Brooks clicks his tongue, shaking his head as if I’ve said something profoundly stupid.
"Maybe the real question is, what’s wrong withyou?" His words are quiet but razor-sharp, cutting through my defenses in a way I don’t expect.
Before I can come up with a retort, he steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he heads for the door. I turn to watch him leave, my chest tight and my mind spinning.
Maybe I didn’t outgrow this town. Maybe it outgrew me. But if that’s true… why does Brooks Mercer keep showing up like some stubborn reminder that I still belong?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Craft It
The day nurse adjusts Dad’s monitors and jots something onto his chart. I don’t bother asking what it says. I already know. No change. He hasn’t woken up. The steady beep of the machines fills the room, their rhythm both comforting and stifling.
I’ve been sitting here for two days straight, holding vigil by his bed like my presence alone could somehow will him back to life. If there’s no improvement by tomorrow… I can’t even let myself finish the thought.
I glance at him, the rise and fall of his chest almost imperceptible under the thin hospital blanket. His face looks unfamiliar—too pale, too still. This is the man who used to swing me onto his shoulders like I weighed nothing. The man who could fix anything with duct tape and a gruff "good as new." The front porch swing. The handlebars on my bike. Now, I can’t even tell if he knows I’m here.
I press my phone’s home button, the screen lighting up with notifications I’ve been trying to ignore.New comments. New likes. New messages.People are starting to notice. Sierra and Lyla even removed my name from our jointly tagged videos. The second brand trip in a row I’ve missed, and the questions are pouring in. My heart sinks to the scuffed linoleum floor. I’malmost out of pre-recorded drafts, and the few I have left are already scheduled to post.
I need to start posting again.
The thought feels like a slap, jarring and misplaced in the sterile silence of the hospital room. But it’s there, relentless and insistent. My fingers twitch over the screen as I swipe through my apps, the familiar motions an automatic response to the gnawing anxiety in my chest.
I look back at Dad, his face lit dimly by the harsh overhead light, and my stomach churns. How am I supposed to be thinking about filters and captions when he might not…?
I shake the thought away, swallowing hard. One more day, they said. One more day to see if there’s any improvement.
I just have to hold on until then.
"You should head home and get some rest," the day nurse says gently, her voice cutting through the steady hum of the monitors.
I rub a hand over my face, my fingers brushing against the faint sting of tired skin. "I could use a shower," I admit hoarsely after two days of silence and half-hearted conversations.
She chuckles softly, tucking a stray wisp of hair back under her cap. "I’ll call you if there’s any change."
I grab a napkin from the bedside table, motioning toward the pen tucked into her pocket. "Let me give you my cell. If something happens, I’m the best person to reach. My mom…" I trail off, swallowing hard. "She’s not great with this kind of thing."
The nurse pauses, her eyes flicking to mine with quiet understanding. "Your mom hasn’t been here." She doesn’t say it accusingly, but I hear the judgment anyway
"She has… a hard time leaving the house," I say, keeping my tone neutral, though the words feel like ash on my tongue. "I’ll be back this evening to sit with him."
The nurse nods, her expression kind but professional.
"We’ll take good care of him," she says, her hand brushing lightly over Dad’s blanket as if sealing a promise.
I offer a faint smile, though it feels hollow, and stand. The chair creaks in protest as I push it back, the sound louder than it should be in the sterile quiet of the room. The weight in my chest doesn’t lighten as I head for the door, but at least the promise of a hot shower feels like a small step forward. For now.
My phone buzzes as I walk down the fluorescent-lit hallway, its cold glow reflecting off the glossy floor tiles. I glance at the screen and see Edna’s name flash across it. Edna, my manager—red curls, purple glasses, and a reputation sharp enough to cut steel. She’s been in the game longer than I’ve been alive, and her no-nonsense attitude has gotten me through more than a few PR messes.
I take a steadying breath before answering. "Hey, Edna."
"You’re not on the brand trip," she says without preamble. Her voice isn’t annoyed. It’s not even curious. It’s just a statement of fact.
"I’m dealing with some personal issues," I reply, hoping it’ll be enough to end the conversation.
"Personal issues or not," Edna exhales, a sharp, clipped sound that makes my shoulders tense, "you need to stay present. The moment you’re not in front of their faces, they’ll forget about you."
"I know," I say quietly. I do know. She doesn’t have to remind me.
