"She needs help." I let out a frustrated groan. "I sent money for her to see a therapist. I sent money for her to get the help she needs."
What did they do with all the money I sent? I took brand deal after brand deal, working myself into the ground to make sure there was money for Mom and Dad to have all the things they’d gone without while raising us. All the things we didn’t have when I was a kid.
"Don’t make this about money." My brother sighs, frustration leaking from every pore in his body.
He’s right. Making this about money isn’t going to solve anything. Not anymore.
I hold up both hands, trying to diffuse the situation. "I’m sorry for saying that. This is about Dad. We should focus on him. What’s the latest update?"
"Charlene, she was friends with my grandma," Brooks says as he stands. “She sent word from the hospital twenty minutes ago. He’s still in ICU, but I can take you to see him."
Brooks is going to take me? Why can’t Jasper?
Jasper’s eyes flick to his best friend, and something unspoken passes between them. That look. The one that used to make me want to scream when we were kids, like they had a secret language I wasn’t part of. Even now, it makes me feel twelve years old again, standing on the outside.
"Brooks can take you," Jasper says, and I catch the way his voice wavers like he’s trying to hold something back. "It’s better if you go now. Get it over with."
"Get it over with?" I repeat, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "That’s Dad you’re talking about."
Jasper flinches, his hand running through his hair again. It’s a nervous habit he’s had since we were kids, one that always showed up when he didn’t have the right words. "I didn’t mean it like that, Ellie. I just… I know it’s going to be hard."
Hard? I’ve never been one to shy away from hard things. In the social media world, I face challenges head-on. I tackle them, conquer them, and then post a perfectly edited video about the experience. But this? This is different. Thisisharder.
Brooks picks up on my hesitation, stepping closer, his presence both grounding and unsettling. "You’re not doing this alone," he says, voice low. And for once, there’s no teasing. Just quiet, steady truth.
Alone.The word echoes in my mind, reminding me of all the times I’ve chosen solitude over connection. It’s easier that way. Safer. But as I look at Brooks standing there with that damn expression on his face, maybe I don’t want to be alone in this. Not right now, anyway.
"Okay," I say. "Let’s go."
Jasper looks relieved as he reaches out and squeezes my arm, a silent thank you. "I’ll stay here with Mom," he says. "But text me when you’re on your way back, okay?"
I nod, and before I can second-guess myself, I follow Brooks out of the room.
The hallway feels narrower than I remember, the walls closing in on me as we make our way to the front door. Each step feels heavier than the last, the reality of what I’m about to face sinking in.
When we step outside, the air is still thick but the sun is higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the driveway. Brooks leads the way to his truck, an old four-door truck that looks like an off-brand collab I would never sponsor. It smells like rust and motor oil. Just like I remember.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I hesitate for a second before climbing in.
As he rounds the front of the truck and slides into the driver’s seat, I find myself stealing a glance at him. He’s changed since the last time I saw him. There’s a quiet confidence about him now that wasn’t there before. It’s unnerving, this new version of him, and I’m not sure how to navigate it.
The engine rumbles to life, coughing before it steadies, and the whole cab smells like leather worn thin and pine sap. Gravel crunches under the tires as we pull away, dust trailing in the side mirror. For a long stretch, neither of us speaks. The silence is filled instead with the low hum of an old country station crackling through the radio, a guitar twang threading through the heavy quiet. My fingers trace the seam of the seat, restless, while Brooks drives like every curve in the road is mapped into his brain. It probably is.
"Ellie," Brooks breaks the silence after a few minutes. "I know this isn’t easy for you. We’ll get through it."
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. "I’m not ready for this," I admit. "Any of this."
"I know," he says, his gaze never leaving the road. "But you don’t have to be. Just take it one step at a time. We’ll figure it out."
There’s a sincerity in his words that I can’t ignore, a reassurance that’s oddly comforting.
In LA, I always knew what came next. The schedule, the script, the perfect angle. Out here, there’s no script. Just trees, silence, and the weight of everything I can’t edit out.
For the first time in a long time, I’ll have to live this moment unfiltered.
CHAPTER FOUR
No Second Take
