19
Dylan
T hen
I pace the hallway, wearing a path into the dull gray tile, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead cast an artificial glare that makes my eyes ache.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Emily, Brooks’ mom, says softly. “Why don’t you sit down? It’ll be a while before the doctor comes out.”
This is not how I imagined meeting his parents—unkempt, wrung out, and on the edge of coming undone. His dad, Scott, is built like the houses he’s spent his life constructing, hands rough and calloused from years of labor. His face is weathered, but there’s kindness in his eyes that makes you feel like you’ve known him forever. His mom, on the other hand, is a living, breathing hug—constantly making sure I’m comfortable, her voice the soothing cadence of a well-loved song.
I can tell she’s the heart of their home.
They’re nothing like the family I come from. Nothing like my mom. When she speaks, the words come slurred, edged with bitterness, never quite reaching her lips. Her bleached blonde hair looks overgrown, too bright against the dark shadows under her eyes. There’s no solid ground in her presence, no sense of stability. I’m honestly relieved she hasn’t attempted to show up.
I can’t get the sight of him crumpling to the ground out of my head—the way his knees buckled, the way time seemed to stretch as I ran toward him, powerless to stop it. The moment replays, over and over, each loop tightening something in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, sinking into the plastic chair next to her. “I’m just—” My words stumble, exposing my anxiety.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Emily insists, her expression gentle. “It’s been a rough morning for all of us.”
Her kindness only intensifies the guilt gnawing at me. The Holland’s are not only anxious for their son but are also extending reassurance to me, the stranger in their family’s crisis. I wipe at the streaks of mascara I know are smudged beneath my eyes, exhaustion pressing against every part of me.
“You know,” Emily says, resting a hand lightly on my arm, “I’ve never seen my son so taken with someone. He’s grown so much this year, and I think you’ve been a big part of that.”
Her voice carves straight through my defenses before I even realize I need them. “Thank you, Mrs. Holland,” I manage, my voice uneven. “Brooks means everything to me.” The air turns frigid, slicing through the realization—he should’ve been the first person I said that too.
“Call me Emily,” she corrects.
Before I can say more, a man in a white coat appears at the end of the hall. He consults the clipboard in his hands before approaching us. “Are you the family of Brooks Holland?”
Scott rises immediately. “I’m his father,” he gestures toward Emily standing next to him. “And this is his mother.”
“How is he?” Emily asks, her earlier composure now hesitant as she stands.
The doctor pulls up a chair, sitting beside us. “I’m Dr. Abrams. Brooks’ condition is stable. There’s no indication of anything serious, but I’d like to keep him overnight for observation, just to be cautious.”
Emily’s relief is palpable. “Can we see him?”
“We can allow immediate family only,” the doctor replies. “We still have tests that need to be run.”
The clarity of his words rip through the thin thread of hope I didn’t realize I was holding onto. I won’t get to see him.
Emily notices and leans closer. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll tell him you came.” Her words slide over the raw edges of my chest, a balm too thin to soothe the ache. But the pressure inside doesn’t crack, doesn’t ease. My head dops in a silent nod—because if I try to speak, I might shatter.
As she and Scott disappear down the hallway, the space they leave behind twists in on itself. The quiet isn’t still, it pulses, scraping against my skin like something restless. The waiting room suddenly feels too small. I lurch to my feet, muscles wound too tight. The walls press in, the air stagnant—I need to get out before it suffocates me.
I weave through the sterile corridors, the sound of my chucks scuffing against the linoleum is the only thing stabilizing me. When I find the restroom, I step inside, grateful for the familiar solitude. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, harsh against the cracked white tiles.
I don’t need to be here—not for its purpose, anyway—but the bathroom has always been a refuge, a place where I can shut out the world. The faucet roars to life as I twist the handle hard, cold water slamming against the porcelain, drowning out the nerves that pulse through my veins.
I lightly pat water onto my face, the cool droplets trickling down my skin as I watch them vanish down the drain. The tremor in my hands has finally stopped, though the memory of Brooks collapsing still feels like it’s burned into me. I roll my shoulders, as if I can shake it loose.
I drift back into the hallway, but the thought of returning to the waiting room makes my skin crawl. My steps turn restless, prowling through sterile corridors, past shut doors and nurses who barely spare me a glance. The various machines hum like gnats in my ears, the smell of antiseptic thick enough to choke on. I keep moving. The further I go, the looser the grip on my sternum feels—never gone, just stretched thin enough to relax.
A soft ping from my pocket pulls me out of my thoughts. I fish out my phone and see a text notification lighting up the screen.
Beckett: Dilly, I’m here. Got something for you.
Me: Wait, wdym you’re here?
Beckett: At the hospital. Just come see.
Letting out a breath, I retrace my steps back to the waiting room. The low murmur of voices reach me before I step inside, and when I do, I see Beckett sprawled in one of the plastic chairs, the other flanking him with two cups of coffee.
He notices me immediately and straightens, gesturing for me to sit next to him. I sink into the chair without a word, and he pulls his backpack into his lap, unzipping it to reveal a familiar object: my sketchbook.
My heart lifts as I see it. “You brought that?”
“Figured you’d want something to keep your hands busy,” he challenges, pushing it into my lap. His tone remains casual, but there’s an understanding expression that makes me look away.
I open the sketchbook, flipping it to a blank page. My pencil isn’t in its usual slot, but Beckett hands it to me before I even have to ask.
“I knew you’d need it.”
“Thanks,” I rasp, my heart swelling with appreciation.
The pencil stalls against the paper, the first line uncertain. Then something shifts. Each stroke carves through my worry, reshaping it into something tangible. It’s not full relief, but it’s enough to distract me.
“Dylan,” a soft voice cuts through the fog, pulling me out of my thoughts. I’ve been lost in drawing for hours, and despite my half hearted protests, Beckett stayed with me. Eventually, he dozed off in the chair, his Rockport Titans Football hoodie bunched up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow.
I glance up to see a tall woman dressed in pink polka-dot scrubs paired with spotless white sneakers. Her dark hair is swept back into a tight ponytail, and there’s something calming about her kind brown eyes. She holds a tablet in one hand, the other resting lightly on the doorframe next to us.
“I’m Maisie, Brooks’ nurse.” Her gaze shifts briefly to my brother, noting the gentle rise and fall of his chest, a peaceful cadence in the silence. “Have you two been here all day?”
I nod quietly, pushing down the need to ask her a million questions.
Her expression softens, something shifting in her eyes before she jerks her chin toward the hallway behind her. “Do you want to come see him?”
My heart skips. “Really?” The word barely makes it past my lips, drenched in disbelief. My gaze flicks to the clock on the far wall. “I thought they weren’t letting anyone in but family. Is he being released?”
Maisie’s lips quirk up. “Oh, sweetheart, Brooks hasn’t shut up about you since his mom mentioned you were waiting. Now his parents left earlier, so come on, before the doctors start making their rounds.”
I consider for only a second before setting the sketchbook aside and standing, moving as quietly as I can to avoid waking Beckett. As Maisie leads me down the hall, my footsteps quicken, and I feel a restless energy start to swirl around me. The cold hospital air does little to settle my nerves, but the thought of seeing him is enough to keep me moving.
The moment Maisie pushes open the door, Brooks is already out of his bed. His movements are dragging just a fraction, but he’s upright, and that’s all I need to see before I rush forward.
His arms clamp around me, pulling me in like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. I crash against his chest, my fingers curling into the flimsy hospital gown, the fabric too thin to hold everything I’ve been carrying. His scent seeps through the sterile stench of chemicals. The knot inside me doesn’t loosen, it frays, thread by thread as I let myself sink into him.
“You scared me.”
“I know.” He exhales against my hair, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”
I ease back, searching his face for proof that he’s okay. “What happened? Are you alright?”
“They ran a bunch of tests earlier. The doctor says I’m anemic. My iron levels are shot, which explains the dizzy spells. They’re giving me an infusion, supplements—keeping an eye on me, but it’s nothing serious. Just something I’ll have to keep in check.”
“That…” Relief crashes into me, like breaking to the surface after drowning. My knees almost give out. “That’s better than I thought.”
“Yeah,” he admits, followed by a rough, uneven sound that might be a laugh. “And it means I’ll be out of here soon. So, looks like you’re stuck with me again, Dill.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What about football?”
“Eh, I’ll have to take it easy for now,” he shrugs, clearly unbothered. “It’s my last season anyway, and there are plenty of guys who are more invested than I am. I’m fine with it, honestly.”
I can’t help but smile. “What you’re saying is I have you all to myself for the foreseeable future?”
“Exactly. Just us. No distractions.”
A throat clears, and we turn to find Maisie still standing in the doorway, one brow arched, giving us a knowing look. “Hate to ruin the moment, but keep in mind the doctor’s will be coming back soon.”
Brooks tips his chin. “Thanks, Maisie.”
She slips out without another word, the door clicking shut behind her. The second we’re alone, he hooks a finger around my wrist and pulls me closer, a silent demand. He drops onto the edge of his bed, and I follow without thinking, settling beside him, our bodies aligning as if we’ve done this a thousand times. Our knees brush, and I turn toward him, our faces inches apart. My heart beats faster, my thoughts scattering, but I don’t pull away. I can’t.
The room is quiet except for the faint beeping of the monitor and the vibration of the air conditioning. Brooks shifts, the movement slight but seismic, dragging in the air between us. Our noses nearly brush, his breath centimeters from my lips, the world narrows to the green of his eyes—dark in the dim light, ragged in a way that strips him bare. The usual confidence wavers, something unguarded slipping through the cracks, and it sinks its teeth into me.
“I appreciate you staying.” His voice scrapes against the quiet, like the words are pried from someplace tender. “I mean it. More than I know how to say.”
“You’re my boyfriend, B. Of course, I’d stay.”
He exhales, something loosening in his frame, and shifts just enough to press his lips to my temple—soft, reverent, like a promise. Then, with a dimpled grin, he pulls back slightly and raises an eyebrow.
“Ooh, you’re officially calling me your boyfriend now?” he taunts, his tone light but laced with affection. “That’s a big step, Rivers.”
I laugh, a soft pink flush spreading across my cheeks. “You’re more than that. You’re my best friend. I don’t know how to put it, but…you’re everything, Brooks. Losing you? That’s not something I could walk away from whole.”
“Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
He takes a deep breath, his thumb moving softly over the back of my hand before continuing. “I love you.”