"Yeah," Brooks agrees too quickly. Like he’s relieved this conversation is over.
Honestly, it was getting a little too personal for my liking.
The walk back to the house is quiet.
I came out here to fake a moment. But now, I can’t stop thinking about the ones I didn’t plan.
Water drips from the ends of my hair, trailing down my spine, making me shiver despite the humid heat. I follow behind Brooks, watching the way his shoulders tense and flex with each step. He doesn’t say much, but he does turn back when I stumble over a downed stump.
His fingers find my wrist, holding tight for a second too long.
Then, he lets go.
I exhale, annoyed at myself for even noticing.
"You heading back to the hospital tonight?" Brooks finally asks when we reach the house.
I shake my head. "I don’t know. I should probably stay here and deal with…" I trail off, waving a hand toward the house. Toward Mom. Toward everything I’ve been avoiding.
He nods like he understands. "I’ll grab a pizza and some beer in town for dinner."
See what I mean? The most responsible and irresponsible person I know.
"Take Jasper with you?" I ask, desperate for a little peace.
Brooks pulls a clean shirt from his truck, yanking it over his head. He’s dry now, but his hair is still damp, strands curling at the edges. I don’t look too long.
"Yeah," he says easily.
I head inside, my chest heavy, my brain foggy. But as I scroll through my video footage, I realize I have enough clips to leaninto the nature aesthetic Brooks was talking about. Maybe, for once, he had a point.
So, while they’re gone, I change into pajamas, curl up on the couch, and start editing.
I even leave in some shots of Brooks. The way he grinned before jumping into the water. His smirk when he caught me staring. The look he gave me as if I’m an equation he can’t quite solve.
It sells the illusion that everything is fine.
It’s not.
I hit post, set my phone aside.
And freeze when Mom walks into the room.
"Oh," she says, blinking at me. "Didn’t expect you to be… here."
I study her. She looks exhausted, like she’s spent more time fighting herself than anything else today.
"You want to watch a show?" I offer, trying to make my voice sound normal.
Mom lets out a slow breath. "You must hate me."
The words hit like a gut punch. It hurts. Maybe because I’ve thought it. Maybe because I never wanted her to say it out loud.
"No," I say quickly, shaking my head. "Not at all."
She doesn’t look convinced.
Then, softer, she says, "When you were born, you lifted your head just hours after they placed you on my chest. You were so tiny but already so strong." I swallow, unsure where she’s going with this. "You’ve always been strong," she continues.
