Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
My tonsils have been thoroughly inspected.
Broody men also cry.
I’m not jealous.
I tucked Mom under a blanket on the sofa.
She was having one of her quiet days. The TV hummed with teleshopping.
The front door was unlocked, and the house smelled like a mixture of vanilla extract and rum.
I grabbed the stack of envelopes beside the door with a sense of resignation.
There was little point in opening them. Instead, I would add them to the rest.
Downstairs, I turned off the lights, flipped the sign to "Closed," and then just…stood there. In the dark. Not knowing what I should do next, or where to go. It was the first time in my life I felt truly lost.
I glanced over the shelves hidden in shadows—books Dad had handpicked, walls he’d painted. I felt their stares like a weight on my shoulders. I needed to leave. Needed not to talk. Not to think.
Instead of calling Otis, I found myself at Garland’s, adding rows of debt to a tab. My stomach churned with acid after doom-scrolling through social media on repeat.
Stats, posts, tags. Mentions, numbers, likes. Comments, shares. Repeat.
JereMay and I were neck and neck, but it didn’t matter because John’s numbers had grown, creating a staggering gap. There was little chance I’d ever catch up—not in the next few days.
A fucking bet.
I downed another glass. My head started to feel numb, pleasantly fuzzy. I needed a cigarette and a lay.
When I made my way to the backdoor, planning to ask one of the skimpy-dressed people for a smoke, my phone pinged.
Otis.
I opened the text and saw a photo of him, Jeremy, and what looked like Jeremy’s parents—four smiling faces, three of them ginger.
Something I hadn’t felt in years stirred in my chest.
Jealousy.
Jealousy at something I didn’t even want.
I made a b-line for the bar. My ex, Claire, turned to me, concern etched on her face. But when I asked for the strongest, cheapest shot, she didn’t question me. She also didn’t add it to the tab.
It was 1:30 a.m.. when my back pocket vibrated again. I was in the bathroom at Garland’s. Some dude’s tongue was trying to reach my tonsils, but I had already forgotten his name. He protested when I pushed him off me, calling me a bitch. I flipped him off and stared at my phone with blurry eyes.
It was John.
The Uber halted and I rushed into the ER.
John’s broken voice on the other side of the phone had effectively jolted me out of my drunken state.
Now my heart was pounding so fast I felt sick.
The overhead lights were too bright. The floor squeaked as I rounded the corner to the waiting area.
There was a mom with a crying baby and a woman in a wheelchair and beside her—there he was.
His broad shoulders were hunched. He sat alone, looking smaller than I had ever seen him.
I came to a sudden halt, not even realizing I’d been running.
When he looked up at me, my breath caught in my throat.
His composure was gone. The way he held himself told me he was tired to his bones.
He’d been crying. All my resolve to ignore my feelings, to only think of myself, to hate him. ..shattered in that instant.
“Hey,” I said, trying for composure, fighting the urge to fling myself at him and hug him until the pain left his face.
“Hey,” he said hoarsely.
I held my hand out to him, and he took it, gliding his thumb over the back of it. His eyes were hollow.
I took the seat beside him and leaned my head on his shoulder.
“How is he?”
He intertwined our fingers, and I noticed that the spot where his watch used to be was bare. The skin there was paler than the rest of his arm.
I wanted to turn my head and kiss him. I wanted to breathe him in and make him feel better in all the limited ways I knew how to. But it would be selfish. I was here because John called, telling me he needed me.
“It was a heart attack. I’m waiting to hear from the doctor.” John shifted, moving his head closer to mine. “I’m sorry, Nora, about—”
“Hey,” I interrupted, squeezing his hand tighter. “It’s fine.” Suddenly, I felt silly for getting bitter about his reasons for entering the contest. When in reality, he was living through his worst.
He sucked in a long breath, then leaned back, watching our fingers interlace on his leg.
“I started a fight.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I immediately said. Whatever had happened, it couldn’t have been his fault. This man was full of love for a father who didn’t deserve it.
“I’ve fucked up,” he sighed. His words reverberated through me.
I leaned closer, hugging his side like a weirdo. “We all fuck up sometimes.”
I couldn’t help myself. I breathed in his scent. He lowered his face to my head and I did the same. Two weirdos.
I caught our reflection in the dividing window across.
One giant, brooding man, all hard angles that should intimidate but were now soft, vulnerable.
And one small woman, her arm and leg laced over his, trying to hold him together.
This didn’t look like competitors deciding to have fun. This was something else entirely.
“Nora, I have to tell you something—”
“John?”
He stiffened, and I pulled my limbs from him, recognising the voice before he did.
“Viv,” he said, straightening.
She hovered before us. Despite it being half past two in the morning, her hair was perfectly styled. Her pristine white coat seemed almost ironic given the hospital gowns around us.
I dug my hands into my trench coat, crossing one leg over the other, suddenly feeling very out of place.
She turned to John. “What is she doing here?”
“I need a minute alone with Nora,” he said, pulling on his hair.
She glanced over her shoulder. “What if someone sees you?”
He flinched.
She didn’t miss it. The lines around her mouth softened. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t—”
I stood. “I should go.”
“Wait,” John said, grabbing my hand and moving between me and his press-fiancée. “I need to say something. I should have done this ages ago—”
At that moment, a doctor walked into the room and called his name.
John turned, his demeanor immediately changing when the doctor told him his father was stable.
I wanted to brush his arm, but I forced myself not to.
“Just call if you need anything, alright?” I said, turning to leave.
“Nora!” he called so loudly I stopped. My heart thundered at all the possible words that might leave his mouth.
“John,” Vivian urged, shaking her head.
I forced a smile. “Go be with your father.” Then I turned, not quite running, almost relieved to have missed whatever it was John wanted to tell me.
He was in a vulnerable place. I didn’t want to hear words he might regret tomorrow. So I told myself it was nothing consequential. Because if it had been, for the first time in a long while, I didn’t know if I would have run.