At least Brooks has been at the hospital. He’s checked in on Dad. He’s checked in on me. So why can’t my own flesh and blood do the same?
I glance back at him, my voice quieter. "Thank you."
His brows furrow slightly. "For what?"
I hesitate, then place my hand on his arm. His warm, solid arm. His eyes flicker to where my fingers rest, like he’s startled I’m touching him at all.
"I hate all of it," I say, the words raw. "This place. The selfishness. Dad in a hospital bed. The whole thing. But you…" I trail off.
His gaze darkens, searching my face. "I’m what?"
I swallow. "You’re always around. Which is annoying. But you’re also the only person actually trying to help."
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me with an intensity that makes my chest feel tight. His fingers flex like he wants to reach for me. But then, instead of something heartfelt, he does the most Brooks thing possible.
He lifts a hand as if to touch my face, then flips it over and presses the back to my forehead awkwardly, half joke, half worry. When I jerk away, he doesn’t pull back. His other hand lands at my waist, steadying me.
"What the hell?"
"Just checking," he says, completely straight-faced. "First, you agree to go on a date with a lying loser. Now you’re getting all soft and sentimental with me? You must be coming down with something."
I swat at his arm, but he’s quick, catching my wrist before I can make contact, and pulling me flush against him.
His chest is hard beneath my palm, his heartbeat a steady thrum against my skin. His fingers tighten around my wrist, gentle but firm, his other hand curling around my waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
"Let me go," I demand, but it comes out breathy. Weak.
Brooks exhales through his nose, his voice lower now. "I know you’re losing followers," he says. "But is that really all you care about?"
I blink up at him, my thoughts static.
"You say your family is selfish," he continues, "but have you actually taken a good look in the mirror? You’re selfish, too. And if you want them to do things differently—if you want them to show up and not run away—then you have to show them how."
"I’m here now, aren’t I?" I snap as his thumb rubs a slow, lazy circle against my wrist.
"I’ll talk to Jasper," Brooks promises. "But I’m not forcing anyone to do something they’re not ready for. We all have trauma, Ellie. Even me."
I lick my lips, suddenly nervous. "Your grandmother?"
Something flickers behind his eyes. But instead of answering, he says, "Your mom’s been waiting for you to sit next to her and talk. But all you do is run out the door."
"She hasn’t made an effort either!" I argue, my voice rising.
Brooks tilts his head slightly. "You left, and she fell apart. You never called. You never even sent a postcard. You ran, and now you’re standing here for the first time since you left, judging everyone. It’s not just Jasper and your mom who need to figure their shit out. It’s you, too."
A pair of headlights cut across the driveway.
But I don’t look away from Brooks.
My blood is boiling. He has the audacity to tell me I need to get it together? I dropped everything to be here. My career might be ruined. I almost lost my dad. What more could I possibly do?
My voice comes out low, sharp. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."
Brooks doesn’t flinch. Just watches me. Like he sees straight through me.
"Figure your shit out, Ellie. Then come find me."
He turns and disappears back inside, leaving me standing on the porch, my chest rising and falling too fast.
