Page 119 of When the Smoke Clears

“Yeah,” Will whispers, dropping his chin and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Um.” He clears his throat and opens his bloodshot eyes. “She told me to come home because she knows I don’t want to witness his last breath.” Again, he swallows hard. “Neither does she, but she won’t leave him. But I don’t think he’s dying tonight,” he says like he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true. “I’ll sleep and then get up early to relieve her.”

I nod several times, hands folded in front of me. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

Will’s gaze lands on me. It’s filled with pain and conflict.

“This is a very personal time for your family, and I want to respect your wishes,” I say.

His shoulders sag a little more.

I step in front of him, pressing a hand to his cheek. He leans into my touch, and it feels like the weight of his anguish is suffocating my heart; the heaviness is almost unbearable.

“Are you going to Hopkins?” he murmurs.

I don’t want to leave until after his dad passes, until I know he’s going to be okay. But I can’t say that.

“Yes,” I reply without adding all the conditions I want to attach to my decision.

I’ll go if you’ll visit me.

If you’ll invite me back here to see you.

If it doesn’t mean you’re moving on without me.

“Do something amazing. Cure mental illness. Autism. Alzheimer’s. Win a Nobel Prize.”

I grin, tracing his cheekbone with the pad of my thumb. “And I thought my mom had high expectations.”

Will attempts a smile, but it doesn’t fit his face. The grief won’t accommodate it. “I bet your father has even higher ones. Have you told him you’re taking the job?”

I blink back my emotions. “Not yet. But I will,” I whisper with my heart lodged so tightly in my throat it feels like I could turn blue.

“He’s going to be proud of you.” Will’s calloused hand encircles my wrist, and he kisses my palm. “Moms are hardwired to be proud of their kids no matter what, but dads seem to insist on receipts before they puff out their chests and call you a chip off the old block.”

I laugh and quickly pull my hand away from him to wipe my tears before they escape. “I think you might be right.”

Will drops his gaze. “The doctor gave my dad a day, maybe two.”

“I’m sorry.” I wedge myself between his knees and pull his head to my chest, stroking his hair. “Is there anything I can do for you or your mom before I leave in the morning?”

Will pulls away. “Don’t . . .” He shakes his head. “Fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing. I want you to leave, and I want you to stay. I want my dad out of pain, but I don’t want him to fucking die. I’m just, I don’t know.” He swipes the heel of his hand along the corner of his eye.

It’s okay for him to cry in front of me, but I won’t say that. Instead, I squeeze his hand and whisper, “Rest. I’m here for now if you need me. And if you don’t, that’s okay.”

He draws in a shaky breath and whispers “Thank you” on his exhale. Then he scoots back in bed and reaches out his hand. I crawl into bed beside him, and he pulls me to him like a security blanket. Chest to chest. Arms and legs intertwined.

William Landry might break me, but not in the way I ever imagined.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Will

I can’t sleep. This is hell. Mom told me to go home, so I did. For a few seconds, it felt like an out, a breath of relief. But now it feels like I’ve abandoned both her and my dad. So I untangle myself from Everleigh and then touch my phone’s screen. It illuminates: 3:14 a.m.

Tossing an arm over my forehead, I stare at the dark outline of the ceiling fan. Why did I ask her to come? Why did I tell her to leave? Who invites someone to visit amid the death of a parent? She’s probably seen and heard everything, but why can’t I let her see me?

Before the guilt kills me, I slide out of bed and get dressed. Then I press my lips to Everleigh’s forehead as she sleeps. By the time I make it to the facility, the quick cup of coffee from home has kicked in. Mom’s butt is on the edge of the chair, and she’s leaning forward, resting her head on her bent arm and her other hand on his.

Dad’s mouth is open, and his breaths are shallow with a slight rattle.