
"You should believe it," I say finally. "Because it is real. And you earned it."
He glances at me, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "Thanks, Ellie."
"Don't thank me," I reply, a smirk of my own tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Thank Brooks. Sound like he's the mastermind."
Jasper laughs, shaking his head. "He'd love to hear you say that."
"Yeah, not happening," I say, taking another sip of my coffee, the warmth spreading through me despite the damp morning air.
"We should probably head out before it gets too hot," Jasper says, glancing up at the sky, his tone casual. "You know Brooks doesn't like to sweat."
I let out a laugh. "Such an odd man, that friend of yours."
"Are you two gossiping about me?" Brooks' voice cuts in from behind us.
Jasper winks at me before turning to face his best friend, who's leaning against the door frame in shorts and a white T-shirt. "We were just talking about your aversion to heat," Jasper replies, his grin widening.
Brooks steps down onto the porch, his expression mock serious. "I don't hate the heat," he says, crossing his arms. "I just don't like the way clothes stick to me when I get sweaty. It's disgusting."
"Right," I say, raising an eyebrow as I stand, coffee cup still in hand. "Let's make sure we tailor today's activities to keep you nice and dry. Wouldn't want you to feel gross."
Brooks tilts his head, giving me a look that's equal parts amused and annoyed. "Appreciate the thoughtfulness, Elowen. Truly."
I roll my eyes and start toward the porch steps, slipping into my old sneakers on the way. "So, are we going foraging, or are we going to stand here discussing Brooks' delicate relationship with perspiration all morning?"
Brooks follows, muttering under his breath, "It's not delicate. It's called having standards."
Jasper laughs as he grabs his gear, shaking his head. "You two are exhausting."
Maybe we are. Maybe we should work on that.
I trail behind Jasper and Brooks, letting them fall into their familiar rhythm.
They don't need words to communicate; they've always had this unspoken language.
Jasper picks through the underbrush, plucking up rocks and twigs, while Brooks carefully arranges them in a scuffed five-gallon bucket he carries like it's the most natural thing in the world.
The air is cooler here, fresher. The kind of air that makes your lungs feel clean with every breath.
The ground beneath my feet feels sturdy, too.
Solid in a way that LA never does. I let the moment wash over me—the sun filtering through the trees, the rustling leaves, the faint sound of birds in the distance.
For the first time in years, I stop thinking about curating videos, crafting captions, or selling a story.
I just am.
When we reach the top of the hill, Jasper veers toward a patch of moss, distracted by something that's caught his eye.
I glance down and notice a small blue feather lying among the leaves, delicate and bright against the earthy tones around it.
I pick it up, turning it over in my fingers before walking it over to Brooks.
"Here," I say softly, holding it out to him.
He glances at me, then at the feather, and reaches out to take it. For a moment, our fingers graze, and something warm—electric, almost—shoots up my arm. My breath catches, and when I look up, I find him staring at me, his brows slightly furrowed as if he's trying to figure out if I felt it, too.
The air between us feels charged, dense somehow.
And the memory of him chasing me through the woods when we were younger fills my head as his eyes hold mine.
The weight of everything we are—his quiet strength, the years I spent away, the guilt gnawing at me—is overwhelming and grounding all at the same time.
But then I pull my hand back, breaking the connection, and take a step away, the feather now safely in his hand.
"It's pretty," I mumble.
He nods, slipping the feather into the bucket. "Yeah, it is."
Jasper calls out to Brooks, holding up a handful of moss. Brooks heads toward him without a second glance, leaving me standing there, my heart thudding in my chest for reasons I don't fully understand.
As I follow them back down the hill, the guilt doesn't ease. It settles deeper, mingling with something else I can't quite name. Something that lingers in the space between me and Brooks, unspoken but impossible to ignore.
Which makes me wonder if the sparks I felt were real, or if I’m just reaching for someone steady in a world that keeps shifting beneath my feet.