Page 63 of Give Me What You Will

She nodded knowingly. “Room 4 is free for the next hour or so.”

Thank fuck.

Sam quickened his pace down the quiet hallway and found the room. It was spacious and empty, and most importantly, had a private balcony. He closed the door behind him and opened the balcony door. The sultry LA air was possibly the best feeling he could have asked for. Sam braced his hands over the iron railing and looked over the vast, endless city through the haze of heat and smog. Images of blood, limbs, and faces flashed before his eyes and he stumbled back, letting his back hit the hard wall of the building and sliding down onto his butt, knees drawing up and fingers raking through his hair.

He didn’t want to be in his head right now.

He didn’t want to sit in these goddamned inescapable feelings.

He needed to just breathe, but he couldn’t.

Without thinking, he pulled up his favorites list on his phone and called the first number. It rang twice before he answered.

“Sammy?” Frankie’s voice washed over him and he closed his eyes, savoring it.

“Yeah,” he replied gruffly into the phone.

Frankie paused, “Something’s wrong.”

“I’m okay.”

Something clattered in the background, something metal and loud. He was in his garage, Sam realized, tinkering on another car.

“Bullshit,” Frankie said sternly. “Tell me.”

He closed his eyes, digging his fingers into his temple, unable to catch his breath but trying hard.

“Tell me, Sammy… C’mon, I’m here,” Frankie murmured quietly, almost urgently.

“I think—I’m having a panic attack,” he admitted in a rush.

“Okay,” he replied calmly. “Breathe…”

Sam obeyed, taking in a breath, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t reaching the invisible wound hemorrhaging in his chest.

“Keep breathing, Sammy. I’m here. I’m here…”

Frankie chanted those words over and over, his soothing voice washing over him as he continued to breathe in and out.

“That’s it,” Frankie drawled softly. “You’re doin’ good, Sammy… You’re okay…”

“I’m not okay. Two—mother and her teen daughter. Car accident. T-boned by a drunk fuckin’ driver. The car crushed them. Firefighters pulled out… limbs. I couldn’t save them…” Sam gasped, pushing hard into his chest, head swimming. “I fuckin’ tried everything I could. I was just with the father, the husband. He’s all alone now. He doesn’t have anyone…” He broke. A horrible, anguished cry came ripping out of him. “The sounds he made when he saw them… Fuck, Frankie, I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t listen to him. I should’ve held it together, I should’ve…”

“You did everything you could, Sam. You’re a good fuckin’ doctor and a good man.”

“It’s not enough,” he gasped out between sobs. “I’m not fuckin’ enough for anyone.”

The confession broke him.

He couldn’t stop the tears or the collapse, and he wept. He wasn’t enough for his mother, to keep her sober, happy, and stable. He wasn’t enough for Papi, whose quiet grief stayed with him until the very end. He wasn’t enough for Frankie to love…

“You’re enough.” Frankie’s tone was rough and edged with something he couldn’t recognize above his own grief. “You’re a fighter. You’re braver than any man I know. Normal people can’t do what you do. Because what you do is extraordinary, because that’s who you fuckin’ are. If Papi were here, he’d say the same thing.”

Sam rubbed the tears from his eyes, breath finally catching up with him. Silence stretched between them. He sighed. “I’m sorry…”

“For what?”

“Callin’ like this.”