“Brody.” She takes my hand again. Firm. Grounding. “I’m going with you. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
I should argue. Should tell her this isn’t her problem. Should maintain the careful distance between professional arrangement and whatever this is becoming.
But I can’t.
Because my father is in the hospital.
And I don’t want to face it alone.
“Okay,” I manage.
We leave the restaurant together, the Barcelona magic dissipating into the cold February night and the smell of car exhaust and the sound of my heart pounding too fast in my chest.
The perfect evening is over.
And I have no idea what’s waiting for us at the hospital.
But Chloe’s hand is in mine.
And somehow, that makes it bearable.
CHLOE
Hennepin County Medical Center smells like antiseptic and bad coffee and anxiety in the way only emergency rooms can.
I’m standing next to Brody in a temporary ER bay—curtains for walls, beeping monitors, the constant shuffle of nurses and doctors moving between patients—watching a young doctor with cartoon penguins on her scrubs explain Brody’s dad’s discharge instructions.
“Broken collarbone,” she’s saying. “It’s a clean break, so it should heal in six to eight weeks with rest and physical therapy. We’re prescribing pain medication and a follow-up appointment with orthopedics.”
Robert Kane is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, looking significantly smaller than I expected.
I don’t know what I imagined. Some larger-than-life figure, maybe. The kind of father whose shadow you can’t escape.
But he’s just…a man. Mid-fifties, graying hair, weathered face, wearing a hospital gown, and looking deeply, profoundly embarrassed.
“Was he drinking?” Brody’s voice is carefully controlled.
The doctor’s expression shifts. Sympathetic but honest. “His BAC was point-one-two. Just over the legal limit. He drove into a light pole. It could have been much worse.” She glances at Robert. “You’ll be hearing from the police about charges. But medically, you’re clear to go home.”
Brody’s face goes carefully blank.
That Candy Kane expression I’m starting to recognize as his default when emotions get too big to handle.
“I can get dressed,” Robert says quietly. “Give me five minutes.”
The doctor nods and disappears through the curtain.
Silence.
Brody is staring at the floor. Jaw tight. Shoulders rigid.
I want to say something comforting.
I have no idea what that would be.
Your drunk father wrapped his car around a light pole, but hey, he’s not dead doesn’t exactly inspire warm fuzzy feelings.
“I’m sorry,” Robert says finally. His voice is hoarse. “I know you’ve got better things to do than?—”
