Chapter 42
forty-two
brEE
The doorbell chimes, and my stomach flips.
I drag in a breath, pressing my palms against my jeans in a useless attempt to calm myself.
It’s surreal. Three weeks ago, I was pacing hospital hallways, drowning in fear.
Now, I’m pacing the living room, nerves rattling for an entirely different reason. My parents are here.
I glance over at Callan, and the sight of him soothes some of the chaos swirling inside me.
He’s upright, moving carefully, but there’s adoration in his eyes as he watches me like I’m the most fascinating thing in the room.
It’s a far cry from those long nights in the hospital when every shift of his body made my heart stop.
Some parts of me feel like I’m still walking on unsteady ground, but I’m getting there. I think.
“You gonna answer that, or are we just letting them stand out there till they assume we’ve fled the country?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m preparing myself.”
With another deep breath, I swing the door open. My parents are standing on my doorstep, flesh and blood, not just voices on a phone screen. Nugget is wiggling in front of them, all floppy tongue and boundless excitement.
“Surprise!” Mom’s voice is bright with excitement, and before I can react, she’s crushing me in a tight hug. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you.”
It’s hard to breathe, but not because I’m trapped in her embrace. More like…because my heart can’t quite keep up. They’re here. They’re really here.
“I’ve missed you guys so much,” I whisper.
Dad joins the hug, sandwiching me between them. “We’ve missed you, too, kiddo.”
I pull back, blinking away the unexpected tears, only to laugh when Nugget starts demanding attention.
I kneel down, wrapping my arms around him as he leaps into my lap, licking my face like he’s been deprived of love for centuries.
“Oh, I missed you so much, buddy,” I mutter, laughing through the wet assault.
Nugget’s ears perk up as his eyes land on Callan, his head tilting to the side. And I get it, Callan looks different with his face still bearing the memory of his accident, his leg in a cast as he leans on his crutch.
Mom’s the first to notice and hurries toward him, hands reaching out in concern. “Oh, Callan.” She pulls him into a gentle hug. “Bless your heart. You’ve done a number to yourself.”
Callan chuckles softly as he hugs her back. “Aye, I’ve had better days. I’m on the mend, though, thanks to your daughter here.”
Dad steps forward then, giving Callan a firm handshake. “Good to see you up and about, son. You gave us all quite a scare.”
“Believe me, I had myself worried, too,” he admits with a wry smile. “But I’m tougher than I look.”
Nugget, ever the little investigator, sniffs at Callan’s cast. His tail gives a cautious wag, like he’s not entirely sure what to make of it.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I say gently, kneeling beside him. “It’s still Callan.”
As if my words flip a switch, Nugget’s tail transforms into a blur of motion, and he jumps up, placing his tiny paws on Callan’s good leg.
Callan flinches, a quick, instinctive movement that I don’t miss.
He’s not entirely comfortable with Nugget’s sudden approach.
But then he bends carefully, ignoring the obvious protest from his ribs, and scratches him behind the ears.
“There’s my wee partner in crime. Did you miss me, lad? ”
Nugget answers with an enthusiastic round of licks, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement.
“Guess he did miss you,” I chuckle.
“Hard to stay away from a face like this.” Callan grins, looking up at me with that familiar twinkle in his eye.
Mom watches the scene unfold, her smile soft and a little wistful. “It’s good to see you both doing well.”
I meet her gaze, matching her smile. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll take your bags up to the guest room. You guys sit and relax.”
“I’ll take them up with you,” Dad says, already reaching for one of the suitcases.
“I can manage, Dad.”
He raises an eyebrow, giving me the look. The one that says arguing is pointless. “Humor your old man, will you?”
I relent, rolling my eyes but smiling as I grab one bag while he hoists the other. The stairs creak softly beneath us as we climb. Behind us, Mom fusses over Callan.
At the top of the stairs, Dad stops, his voice dropping low. “So, how are you really doing, Bree?”
The question catches me off guard, and I pause with my hand on the guest room doorknob. “I’m…okay,” I say slowly. “It’s been tough, but we’re getting there. Callan’s getting there.”
He nods, but his sharp eyes search my face. “And the panic attacks?” he asks. “Your mom mentioned you were still having them.”
I sigh, nudging the door open with my shoulder and setting the suitcase down by the bed. “Not as often, but…yeah. I’m working on it.”
He stands in the doorway, silent for a moment before quietly asking, “Does Callan know?”
“Uh…no,” I admit. “I didn’t want to put anything else on his plate. He’s got enough to worry about.”
I glance up, expecting a nod or some sort of easy agreement, but instead, he sees right through my bullshit. He always has.
His face carries a quiet kind of exhaustion that comes from years of holding his own family together. It’s not disappointment, never that. But it’s a reminder that he knows I’ve been carrying more than I’m letting on.
And he’s right.
I’ve gotten good at hiding it.
The tight chest, the numb fingers, the dizzying swirl of thoughts that make my lungs forget how to work.
I know exactly how to fake uniform breaths and crack a joke before the spiral starts.
I know how to bite down on the edge of a panic attack until it feels like I’ve swallowed glass, all so no one notices.
And when I can’t fake it well enough, I retreat to the kitchen or pretend there’s laundry that needs to be done so I can be alone for a bit.
I swallow hard, looking away as my throat tightens. “I’m fine, Dad.”
He steps farther into the room, setting his suitcase down beside mine. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Say you’re fine when you’re not.”
I open my mouth to argue, but there’s no point. The silence stretches between us until I finally sit down on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “It’s just…a lot,” I admit quietly, my tone wavering despite my best effort to keep it steady.
Dad sits beside me, close but not too close, giving me space to speak if I want to. “You don’t have to do it all by yourself.” His voice is calm and encouraging. The same voice that reassured me through scraped knees and broken hearts. “That’s what we’re here for. What he’s here for.”
I shift uncomfortably, my gaze dropping to my feet as if the worn carpet can somehow shield me from the weight in my chest. Letting anyone see my flaws, especially Dad, feels like admitting failure.
It’s easier to plaster on a smile, to shove the anxiety so far down that it fades into the background.
“I don’t want to burden anyone.”
His hand rests on my shoulder. “You’re not a burden, sweetheart,” he says gently. “I know you’ve been looking out for Callan, but you need to take care of yourself, too.”
The sincerity in his words cracks me open, and I feel the telltale sting of tears. I blink them away quickly, swallowing hard against the lump rising in my throat. Breaking down in front of him is like letting the dam burst, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to rebuild it.
“I’m trying,” I whisper, my voice holding steady. “I just…don’t know how to do it right.”
His hand tightens on my shoulder. “There’s no ‘right way,’ kiddo. You’re already doing it, one step at a time. You just have to let people help you along the way.”
I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear those words, how much I’d been holding my breath without even knowing it.
“Now,” he says. “Let’s see if we can find some lunch before Nugget gets too impatient.”
The mention of the dog pulls a small laugh from me.
After lunch, jetlag finally catches up with my parents, and they retreat upstairs. I’ve been watching Callan flick through TV channels for an hour now.
“You’re abusing the remote power,” I huff.
He eyes me without moving, lips twitching. “I’ve narrowed it down to Sharknado or a documentary about mushroom foraging.”
“Wow. I’m wet.”
He smirks. “Same.”
I laugh, tucking my legs under me and stealing the remote. “Give me that.”
I settle against him, head resting on his shoulder as I scroll. “So…no to fungal education. What about a classic rom-com? Something with a dance montage and a public declaration of love?”
He groans. “Fine. On one condition—there has to be at least one scene where someone dramatically runs through an airport.”
“I’ll allow it.”
He kisses the top of my head. “You’re lucky I’m whipped.”
I won’t argue that.
As I’m scrolling through more options, all I can think about is how much I want to close the small space between us and kiss him. Just one kiss. Or a dozen. But then I’d forget how to think straight, and I’m barely hanging on as it is.
Before I can spiral into more thoughts about what his kiss might taste like, the sound of footsteps from upstairs interrupts me.
I glance toward the staircase just as my parents come back down, looking refreshed after their nap.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“Much,” Mom replies, sinking into the armchair with a sigh of relief. “Though I’m still not quite sure what time it is.”
Dad chuckles softly, easing into the seat next to her. “I think my body’s still somewhere over the Atlantic.”
Callan grins. “Well, we’ve got just the thing to wake you up. How about a wee dram of whisky?”
Dad’s eyes light up at the suggestion, his mood instantly lifting. “Now you’re speaking my language, son.”