There’s a special kind of humiliation in standing outside Lexington General with a soggy paper bag of cookies and no plan. The rain didn’t even bother with drama, just the pissy drizzle that made the city look like it was sweating off last night’s bad choices. I’d spent half an hour orbiting the ambulance bay, the heels of my discount designer flats getting eaten alive by the sidewalk. The cellophane on the bag had turned milky. My hair was stringy and limp from the mist, and I’d almost cried twice. Almost, but not quite—Maple girls don’t leak in public, not unless it’s for a camera or Jesus.
I checked my phone for the fourth time. No new texts. The last one from Dad read, “Board meeting went late. Don’t forget the pork chops in the fridge.” No mention of the brawl.
I rehearsed it, anyway. The apology. The walk. The delivery. Hey, sorry my people tried to beat you to death. Sorry forspreading my legs for you, even though I knew what was going to happen. I'd been a cunt, here’s a fuck-ton of gluten.
It wasn’t much, but it was the best I could do. That, and not run away screaming.
The inside of the hospital was a punch of lemon bleach and hot, dead air. There were Christmas decorations strung over the check-in desk, but they sagged under their own weight, like even the tinsel wanted to die here. I drifted past the nurse’s station, kept my head down, and did what I’d practiced a thousand times, making myself invisible. It’s easy when nobody wants to look at you, which is 90% of life in a hospital, and 100% if you’re a woman in a dress with a neck still showing last night’s bruises.
Room 307A was on the third floor, which made sense. They kept the brawlers away from the newborns and the dying, as if violence was an infection that could spread by proximity. The hallway was half-lit, every other bulb burnt out or buzzing. I slowed my steps, peered through the square of wired glass in the door, and stopped cold.
Inside, Vin was standing at the foot of the bed, arms folded, tattoos crawling up his biceps like they were trying to strangle him from the inside. His voice was low and flat, but every word carried. I recognized the tone—the way a man gets when he knows every exit and is about to block them all.
“You think this is a fucking joke?” Vin snapped. “You’re two weeks in, and I got you on the news in a Santa suit with half your face caved in. That’s not how we do business. That’s not how you prospect for this club.”
Axel was propped up against a pyramid of hospital pillows, eyes blacked, gauze across his temple, jawline one solid stripe of purple and green. He didn’t look at Vin. He stared out the window at the parking lot lights melting in the rain. His hands were steady, even as he peeled the tape off an IV line like it was a snake ready to bite him.
“You want me to say I’m sorry?” Axel said. His voice was shredded, half an octave lower than usual.
Vin leaned in, palms on the footboard. “I want you to act like you give a shit if you live or die. I want you to stop making it about you.”
I watched, holding my breath, the cookie bag sweating against my palm.
Axel’s eyes darted to Vin, sharp as a switchblade. “If you want me out, just say it. I’ll walk.”
“You won’t make it down the stairs,” Vin said, and I thought he meant it as a threat, but then I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his left fist kept opening and closing. The world’s shittiest dad, scolding a kid for jumping off the roof but too scared to say he loved him.
Vin straightened, rolled his neck. “I’ll be in the waiting room. Don’t go anywhere.” He stomped out, leaving a wake of bleach and rage.
I counted to five, then slipped in. Axel didn’t look up. His whole body was a freeze frame of battered grace—the kind of man who could get hit by a truck and still look like he was about to start something.
I tried to think of a cool opening line. Instead, I croaked, “Hey.”
He flicked his eyes my way, then did a double-take. I realized how bad I must have looked—hair plastered to my face, the runnels of mascara down my cheeks, and a week’s worth of shame packed into a five-dollar dress.
He said, “You okay?” like he hadn’t just been used as a mop by half the church security detail.
I tried for a smile. It didn’t stick. “I brought cookies,” I said, thrusting the ruined bag at him.
He took it, stared at the misshapen lumps inside, then at me. “You make these?”
“My Grandma’s recipe,” I lied, because what was I supposed to say? That I’d watched a YouTube tutorial at three a.m. and then burned half the batch?
He pulled one out, considered it, then took a bite. His jaw flared at the effort, but he chewed through the pain. “Good,” he said, mouth full. “Thanks.”
A silence grew, heavy and jagged. I perched on the edge of the vinyl chair beside the bed, hands twisting in my lap. The hospital’s heating system made the air feel like it was filtered through a sock.
“I’m sorry,” I said, before I chickened out. “About… everything. The fight. My dad. The way the church people are. I never meant for those pricks to gut you like that.”
Axel shrugged, winced. “I’ve had worse.”
“Yeah, but not in front of a thousand kids. Or with a fake beard duct-taped to your face.”
He actually smiled at that, just a flicker, but it was real.
I stared at my shoes, at the half-moons of mud around the soles. “You don’t have to be nice. I know you probably think I’m an idiot.”
He looked at me, then shook his head. “You’re braver than most people I know.”
