She's just… my mom.
Suddenly, I can't breathe. Not again. The thought shoots through me like an electric bolt. Hot and painful.I can't lose her. Not like this. Not right after Pete. The image slams into me. The gun. The blood. The way he slumped. Gone. Just like that.
"No," I whisper under my breath. "No, no, no?—"
I press my forehead against hers.
"You're not leaving me," I plead in a breaking voice. "Do you hear me? You're not?—"
My throat closes. I can't finish. Because what if she does? What if I'm sitting here, holding her, and this is the last time? No.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. Force it down. I can't fall apart. Not now. She needs me. She needs me. The car takes a sharp turn. I barely register it. All I feel is her weight against me. The uneven rhythm of her breathing. The way her fingers twitch weakly in mine.
"Audra." His voice cuts through everything. It's so low and steady. Grounded.
I look up. Gabe is twisted in his seat, watching me. Watching us. "It will be okay."
Something in me wants to snap. He can't know that. He doesn't know anything. People don't justsaythat. But… his eyes. They're calm, filled with a certainty that even death won't defy him. Like chaos doesn't touch him. Like he's already decided the outcome. I hate that in the middle of this—of all of this—his voice steadies something in me.
"I can't lose her," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I don't even know if I'm talking to him. Or to myself. Or to whatever is listening. His gaze doesn't waver.
"You won't." It's a statement. Simple and certain.
Like a promise. Like a fact. My fingers tighten around my mother's hand. I nod. Just once. Because I need to believe it. I need something to hold onto. Even if it's him. The car keeps speeding through the city. Lights blur past the windows. Sirens sound somewhere in the distance. Or maybe just in my head. I hold on to my mother like I can anchor her here by sheer force. Her breathing. Her warmth. Her hand in mine. And my mind betrays me as it flashes back to when she had her first stroke.
"Pete," I said in a shaking voice. "I think she's having a stroke."
His face went white. Completely white.
"Oh my God—oh my God—what do we do?" he had panicked, already fumbling for his phone. "Call 911—yeah—911?—"
Neither of us would have been able to drive. Not like that. Not with our hands shaking. Our hearts in our throats. It's not fair to compare. It isn't. Gabe has a driver. Men. Resources. Control. Of course, this looks different. Of course, it feels different. Still, the thought is there. As uninvited as it is persistent.
I followed the ambulance that night. My hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles hurt. Pete sat beside me, trying—God, he was trying—to be strong. For me. For both of us. But I remember thinking:I have to hold it together. For him too.
That was the first time. The second… I went alone. I swallow. The memory sits heavier. Quieter. Pete went to work. We needed the money. He was pushing for that promotion. Working late. Taking extra shifts. Doing everything right.
"I'll meet you there," he said.
But he didn't. I sat in that hospital room by myself. Waiting. Watching machines. Listening to doctors. Alone. I blink hard. Force myself back to now. Back to the present. To this car. To her in my arms. To… him. I look up. Gabe is still turned toward me. Watching. Not panicking. Not rushing his words. Not trying to fill the silence with meaningless reassurances. He's just there. Steady. Certain. Like nothing in this world could shake him. Something inside me, something tight, frantic, and clawing, just… loosens.
Not completely. Not even close. But enough. Enough that I can breathe. Enough that my hands stop trembling quite so badly. I don't understand it. I don't understand him. I shouldn't feel this. Not now. Not after… But I do.
The car barely stops before the door is ripped open. Cold air hits my face. Voices. Movement. Bright lights.
"We're here," someone announces.
Gabe is already moving. He's wearing shoes, pants, and a shirt, and I barely notice that the driver is missing all three.During one burst of reality, I pull the jacket one of the guards gave me closer, aware suddenly that I'm still in my PJs and barefoot.
Gabe doesn't wait. Doesn't hesitate. He lifts my mother out of the car and strides straight toward the ER entrance. I scramble after him, still clutching her hand, half-running to keep up. The doors slide open. Noise crashes into us. Phones ringing. People talking. Someone crying. The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic. Chaos in someone else's life. Gabe doesn't slow. He walks straight to the desk, past waiting people in line. He slams his fist down. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot. The receptionist stares at him with wide eyes.
"Doctor. Now."
Everything stops. Not completely. But enough. Heads turn. Voices falter. A nurse freezes mid-step. The woman behind the desk blinks up at him, startled.
A security guard starts forward. "Sir, you can't?—"
One of Gabe's men steps in front of him. He gives him just the smallest shake of the head. That's all it takes. The guard stops. Doesn't argue. Doesn't push. Just… backs off.
