Chapter 34
thirty-four
Sawyer
All I can focus on is the vending machine. How a small bag of Doritos is stuck against the glass, hasn’t moved. Or maybe it has, and I’ve just been pacing the same stretch of tile so long that I can’t tell.
Knox sits in the corner, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, upset at himself. Rogue hasn't said a word since we got here. Charming is pacing too, running a hand through his hair. Danger keeps checking his phone like it'll suddenly tell us something the doctors won't.
And me?
I’m trying to find a way to breathe.
Trying not to think about the last thing Trouble said to me. The way he hit the ground. How still he was. How quiet.
The double doors swing open, and every head in the waiting room turns. But it’s not a doctor. It’s Trouble’s mama, PJ.
She walks in like she’s holding her whole world together with sheer will. Her eyes scan the room and land on Danger.
“Where is he?” she asks.
“They won’t let us see him,” he says. “He’s in surgery. Critical condition. He was unresponsive when he got here.”
That last word hits like a gut punch every time.
She nods once, like if she starts doing more, she’ll fall apart. Then she sits beside Rogue, rests a trembling hand on his shoulder, and the room goes quiet again.
Just the clock ticking.
Just the vending machine.
And the hospital’s got the nerve to put up this strange mix of landscape paintings and photos of cute newborn baby feet like all that exists are scenes where pain isn’t real. I stare at the tiny toes while Trouble’s mama lets loose on the waiting room like it’s Judgment Day.
“You boys hear me? After this, you will not fight with those people ever again.” She’s not yelling, not quite.
She does something worse—her voice pinches at the vowels, a twist of steel around each word.
I’ve seen her break up her boys’ fights with just a look, seen those grown men apologize to her like they’re little kids again, but it’s the first time I’ve heard her use that tone.
“I swear to God, I will put you all in the ground before I let this go on another day.”
Danger’s sitting, but he stands the moment she covers her face. In two steps he’s at her side, wrapping those long arms around her. Knox looks anywhere but at them—at the floor, at the ceiling. I drop into the seat next to him.
“You look like shit,” I say. He half-smiles.
“I know,” he mumbles. He’s got a bandage over the cut above his eye now. “I really fucked this up, didn’t I?”
I flick him on the forehead, nowhere near the cut. “I’d say you have a talent for it.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees. “I didn’t think it’d get to this.”
I’m still watching PJ.
“Why would you do it?” I hiss. “Why would you help them steal from the Stetsons? You could’ve gotten all of us killed.”
He winces. “It’s not like that.”
“No? Then please explain.”
“Things were getting… bad. Real bad. I knew Daddy was never going to ask for help, and the feed bills were stacking up, and you weren’t coming home.
I started to feel like there was nothing for me in the future.
Then those guys showed up, flashing their money, and I figured, hell, maybe I could outsmart them.
” He glances up. “My plan was to let them steal what they wanted, get the cash, and then steal it back. Stolen goods can’t exactly be reported to the police.
But I stopped working with them after they blew up PJ’s car. ”
I slap the back of his head—not too hard, just enough to echo. “You’re a real special kind of idiot.”
“Ow! What?” He rubs at the spot, but he’s grinning now.
I bury my face in my hands. “The Stetsons trusted you, Knox. Trouble trusted you.”
“I know. I fucked everything up. But I know where they stashed everything, and I’ll get it all back. Every last bit. My plan wasn’t to fuck them over, it was to fuck over the Kennedys.”
I look at him, my idiot of a brother, and realize he’s just a kid in the headlights, stuck between wanting to save the world and being scared of how little of it is actually his.
I push my thumb against his temple. “You could have just asked the Stetsons for help. They love you. Trouble took a bullet for you. Did you even notice what’s been happening on Daddy’s land?”
Knox frowns. “What do you mean?”
“The fencing, the grass reseeded, weeds are gone, all of it. The chicken coop. Did you think Daddy woke up this summer and decided to play being a responsible landowner?”
He shrugs. “I figured you were paying someone to take care of it with that city money.”
“Jesus, Knox. Trouble did all that. I never even asked. He just did it.” I say the words as I hold back tears. “He looked out for us. Even when you were stealing from him.”
He blinks, and sits back quiet now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so small.
Then, softer he says, “Why didn’t you tell me about you and him?”
I stare straight ahead. “Because I thought that whatever was between us… I thought I’d leave it all behind when I went back to Chicago.”
“And now?” he asks, but it’s a whisper.
I don’t answer, because I don’t know what happens now. The fight and the blood and the way Trouble looked at me that last night—like I was the only thing that mattered to him on this earth—everything is a mess.
The waiting room door swings, and for a second we all stand. The surgeon’s a woman in blue scrubs. Her hands are clean, but her eyes are tired. “Family for Tristan Stetson?”
We all move as one. The surgeon glances at the chart, then up to all of us. “He made it through surgery. But he’s still in critical condition. We’re monitoring for internal bleeding, and the next few hours are crucial.”
She could have said anything; I hear only the “made it through” part, and hold on to hope.
“We can allow a few of you to see him at a time,” she continues. “He isn’t out of the woods, but it’s good he has people here.”
They say you can get used to anything, but I don’t believe it. Not the harsh lighting, the cold, the way the hospital always smells like antiseptic grief.
PJ is fluffing Trouble’s pillows. Danger slouches against the wall beside her, fists jammed into his pockets, probably so he doesn’t start a fight with anyone who gives him bad news.
Monitors are everywhere, an IV pole towering near him. The machines beep a continuous rhythm, which is the only comfort. PJ leans in, lips to his temple, and says something I can’t hear.
She steps back. Looks at me. “You sit with him, honey.”
I drag a chair up to the bedside and reach for his hand.
It’s rough and warm—different than I remembered, maybe because I never let myself remember it the way I should have.
With my free hand, I dig into my tote bag and pull out the stuffed horse Trouble won me at the fair.
Knox had to sprint to the guest-house and grab a few things for me.
It's from the day everything changed—when I stopped seeing him as just my brother’s best friend and started seeing who he really was.
I tuck it carefully into the crook of his arm, like maybe it still carries some of that magic from that day—like maybe it’ll be enough to bring him back to me.
PJ smiles and hovers, but only for a second. “I’ll go let everyone else know he’s stable for now and they can go home to rest.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Sawyer, you’re welcome to go home, shower, get some rest if you want, also.”
I shake my head, throat tight. “No, thank you, ma’am. I’d rather stay.”
She nods. Like she expected that answer.
She heads for the door, but Danger doesn’t budge. He stays, arms folded. “My brothers think I’m oblivious,” he says, picking a thread from his sleeve, “but I see everything. And I’ve never seen him look at anyone like he looks at you.”
He lets it hang there. Waiting for me to react.
“I mean it,” he says, softer this time. “If he pulls through, I hope you don’t break his heart. He doesn’t give it away often.”
Danger pushes off the wall. He’s half a step from gone, when I blurt, “I won’t.”
The room goes very still. Even the monitors hush. A tear slides hot down my cheek. I let it fall. I can’t tell him how much I love his brother because I never even had the chance to tell Tristan first.
“I just wish I could talk to him,” I continued.
Danger glances at Trouble, then back at me. “I hope you get the chance,” he says, tipping his hat.
He leaves.
It’s just me and Trouble. I tighten my grip on his hand.
PJ slips back in after a while. She drops a blanket in my lap and takes the chair opposite of me with her own blanket.
I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and keep my eyes on Trouble. I half-expect him to open his eyes and tell me to stop worryin’, that he’s fine. But there’s nothing.
PJ clears her throat then says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I look up. “You are?”
She smiles. “‘Course. He needs someone like you.” Her fingers toy with her necklace. “Never had much patience, my boy. Not for slowin’ down in life. Been a daredevil from the moment he was born. Never cared much about the bad that could happen to him.”
“Sounds like him.”
“He gets that from his granddaddy. But you—” She shifts, leans forward. “You could ground him. Not hold him back, just… make him see there’s more to life than what he can outrun. And a mama knows when someone loves her boy. Really loves him. Trust me.”
I can’t speak. My throat is a knot. A tear lands on my hand, and I swipe at it, embarrassed. “You raised good men, PJ. All of them.”
She laughs, raspy. “They’ve taken care of me just as much as I have for them. That’s what families do, or ought to.”
We sit. Let the silence stretch. After a while, PJ starts telling stories.
About Trouble as a kid, the first time he rode a bull.
How he stole her car at fourteen to impress a girl, barely made it three miles before the sheriff caught him, and somehow talked his way out of it.
The stories spill out. I find myself laughing, then crying, then laughing again. It’s easier, somehow, with PJ here.