CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We’re All Dying
Dad watches me through tired eyes, his chest rising and falling in slow, labored effort.
The air in the room feels thick—too warm, too quiet.
The nurses told me earlier that Dr. Kulkarni ordered some tests, but results are delayed.
Short-staffed. The ER is full. It's one of the hottest days of the summer and, apparently, the heat doesn't just scorch the pavement. It breaks people, too.
I sit beside him, fingers curled around the armrest like a lifeline.
"You doing okay?" I ask softly.
He shrugs, then coughs, the sound deep and rattling. "I'm alright," he says, but I don't believe him.
I nod, even though nothing about this feels alright. "Are you... do you feel ready to go home?"
He exhales through his nose, strained and hard. It's not a yes. It's not a no. It's just another sound that makes me sit up straighter, hyper-aware of every second passing.
"They should have your results soon," I say, as if filling the silence might fix something. "They're just backed up."
The room hums with monitors and tension.
"I just..." I start, then stop. I'm starting to worry. Starting to panic. Starting to feel like I'm the only one holding the seams of this family together.
I clear my throat. "Mom should be here."
His body visibly stiffens. His eyes drift toward the ceiling.
Another exhale. Another hitch of the breath. Another weight on my chest.
I don't know what to do with my hands. Or my words. Or the growing fear curling inside me like smoke.
"Can I get you anything?" I ask, though my stomach's already twisting with the unspoken.
Dad shakes his head. "We need to have a talk."
My breath catches. "Sure. About what?"
He pats the edge of the bed with a trembling hand. "Come here, Ellie."
I rise from the chair, my limbs heavy, and sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the warmth of him but not close enough to stop the dread coiling in my chest.
"What's going on, Dad?"
"There are a lot of things I should've taught you," he begins, his voice gravelly and low. "Things I always meant to say but somehow... never did."
I try to smile. I can’t. "You sound like you're dying."
He presses his dry lips together. "We're all dying, in one way or another."
"I don't like that," I whisper.
"You can't change people," he says softly. "That's the first thing. No matter how much you love them. No matter how much you need them to be something else. They are who they are, and they won’t change because you need them to."
"You're talking about Mom," I say.
"And Jasper and Brooks," he adds without missing a beat.
I blink at him. "What are you saying, Dad?"
"I'm saying I know you're carrying more than your share of the weight.
I know you want your mom and Jasper to show up differently, to be more like you.
You need that. Hell, I need that, too. But they're not built like you, Ellie.
And they won't change because you need them to.
People don't change until they're ready.
And sometimes," he coughs, breath labored, "they never are. "
I study my hands. "I just thought showing up was the bare minimum."
Dad nods, then glances at me sideways. "And what about Brooks?"
My throat throbs. "What about him?"
"You're going to break his heart," he says, voice low but clear.
I stand abruptly, the weight of it hitting too fast, too sharp. "You make it sound like I’m using him."
Dad doesn't flinch. "He's not a fling, Ellie. Not for you. And definitely not for him."
"You think he can commit?" I snap. "To anyone?"
"You know why he can't," Dad replies gently.
"No. Actually, I don't."
He coughs again, slower this time. "He's always loved you. He doesn't know how to love in halves. He never has. And you? You're always leaving."
My heart cracks a little. "Is that how you see me?"
He lifts his head as best he can, meeting my eyes. "It's not how I see you. It's who you are. And it's not a bad thing, Ellie. You have wings the rest of us were never given."
Tears sting. "Why are you saying this?"
"Because I'm afraid I'm dying," he says. "And I need you to know that I don't want you to change for Brooks. Or him for you. Love doesn't ask us to become smaller. And it doesn't keep score."
"You are not dying," I say, sharper than I mean to. "You're fine. You're perfectly fine."
But a tear slips out anyway, trailing down my cheek before I can stop it. Dad reaches for my hand with trembling fingers, and I let him take it.
"I want to be," he says quietly. "But if I'm not... I need to know you're going to be okay."
"I'm always fine," I whisper. "Even when I'm not."
He squeezes my hand, his voice heavy with something I don't want to name. "That's why I worry about you the most."
A lump forms in my throat. "It's not fair."
Dad chuckles, a soft, sad sound that somehow cuts deeper than tears. "Life never is."
"You're not dying," I repeat, desperate now. "You're not."
He doesn't argue. Doesn't agree. Just gives me that small, knowing smile that makes me want to scream.
A nurse steps in. "Dr. Kulkarni will be in shortly." Her expression says the rest and my stomach flips.
Something isn't fine. Something is very, very wrong.
"You've been stuck here a while," Dad says. "How's your social thingy doing?"
I shake my head, brushing the question away. "I'm here, Dad. I'm home. I don't want to talk about that."
"Home?" he echoes, soft and surprised. A question more than a statement.
"I think," I say slowly, "maybe we don't really know what home is until we've tried to build it out of a hundred temporary places that never quite fit."
Dad studies me for a long moment. "That sounds like something your mother would say."
"I don't know if that's a compliment or not."
He smiles. "Maybe both."
Dr. Kulkarni walks in, effectively ending our conversation. She flips open the chart, her brow pinched in concentration. I wait, silent, but my palms begin to sweat the longer she doesn't speak.
Finally, she looks up, her expression unreadable.
"Mr. Donovan," she begins with a quiet sigh, "you have pneumonia. We're going to start you on antibiotics immediately and monitor your oxygen levels. The goal is to get you home as soon as your labs improve."
"Pneumonia?" I echo.
"It's not uncommon in patients with prolonged illness," she explains. "It sounds scary, but we caught it early. It’s manageable."
Manageable. Right. But it still doesn't feel like something that can be fixed with just a few pills. Not when I've been watching him fade day by day.
Before I can say anything else, there's a knock at the door and Holden breezes in wearing wrinkled scrubs and a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Apologies," he says. "Got held up."
Dr. Kulkarni doesn't even bother hiding her frustration. "You're late. Again."
Holden doesn't respond. He just glances around the room, his eyes briefly landing on me. I look away.
"So he's going to be okay?" I press, needing her to say it one more time.
Dr. Kulkarni's gaze softens as it meets mine. "We're going to take excellent care of your father, Elowen. He'll be home soon."
I nod slowly, gripping that word like a lifeline. Soon.
Dr. Kulkarni exits with a polite nod, leaving Holden behind. He lingers by the foot of Dad's bed, shifting awkwardly, like he has something to say but he knows he probably shouldn't.
Holden glances at me. "You and Brooks now, huh?"
I raise an eyebrow. I don't owe Holden anything.
Holden crosses his arms. "You're not seriously dating that guy, are you?"
"What do you want?" I ask, flat and exhausted.
He hesitates. "I don't know," he admits. "Anyone but him. You deserve better than Brooks."
I bristle. "Do I?"
He falters. "I just… he's not good enough for you."
"Is that so?" I narrow my eyes. "Did you come in here to judge my choices or check on your patient?"
Holden rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah. I should go."
He huffs out a frustrated breath and heads for the door.
I watch him leave, irritation needling under my skin. First Dad. Now Holden. Why is everyone treating this thing between Brooks and me like it's something serious? Like it's not just two people... doing whatever it is we're doing.
"That was awkward," Dad mutters from behind me, coughing softly. His eyelids are drooping again.
I glance at my phone. It's almost eight. "I should head home. Let you get some rest."
"You'll be back tomorrow?" he asks, barely audible now.
I lean down and kiss his weathered cheek. "First thing."
He nods faintly, already half-asleep as I step into the hallway, the door clicking quietly shut behind me. I walk away heavy with questions. Angry. Frustrated. And more scared than I want to admit.
I roll the windows down as soon as I start the rental car, letting the heavy summer air wrap around me like a reminder that I'm still here.
The summer sun has started to dip below the trees, casting long amber shadows across the road.
I'm thankful there's still the tiniest bit of light left in the day as I take a long, shaky breath.
When I came home, it was supposed to be for a weekend. A check-in. A short visit. Not a total unraveling.
I didn't expect to stay. I didn't expect to carry this much. I didn't expect to feel... all of this.
The weight. The love. The fear. The want.
My mind goes quiet as I drive, coasting on muscle memory alone. I let the wind tangle my hair and sting my eyes. I don't let myself cry. Not yet.
The house is washed in gold when I pull into the dirt driveway, dust curling behind me like smoke. And there he is—Brooks—sitting on the front porch stairs like he's been waiting his whole life to exhale.
And somehow, so have I.
I get out slowly, my limbs heavy. He doesn't say anything. Just watches me. When I reach him, I sit beside him without a word. He wraps an arm around me like it's second nature and pulls me in.
I don't think, I just move.
My lips find his at the same moment his find mine. The kiss is warm, desperate, a little reckless. I press into it, into him, as the porch light flickers above us in the thick heat and fading light. It's all I want right now. Something real. Something steady.
When I finally pull away, I whisper, "Hi."
His fingers slide gently along my cheek. "Hi."
"Dad has pneumonia," I tell him, my voice cracking as I do. "And I'm tired. Really tired."
Brooks nods, his eyes steady on mine. "I know."
"You knew about the pneumonia?"
He shakes his head. "No. I mean, I know you're tired."
My throat closes. "I used to think I could do all this on my own, but now..."
Brooks presses a kiss to my forehead. "You're not doing it on your own, Ellie. I'm right here. I've always been right here."
Tears sting my eyes, and I don't blink them away this time.
"Everyone thinks this—us—is a bad idea," I murmur, not quite asking the question.
"Do you think it is?" he whispers back, his lips grazing my neck.
I close my eyes and let the quiet hold us, let his touch anchor me.
I don't know if this is the wrong choice. I just know Brooks never asks me to become smaller, never keeps score.
This... This is the first thing that's made breathing feel easy in a long, long time.
So, I lean in.
And I kiss him again. Because this is the only simple thing in my life.