"I think you’ve worked hard to forget who you were," he counters, quieter but no less pointed.
The barista places our drinks on the counter with a cheerful "Here you go!" that feels absurdly out of place. I grab my latte with a little too much force, the warmth of the cup seeping into my hand as I glare at Brooks. He picks up his coffee, as cool and collected as ever, and tilts it toward me in a mock toast.
"To forgetting," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"To leaving," I reply, my voice icy as I rip the croissant bag off the counter.
He grins, and for a second, I hate how much it rattles me. "See you around,Elowen," he says, strolling toward the door like he’s won some unspoken argument.
I stand there, my chest tight with anger and something a lot like resignation. I take a shaky sip of my latte, but it doesn’t do much to calm the storm raging inside me.
Once I’m safely back in the rental car, I take a sobering bite of croissant. It’s warm and buttery, exactly what I need to dull the sting of embarrassment still scorching my face.
I never meant to become this person. Someone who offers autographs and selfies instead of substance. Instead of real conversations and real connections. Someone who can’t even recognize classmates she grew up with.
The air conditioning roars to life, cold against my overheated cheeks, and I cling to the reminder that I’m notfullythat person. I came home, didn’t I? I’m driving to the hospital. I’ll sit with Dad, talk to the doctors, face the hard things no one else will.
Maybe that counts for something. Maybe it proves I’m not as hollow as Brooks Mercer thinks I am.
The drive to the hospital is slow. I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary, my knuckles pale against the leather. I try not to think about where I’m headed or why. It’s easier to focus on the steady hum of the tires against the asphalt, their rhythm a lonely, hollow soundtrack to the morning.
When I finally pull into the hospital parking lot, I head straight for the back, where the spaces are less crowded. For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the dashboard as if it might give me answers I don’t have. The half-eaten croissant Brooks paid for sits on the passenger seat, staring back at me like it’s judging me. I grab it, tearing off another piece and forcing myself to chew.
I don’t want to cry again. Not over a croissant. Not over Brooks. Not over a family that doesn’t understand how we ended up here.
Angry. I’m so angry. And I don’t even know why I’m here. Dad’s still not awake, and it’s not like there’s anyone else in the room waiting for him to open his eyes. Jasper? Too busy babysitting Mom, even though she doesn’t need it. She doesn’t leave the house. What’s he really protecting her from? The laundry? Her afternoon soap operas? Dinner prep? She’s a grown woman, for crying out loud.
The croissant disappears bite by bite, though I can’t taste it. When it’s gone, I crumple the paper bag into my fist and shove it into the cupholder. My chest feels heavy, like someone’s draped a weighted blanket over me, but I know I can’t sit here all day.
I step out of the rental car, the door closing behind me with a muted thud. The hospital looms ahead, its sterile walls and too-bright windows feel unwelcoming despite the "Welcome" sign above the front entrance. My feet drag beneath me, deadweight against the cracked pavement as I cross the crowded parking lot.Each step feels heavier than the last, like the closer I get, the harder it is to move.
By the time I reach the sliding glass doors, my pulse is thrumming in my ears. The buzz of people coming and going, the faint sound of wheelchairs squeaking and gurneys rolling in the distance. I stand there for a moment, staring at the automatic doors as they open and close like a mouth that’s swallowing visitors whole.
And then, before I can think too much about it, I step inside and immediately run into a hard shoulder.
"Sorry," I mumble, steadying myself after the collision. But the apology dies in my throat the moment I see who it is.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," I groan. "What, are you stalking me now? Or is this your new brand of small-town ambulance-chasing?"
Brooks gives me a slow, deliberately fake smile, the kind that makes my skin crawl. "No, I’m working."
"You work here?"
I drag a hand down my face. He’s everywhere, like gum stuck to the bottom of my favorite shoe.
"No," Brooks says, crossing his arms over his chest. "I drive the shuttle van for the local shuttle company."
I blink, staring at him like he’s sprouted a second head. "You’re essentially a taxi for the town?"
"That’s one way to look at it," he replies, his voice flat but edged with annoyance. "Then again, I guess we can’t all be models driving Ferraris down Rodeo Drive, can we?"
"You sound jealous," I shoot back. "Seriously, Brooks? This is what you’re doing with your life?" I wave a hand in the air, motioning to nothing and everything. "Driving people around for tips?"
Hadn’t he once talked about leaving for college? About architecture, or something big?
His exhales, but he doesn’t take the bait. "Not all of us need Ferraris or fame to be happy," he says, his tone even, though his nostrils flare. "Some of us are perfectly fine with simpler things. Like warm homes and being surrounded by the few people we actually care about."
I scoff, crossing my arms. "There’s something wrong with this place if that’s all you’re hoping for in life."
