CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Just for the Aesthetics
I’ve been hiding out at the hospital all morning, watching as Dad sleeps in that stiff, sterile bed. The beeping of machines is the only thing keeping me grounded in reality, though each one feels like a ticking clock counting down to something I don’t want to face.
The nurse has come in a few times, her expression set in that professional mask of indifference, the kind they must wear to survive days like these. She checks his vitals, makes notes on her chart, and quietly slips out again.
Every time she comes in, I tell myself I’ll ask. Is he okay? Is he getting better? Is he...
But the words stay lodged in my throat, like if I say them out loud, I’ll hear an answer I’m not sure I’m prepared for.
I run a hand over my face, my fingers lingering over my eyes like that will hold in all the emotions pressing against my chest.
I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this alone.
The truth hits me like a punch.
I feel alone. Utterly, completely alone.
My phone buzzes on the side table, rattling against the cheap plastic. I reach for it, my pulse spiking when I see Jasper’s name flash across the screen.
I hesitate, finger hovering over accept. But instead, I hit ignore and tuck the phone deep into my purse. Out of sight, out of mind.
"I think I’m going to head home," I say to Dad softly as I stand, though my voice wavers, and I know he won’t hear me.
He lets out a quiet snore, his chest rising and falling so slowly that for a terrifying moment, I count his breaths just to make sure they’re still coming.
I lean down and press a kiss to his forehead. His skin feels warm, too warm, and I’m not sure if it’s from sleep or something worse.
"I have a meeting with Belle," I whisper like it’s some kind of confession. "About the collab. We’re starting a series or something... I don’t even know. Honestly, I can’t remember what it’s about."
I glance over my shoulder as I pick up my bag, swallowing the guilt. "I’ll be back later. Maybe I’ll sneak you in a cheesesteak from Philly Joe’s. Remember how you always said it was the only thing good about this town?"
Dad doesn’t stir, and for some reason, that makes my chest ache more.
As I walk out of the hospital room, my purse vibrates again, Jasper’s name lighting up the screen for a second time.
I don’t answer.
The drive back to the house is long and claustrophobic, like the walls of my life are closing in. My phone buzzes on and off the whole way, but I refuse to look.
It’s strange. I used to think of that house as home.
But now?
Now it feels like a place I’m just visiting, a place that stopped being home the minute I walked away and chased something bigger.
And as soon as Dad is better—if he gets better—I’ll go back to where I belong.
Where I don’t have to carry the weight of everyone else’s brokenness.
Surprisingly, Brooks’ truck isn’t in the driveway when I pull up. A wave of something—relief or disappointment, I can’t quite tell—passes through me.
We’ve been avoiding each other since his sudden breakup with Mitsy two nights ago.
That moment still sits weird in my chest, and I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack it.
Brooks is... well, Brooks. Complicated. Charming.
Cocky. The same kid who once got me stuck on a zipline when we were younger, laughing until he could barely breathe while I dangled and screamed for help.
But that was nearly two decades ago. Does any of it even matter now?
I shake the thoughts away. I shouldn’t be thinking about Brooks. I need to focus on the meeting with Belle, get my head on straight, book that flight back to LA, and figure out what’s left of my career.
I park under a tree for shade, grab my things, and slam the car door shut, the sharp sound slicing through the humid afternoon air.
But before I can take another step, the screen door bangs open so hard it slaps the siding, and Jasper’s pale, frantic face appears in the doorway.
"Elowen! Hurry!"
Panic races through my chest, sharp and immediate.
I grip my purse tighter and run across the dusty driveway, my sandals kicking up little clouds of dirt.
"What is it?" I call breathlessly as I reach the porch.
Jasper’s voice booms from the hallway. "Down here!"
I barely toss my purse onto the table as I follow the sound, my heart thudding against my ribs.
Jasper is standing outside Mom and Dad’s bedroom door, pounding on it hard enough to rattle the frame.
"What’s going on?" I gasp, trying to catch my breath as I step beside him.
"She—" Jasper runs a shaky hand through his blond hair, looking completely unglued. "She’s locked herself in. She never goes in there, Ellie. Never."
I blink at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
"She won’t come out. She won’t even answer me."
A chill runs down my spine as I press my ear to the door, my palms clammy against the wood.
Inside, I can hear her—soft rustling, drawers opening, something falling to the floor—but no words. No acknowledgment.
"Mom?" I knock gently, trying to keep my voice calm even though my pulse is anything but. "Mom, are you okay? Can you answer me?"
Nothing.
Jasper paces like a caged animal, his fists clenching and unclenching.
"She’s been in there for two hours," he says. "Won’t say a word. And she doesn’t go in there. You know that."
"She’s probably just… looking for something," I try, though even as the words leave my mouth, they sound like a lie.
"No, you don’t get it," Jasper snaps sharply. "Last time she went in there, I found her on the bathroom floor. Barely breathing."
I whirl on him, my eyes wide. "What?"
"She had a panic attack," he says, voice softening but still thick with frustration. "Brooks was here. We got her water, had her breathe into a bag."
"You should have called me!" I shout.
"She was fine!" Jasper argues, but his tone is defensive now, like he knows fine is a lie. He runs both hands through his hair again, tugging at it like he might rip it out. "Brooks handled it."
Brooks. Always Brooks.
I draw in a sharp breath and step up to the door, planting both hands against it.
"Mom!" I yell, sharp and cutting now. "Open the door! Please, talk to us!"
No response. Just more rustling, a creak of floorboards, like she’s moving around aimlessly.
Jasper leans against the opposite wall, his shoulders hunched like the weight of it all is draining the life out of him.
"She never goes in there," he says again, softer this time. His eyes are glassy, distant. "Not since Dad went to the hospital."
I press my forehead to the door, willing her to answer.
"Mom, please," I whisper. "Just let us know you’re okay."
Still nothing.
I glance over my shoulder at Jasper. "What if she’s…" I can't finish the thought.
Jasper shakes his head, but there’s fear in his eyes now. "I don’t know."
I swallow hard, suddenly wishing Brooks was here, because he’s the only one who’s ever been able to calm Mom down.
But he’s not.
It’s just us.
And I realize, as I press my palm to that closed door, we’re not kids anymore. There’s no one else coming to fix this.
It’s us.
And I’m not sure we’re enough.
"Have you ever kicked in a door?" I ask Jasper, eyeing the stubborn wood like it’s the enemy.
He shakes his head, wide-eyed. "Nope."
I roll my shoulders back, steeling myself. "Stand back."
Jasper takes a half step to the side, and I take a deep breath, bracing like every movie hero I’ve ever watched. This is it. Time to be the strong one.
I raise my leg and slam my foot against the door.
Nothing happens except a sharp, radiating pain that shoots straight up my leg.
"Ah!" I hiss, limping back a step and gripping the doorframe for balance.
"You’re going to break your leg before you break that door," Brooks’ voice, low but steady, cuts through my panic like a tether.
I whirl around, mortified, and of course—of course—there he stands, leaning casually beside Jasper like he hasn’t just watched me completely fail.
"How long have you been standing there?" I demand.
"Long enough to know you’re definitely not the action movie type," Brooks smirks, folding his arms as his eyes dance with amusement.
Jasper snorts quietly. Traitor.
I plant my hands on my hips, glaring at Brooks. "Got a better idea? Or are you just here to enjoy the show?"
Brooks pushes off the wall with a shrug, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. "Actually, yeah. I do."
He steps past me, so close his shoulder brushes mine, and kneels in front of the doorknob.
"You carry a crowbar in there or something?" I ask, watching him fiddle with the door like it’s no big deal.
"Better," he murmurs, sliding a beat-up bank card between the door and the frame.
I blink. "Seriously? That’s your master plan?"
Brooks doesn’t answer. He wiggles the card with practiced ease, and within seconds, there’s a soft click.
The door creaks open under his hand.
I stare, stunned and slightly annoyed.
"There," he says simply, standing up and sliding the card back into his wallet like a magician who just finished a trick. "You’re welcome."
I cross my arms, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "Show-off."
"Better than dislocating a knee trying to be a hero," Brooks quips, giving me a sideways grin as he pushes the door open wider.
Inside, the room is dim, dust floating in the slant of sunlight through the curtains. The air feels heavier now that the door is open, like all the unspoken grief in the house has been trapped behind these walls.
Brooks’ smirk fades as his eyes adjust to the scene, his whole demeanor shifting from cocky to serious.
I step in behind him, my heart pounding as I search the room for Mom, and try not to think about how, for one brief second, Brooks actually had my back.
The drawers are pulled open, clothes spilling out like forgotten memories, and the bed is covered in framed photos, faces turned down like they’re ashamed to be seen.
Mom stands in the corner, clutching something to her chest like it’s the only thing holding her together.
"Mom?" I say softly, the sound catching in my throat as I take a slow step toward her. "What’s going on? Are you okay?"
She doesn’t move. "I’m fine." The words are sharp, brittle, like glass about to break.
Behind me, I hear Jasper shifting nervously, but he finds his voice before I do. "Why was the door locked? You could have at least said something, Mom. We thought—"
"I said I’m fine," she snaps, raising her face to meet us with wild eyes. "Who opened that door?"
I glance at Brooks, who stands a little closer now, his arm brushing mine in a way that somehow steadies me, even when everything else is unraveling.
"I just want to know if you’re okay," I say again, ignoring her question, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.
She clutches the shirt tighter to her chest—Dad’s old flannel—and I realize now it’s the one he always wore when he fixed things around the house.
"He’s not coming back," she whispers, but the words slice through me like a butter knife.
"What?" My head jerks back.
For one unbearable second, I see it—the terror behind her eyes, the grief she can’t name. And then anger floods in, hot and choking, because she’s giving up before he’s even gone.
"He’s not coming back," she says louder this time, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I need boxes," she says, her voice trembling before it flattens. "Five should be enough."
Brooks steps beside me, close enough that I can smell pine and laundry detergent and something warm and familiar that makes my chest ache. He places a steady hand on my arm, letting me know I’m not alone.
"Boxes for what?" I whisper. "What are you doing?"
"Ellie can go to the store to get them," Mom says sharply, waving a hand at me like I’m an annoying fly she can’t quite swat away. "She’s asking too many questions."
I stand frozen, my mouth opening and closing, completely unprepared for this version of my mother.
Brooks steps in before I can respond, his voice calm but firm. "Mrs. Donovan… Ellie’s just trying to help. We all are."
"I’m packing up his things," she says flatly, like she’s already decided. "He’s not coming home."
Silence falls heavy between us.
Jasper shifts beside me, his hands balling into fists, and my throat burns as I swallow past the lump forming there.
"But Mom… he’s, he’s still alive," I manage to say. "The doctors think he’s improving. You can’t just—"
"I have to," she says, her eyes meeting mine for the first time, and for a split second, I see all her pain, fear, and the unbearable weight of grief. "I have to be ready."
Brooks’ thumb gently rubs small circles on my skin, grounding me when I feel like I might collapse under the weight of her words.
"We’ll get the boxes," Brooks says quietly.
I whip my head toward him, my eyes wide with disbelief, but his gaze holds steady, silently telling me not now.
"Fine." I let out a defeated breath, my chest heaving. "Let’s go."
Mom turns away, her shoulders sagging under an invisible load and I feel my heart crack straight down the center. Because I see the fear and anxiety she lives with like ghosts. And my heart physically aches for her.
Brooks gives my arm the lightest squeeze, like he knows I’m one second away from breaking, and then he carefully guides me out of the room, his hand lingering on my back as if to say I’ve got you.
As we step into the hallway, I feel Jasper’s eyes on me, filled with confusion and hurt. But I can’t stop. Not yet.
"Let’s get the stupid boxes," I mutter as Brooks closes the door softly behind us.
And as I take a sobering breath, I wonder if we’re already too late to fix what’s been broken.