Chapter 21 #2
“Tag.” I turned to find him frozen on the bottom step, fear in his wide eyes. I made a stop motion with my hand. “You stay right there.”
His gaze snapped to mine. “Why?”
“Because if I have to drag your ass out of here, I’m going to be pissed.”
I flattened my palm on the door and pushed, fighting the grimace that came to my face. My eyes swept over the interior, a trashed living room with two green couches as old as sin. “Hello? Anyone home?”
I waited, heard nothing. I called out one more time. Again, no answer.
“Is it bad?” He asked.
“Yeah, man.” My heart twisted for Tag and Cooper. “It’s bad.”
His eyes held mine. “Do we…go in?”
“No, I go in while you stand there and think about how much you love Cooper.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes, working to keep the edge out of my sarcasm. I should’ve kicked his heroism out of the truck while I had the chance.
I stepped inside, the aged floor joists creaking beneath my feet. “Cooper?”
There was not a single running machine in the house, no moving air, no lights even. I quickly deduced this place probably had the utilities cut off weeks ago. I squinted in the low light, watching my step and scanning nearby furniture for any movement.
I made my way through a kitchen where drug paraphernalia littered the counter tops. Crack pipes, needles, lighters—so much. A seething curse slipped from my lips as a surge of emotion pricked behind my eyes. I blinked a few times.
“Cooper?” My voice wavered as I sent up a quiet prayer that Cooper hadn’t partook of the offerings here.
For a moment, I wondered if I’d ever been too hard on him, if I could have shown him more kindness and mercy.
If these were Cooper’s roots, he’d come a long, long way, and we should all be a lot more proud.
And not take the fact he was living and breathing for granted.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushing into a small bedroom at the back of the house. A double bed in the center of the room had two lumps beneath the covers. I tiptoed close enough to confirm it wasn’t him. An older couple, mid-fifties.
I knew the woman was probably Janice, but I didn’t want to entertain the thought of her being my best friend’s mother. They were snoring, completely unaware of the intruder in their home.
Most likely strung out, if the counter top was any indication.
I turned to search the house a few more minutes when Tag’s ear-splitting yell pierced the quiet house. “Jesse!”
I bolted through the house, drew my gun, and rushed out the front door to find Tag squatting in the bed of the Ford Ranger.
He leaned down, yelling my name on repeat.
Seeing no threat, I shoved my gun back into my holster and braced my palms on the side of the truck bed, using my momentum to heave my body inside.
The truck lurched under my weight as Tag pulled a very pale Cooper into his lap.
“I don’t know if he’s breathin’!”
Cooper’s face was white as a sheet, his lips blue-tinged.
His ash brown hair was matted with sweat—eyes wide open, pupils pinpricks.
His jeans and t-shirt were stained, damp, and disgusting.
The entire truck bed smelled like a two day bender, the scent of alcohol, urine, and vomit so strong my stomach jolted and my eyes watered.
“Coop!” Tag lightly smacked Cooper’s cheeks, but his eyes stared past him toward the sky—unblinking, unseeing.
After dialing 911, I shoved my phone into Tag’s hands then reached for Cooper’s wrists, searching for a pulse. It was there—barely.
When I leaned my head down to feel for some sort of exhale, I realized vomit coated his neck.
I didn’t know a damn thing about first aid, but I did know that someone throwing up while passed out was bad news.
Instinctively, I grabbed his shoulders, rolling him out of Tag’s lap and onto his side.
Sure enough, leftover vomit dribbled out of his mouth.
Reality hit me like a freight train.
Cooper was going to die.
My hands started to shake as I held Cooper steady and lightly rapped on his back like he was a baby or something. What was I even doing? I was way out of my depth—two left hands, all thumbs.
Tag gave the dispatcher our address.
My eyes scanned the truck bed, looking for things I could tell the paramedics when they arrived.
First, liquor bottles. Of the two I could see, one was a medium-sized bottle of Everclear.
There were no other water bottles, soda cans, nothing.
I didn’t know anyone who would drink something that strong—straight—for kicks.
Most experienced drinkers knew consuming 190 proof liquors was a gamble with your life unless you diluted it a lot.
And Cooper was an experienced drinker if there ever was one.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Second, there was a needle on the truck’s toolbox.
Third, his arm. I’d seen it multiple times—the scarring there. But the spandex sleeve he usually wore to cover it was rolled down to his wrist like a bracelet, three brand new cigarette burns oozing and festering—three fresh red polka dots over old, pink and white scar tissue.
This—all of it—was self harm. There was just no other way to see it.
This wasn’t a party where things got out of hand.
He was alone.
He was intentional.
Tag disconnected with the dispatcher, his hands cradling Cooper’s head again. “Why did you do this, Coop? Why?”
I could hardly listen to the pain in Tag’s voice. I knew exactly what it felt like to hold someone while they died. And I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. The sound of Tag’s desperation yanked the scab off my old wounds.
He whispered, his voice thready with emotion. “Just hang on, Coop. Hang on—and—and you’re gonna be alright.”
The memories of my own pleadings to Laurel, to hang on and stay with me, seared my brain like an iron. A burning, panicking sensation rippled through my chest as I stifled that nightmare and fought to stay in the moment for Tag.
“You can’t leave us, Laurel. Please stay.”
It felt like an hour before help arrived.
When they pulled into the neighborhood, I jumped down to make space and direct them to the truck bed. Like a swarm of bees, they descended on Cooper—gear ripped out, shots given, into the stretcher faster than I could blink.
Standing past the end of the truck, I watched, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time I ever saw him. Within mere minutes, the ambulance doors were closing on Cooper, Tag, and the paramedics. The sirens wailed as they whipped down the street toward the nearest hospital.
I stood there in the sudden quiet, staring down the street where they had disappeared. All at once, the neighborhood felt suffocating. I took a few, trembling breaths and searched for my phone, which Tag had tossed somewhere in the truck bed.
I ended up finding Cooper’s phone and wallet stuffed inside his boots, which were caked with thick grass clippings.
Wait.
Grass clippings?
My eyes darted to the abandoned mower in the front yard then back to his boots.
Of all the things I saw today, that was the worst.
My chest filled with so much sadness I couldn’t draw a breath. He had tried to mow her yard, hadn’t he? The woman didn’t even have power and water but Cooper was trying to do her a solid and mow her yard. And in return, she was sleeping off a high while he died in her front yard.
With feet like lead, I made my way around the Ranger, scanning the ground for any personal items. I threw trash into the truck bed and then opened the cab door.
In the passenger’s seat was a plastic Lowes’ Home Improvement bag with a pack of screws and plumber’s tape and another auto parts bag with two quarts of 10W-30.
Cooper never would’ve bought these items for himself.
The idea of Cooper helping out around this hell hole and trying to be a good son made him seem so human, so hungry, that I wanted to throw up. Tag himself said that Cooper had spent his whole life trying to gain something he would never get from his parents.
Love.
I wasn’t one for quick emotions, but the car oil was icing on the whole damn cake. My vision blurred for a moment as I wrestled down my empathy. I didn’t want to imagine what had driven Cooper to this level of reckless self-hatred.
My phone vibrated in my back pocket.
It was Hollie.
Worried something was amiss with Cade, I tapped the notification. A picture of my son filled the screen—he was holding a homemade donut, standing by a pan of frying oil at the big house. His smile was small, timid, but he didn’t look like he was having a panic attack. Actually, far from.
Maybe it was the tension of the last twenty-four hours that caused a tear to slip down my cheek. I sniffed and leaned against the side of the Ranger, tapping out a response.
Me
I needed to see that. Thank you. How is he?
Hollie
We had a rough start, but he’s doing great now.
How’s Cooper?
Me
Can you give me a call? It’s a lot to text.
Ten seconds later, my phone rang.