Chapter 26

"He doesn't touch me."

"You promise?"

"Yeah. He's a drunk and not winning any awards for best parent of the year anytime soon, but he leaves me alone."

"You'd tell us if he was…hurting you, right?"

He scoffs, and waves us off. "Of course. I tell you guys everything."

Izzy and I share a worried look, and he groans.

"Seriously, guys. He's a piece of shit, but it could be worse… Just a few more years, and then we're outta here anyway."

"You promise you'll tell us," Izzy says, holding out her pinky. "You know Mom and Dad would let you live with us."

Rolling his eyes, he curls his pinky with hers. "I promise. He doesn't lay a hand on me."

It's silent,save for the rhythmic beeping and whirring of the machines surrounding the head of the hospital bed.

Izzy and I sit on his right side, hand in hand, chairs pushed as close as we can get them, our knees pressed together right up against the bed.

"Hey," I say, when a single hazel eye cracks open. The other is swollen shut. I sigh. "You're awake."

They said he'd be fine—physically—but it's been almost twenty-four hours since the attack…

Eighteen since surgery ended.

We were beginning to worry he'd never wake up.

His black brows knit with confusion, but then he hisses, tensing, like even that small movement hurt him.

"Waylon?" Izzy says, her voice breaking. "It's okay. Don't move," she says quickly, when he looks wildly around, trying to sit up, despite having to be in a world of pain.

The heart monitor spikes with his panic and confusion—the beeps quickening, growing louder—and the tendons in his neck draw tight, straining against his skin like he's struggling to breathe.

I grab his forearm, gently—one of the few places he's not all banged up. His knuckles are twice the size they normally are, black and blue and red, with stitches woven in where he'd broken skin.

He fought back.

He snaps his head my way, his one somewhat-good eye wide and bloodshot, the pupil swallowing his hazel iris.

Izzy's rubbing his leg, and I massage my thumb over his chilled skin.

"You're safe," I tell him.

His forehead creases.

A sniffle comes from next to me, and Waylon's gaze follows, before snapping to mine with a familiar edge to it that has me rolling my eyes.

"Dude, short of tying her up in my room, there was no stopping her from being here."

His mouth thins into a bloodless line, drawing stark attention to the stitches keeping the split in his lip from gaping open.

Seeing how beat up he is, with bruising covering nearly every visible inch of his skin—stitches across his temple, going down the corner of his lip, his knuckles…

The tubes curling up out from under the blanket, where they drain fluid into a collection container…

Fuck, I have no words.

Especially knowing the who and the how behind it.

His dad.

His motherfucking piece of shit sperm donor.

And to think…

This is only after Waylon's been treated and cleaned up.

Izzy found him. Saved his fucking life, according to the EMTs.

Five minutes.

That's how long he probably had left by the time they got to him.

If Izzy didn't show up when she did, and call 911, and sit with him and beg for him to hold on until help arrived…

Waylon well and truly would have drowned in his own blood.

We'd be burying our best friend, instead of sitting with him in a hospital room, his bruised and broken body strung up to a bunch of tubes and machines.

Dipping my head, I peer up at Izzy through the corner of my eye, taking in the faraway, haunted gleam in her reddened eyes. She's looking right at Waylon, but she's miles away, likely replaying everything she witnessed last night…

What she walked into.

The panic as she sat there with him, waiting for help to arrive, unable to do anything but watch him choke on his own blood.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and bring my free hand up to my face, pinching my brows.

"My dad?" Waylon chokes.

Jaw working, I lower my hand and shake my head. "He's been arrested."

I feel Izzy watching me, waiting to see if I'll elaborate. We promised our parents and his uncle we'd let them break the news about what else happened last night.

Waylon's face creases, and he nods.

Digging his head back in the pillow, he stares hard up at the ceiling, his eye shining with unshed tears. He mumbles something, and it takes me a second to register what it is.

And when I do, my chest breaks open all over again.

"I'm free."

When I stepout of the room to give Izzy and Waylon a moment alone, I find Jeremy pacing in front of a bulletin board where the hallway T's off.

"Are you comin' in?"

"Doctor said two at a time."

"So?"

"It's okay, Mase, he's probably going to be confused, hurting… Makes more sense for you guys. You're everything to him."

It's what Eva said too. Reggie, Waylon's uncle who got here a few hours ago, agreed as well that it should be us.

Throat thick, I turn my head to find Izzy hovering just inside the threshold of Waylon's hospital room. She waves me over, face pale and pinched. I still half expect to find blood when my gaze lowers to her shirt, but she changed and washed up hours ago.

"Go, Mason," Jeremy says quietly. "It's okay. He needs you. Both of you."

I turn to him. "You'll stay, right? Don't leave. Wait for us."

Jaw working, he nods. "Yeah, I'll be right here."

Shoving away the memory,I take big strides toward him, not even realizing how tight my chest has gotten until he notices me, freezing in his tracks, eyes widening on my face.

"Mason?"

His hands come up like he's trying to ward something off, and he looks down both hallways. "Just…this way," he says, turning and gesturing for me to follow. "Come on."

His steps hasten as they veer right into a small nook. I'm fast on his heels, my vision growing black. My fingers buzz, going numb.

It's not until he's led me as deep into the shadows of the little alcove as we can get, surrounded by boxes and storage equipment, tucked away out of sight by anyone who might pass, that he spins toward me, grips my shoulder with surprising strength, and all but shoves me to a crouch. Lowering himself in the process.

"Put your head between your knees."

I do as he says, blindly following his orders.

A hand splays across my upper back. In a firm whisper, Jeremy says, "Hold your breath."

I already am, I think…

But I'm not.

I'm gasping.

Hyperventilating.

I can't breathe, I can't bre?—

"Hold it, Mason. Just close your mouth and hold it."

It takes what feels like everything in me, but I manage, sealing my eyes shut in the process. So tight, I see stars behind my lids.

Jeremy's voice warbles. It's as if I'm underwater, and he's peering down through the surface at me, seconds from dragging me out.

"I'm gonna count to five. Hold it. Let it burn your insides. One…"

Fire. It's all fire.

"Two…"

And I welcome it, fanning the flames, spurring them to spread…

"Three."

Ravage me…

"Four."

Consume every fear, every ache…

"When I say five, you exhale, and you let it go. Blow it all out."

Wash it all away…

"Five."

I gasp, my eyes flying open to bulge at the ground. Blunt nails bite into my back—the heel of his hand a hot brand pulsing through my thin shirt—and Jeremy's murmuring, "Good, good, just let it out."

My hand finds my chest, fingers curling against my racing heart.

Slow, you can slow now…

It's been a while since my last panic attack, if you even want to call them that. Compared to this one, those were nothing. As night and day as hiccups and a heart attack.

What would have happened if Jeremy wasn't here?

How did he know?

I'm shaking my head, all these thoughts and worries tumbling around my head. But I'm no longer panicking. I'm just…wiped.

I fall back on my ass, and take advantage of the wall that's there, leaning heavily against it, head rolled back so I'm staring at the ceiling. I try to remember how to breathe normally, and not like I just ran a mile.

I sense more than see Jeremy slump over from his knees to his ass.

"What…"

"You had a panic attack."

"I know. But…how did you…"

"I just knew."

Shaking my head, I clutch my neck. "Fuck." My chest hurts. My throat. My eyes. "I don't know why. He's okay, I knew he'd be okay… I just…" The words are there, but every time I try to speak, it gets all tangled and broken up.

"It's the relief. Like an adrenaline crash," he says thoughtfully.

I lower my hooded gaze, still panting slightly.

Jeremy picks at a loose thread on his jeans, face downcast, blond hair flopping over his brow in a mess of tangles. "The threat was gone, but your body hadn't caught up yet. It was still in survival mode. Made it so your head and heart were on two different pages. Triggered a panic response."

I force a hard swallow, and clear my throat before speaking. "Makes sense."

His gaze flits up to mine, searching. "Better now?"

I nod.

"When I spiral out," he says slowly, measuring his words out carefully, "if I don't immediately start rationalizing it, I'll fall back into a panic. It helps to understand why my brain and body go all haywire on me. Makes me feel more in control."

"I can see that." I wet my lips. "Thought you had pills for that though." I wave a hand at his chest. "Like a fast-release thingy. For the panic attacks."

He nods. "I do, but I don't want to have to rely on them, you know? Chronic anxiety is enough of a prison. I'll never fully break out if I just surrender to it."

I huff a short laugh. "Jer, meds aren't another prison. They're there to help."

"And they do. The ones I take every day…absolutely. But the emergency ones?" He shakes his head. "They're supposed to be for an emergency." He gestures to me. "Case in point. You didn't need to be sedated. Why should I take the easy way out? You saying I'm weaker than you?" Humor teases his brown eyes, and I feel my mouth kick up in a smile.

"Touché. Weak is the last thing I think of when I think of you."

A startled sound escapes him. "Okay, I wouldn't go that far. I'm weak as fuck." And as if to prove it, he lifts his arm, showing off his barely-there bicep. Made even more non-existent by the looseness of his shirt.

I snort.

He lowers his arm. "But I've got my brain. Enemy that it is sometimes. One day we'll reach a compromise. I have to believe that."

Inhaling and exhaling deeply from my nose, I nod. "I dig the sound of that. Maybe me and my brain will get along one day too."

He chuckles softly, and I feel a small smile lift my lips at the sound.

An alarm blares from somewhere nearby, and a voice kicks on over the loudspeaker, reminding us where we are, sobering the atmosphere once more.

"How is he?"

I shrug. "He's gonna live. I just…" Shaking my head, I lean my head back against the wall, glaring up at the ceiling. "I knew something wasn't right."

"We all did," Jeremy whispers, and it throws me back to the moment we arrived at the hospital, Jeremy, me, and Phoebe in tow. An image flies across my mind of Izzy sobbing in her mom's arms, blood staining her gray hoodie.

I assumed the worst…

Blink, and there's my mom rushing over to me, quickly assuring me that Waylon was okay.

Blink, there's Eva and Ray hugging, Eva burying her face in her husband's shoulder.

Blink, a vaguely familiar man in jeans and a grease-stained tee storming in, dark eyes wild as they scoured the room, before rushing over to Eva. The two of them embracing…

Reggie.

Waylon's uncle.

He hasn't come around much since we were kids. He's on the road a lot for work—driving some big rig around. That's all changing now that Waylon's dad will be going to prison.

Not only is Reggie his godfather, but he's Waylon's closest living relative. His next of kin. When Waylon is discharged, it will be to the care of his new legal guardian, being that he still has another year before he turns eighteen.

"Does Waylon know yet?" Jeremy asks, as if sensing my thoughts.

I shake my head. "He'd just woken up. Reggie wants to be the one to tell him."

Not only did Chief McAllister flee the scene—leaving his son beaten nearly to death, choking on his own blood—but he drove drunk. Crashed his cruiser into a tree, but not before running over a little girl who was out playing in her yard.

The girl didn't make it.

Bile races up my throat at the reminder.

Fucking piece of shit.

"Izzy's a mess," Jeremy says.

I nod. "She is. It's why I gave them some space." Inhaling deeply, I lower my gaze, finding his, and smile sadly. "You saved me twice tonight."

He chokes on a small laugh, shaking his head. "I didn't save you."

"But you did." I pause. "And by tonight, I mean?—"

"I know what you meant." His mouth ticks.

Our eyes meld against each other in the shadows, as my mind replays everything.

Izzy's frantic phone call.

The blinding fear that it was Jeremy—that he was hurt.

The brief, fleeting relief I felt when I found it wasn't him…

It was Waylon…

Only to be followed by a guilt so crushing, and a fear so startling, I don't even know how I made it this long before falling apart…

"Mason," Izzy utters brokenly into my ear.

"I'm here. I'm right here," I say over the phone, my voice breaking.

"I can't lose him."

"I know." Me neither.

It hits me so hard and sudden, how much he means to me—Waylon. The miserable little shit who once hated me all because Izzy wanted to be my friend. All his jagged edges, that reckless, cocky, infuriating attitude he gets sometimes. The way he's so fucking talented, and doesn't even seem to realize it or care…

Apart from Jeremy, he's my best friend. He's like a brother. A bratty little brother I sometimes hate, even though he's only a couple months younger than me. And Izzy…

He is her brother, for all intents and purposes. They were raised together.

The three of us…Izzy, Waylon, and me…

There's no us without him. We're supposed to go to New York together. College. All of us. Jeremy included.

All for one and one for all.

It's the plan.

It's the way it's supposed to be.

"They're putting him in the ambulance now," Izzy rushes out.

"Can you go with them? I—" I look at Phoebe, whose eyes are big and wet. "I-I have Phoebe. I'm babysitting. I don't have a car. I can't?—"

"I'm going. I'm going with them. They can't stop me."

"Okay, I'm gonna call my mom. She's working tonight. Make sure they take him to Mercy, okay?"

"O-okay."

"Mom will be there. She'll know what to do. She'll fix this." I know what I'm saying is irrational, but I can't stop. I've never felt so helpless as I do right now, and all I can think is?—

Mom.

Mom fixes everything.

Mom's a nurse.

She can fix him.

"Mason."

"I know, baby. I know."

"I need you. If he di-dies—I can't. I need you."

I nod. "I'll get to you as fast as I can. He's going to be fine."

She sniffs, and whispers, "This shouldn't have happened."

Pain flares in my chest, white-hot. My jaw is clenched so tight, I don't know how it doesn't shatter. "I know."

"I'll never forgive myself…"

I squeeze my eyes shut, and whisper, "Me neither."

Waylon's dad…

Images flash across my eyes, a montage of memories flipping through my head at a rapid speed—all the times Waylon was sick from school. The bruises I once saw in gym class.

"I fell."

Then again years later, when swimming at the creek.

"I don't fucking know," he'd laughed, before shoving water at my face.

The black eye he came to school with a couple years ago.

"You should see the other guy," he joked, a sharp edge to his grin.

The pained hiss when I elbowed him in the gut when fighting over a game controller.

"Fuck off," he'd gritted out, when I demanded to see. "It's nothing. I pulled a muscle."

The worried looks and hushed conversations shared between Izzy's parents. The rumors and pity circulating around Chief McAllister, the town drunk everyone tiptoes around, all because he lost his wife and had to raise a kid on his own.

The dead look I'd catch in Waylon's hazel eyes sometimes, when he didn't think anyone was looking…

"Just a few more years, and then we're outta here…"

Just a few more years…

Izzy and I hang up after I promise her I'll get there as soon as I can. She hasn't even called her parents yet, and I tell her I'll handle it.

"I love you."

"I love you too," I tell her.

After the call disconnects, I lower the phone, and stare at the home screen for a long moment.

"Mason?" a small, quiet voice pipes up.

Clearing my throat, I look at my sister.

Her big eyes are bright with tears. "Did someone die?"

My vision blurs, and I shake my head. "N-no."

He has to be okay. He has to.

"It's Waylon, isn't it?" she says, that wise, knowing look overcoming her face again, making her seem so much older than nine.

I nod. "Yeah. He's, uh, he's hurt. But he's gonna be fine."

Her chin wobbles. "I love Waylon. He's my big bro too."

I smile wetly, uncaring that my baby sister is seeing me cry right now. "Same, Squirt."

She nods solemnly, and I sniff again, dropping the phone to rub my hands roughly up and down my face. Groaning, I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath, giving myself five seconds.

"Okay," I whisper, "Okay."

Removing my hands, I grab my phone and pull up Mom's contact. "I'm gonna call Mom. Why don't you finish eating, okay?"

"I'm not hungry," Phoebe whispers, cuddling into my side.

Throat tight, all I can do is nod.

Mom answers on the third ring, and I quickly and efficiently as I can explain the little bit I know—that Waylon's hurt, and he's on his way by ambulance, Izzy's with him, and I need her to fix him.

"Mason…"

"Mom," I choke out. "Please."

"You know I'll do everything I can. I'm on a different floor tonight, but I'll see what I can do."

"Izzy's by herself."

"I'll find her," she says strongly. "I'll be in touch as soon as I have news."

"Ray and Eva?—"

"I'll call them."

I nod, even though she can't see me.

We hang up, and I squeeze the phone in my hand, my heart pumping a mile a minute.

I can barely breathe. All I want is to get down to the hospital and be with Izzy, wait for news, see with my own two eyes that Waylon's okay…because he has to be okay.

But I don't have a car. Izzy's the only one of us with a car.

Well, her and?—

"Jeremy," I breathe.

Phoebe tilts her head back where she rests it against my chest, peering up at me through a rat's nest of dirty blonde hair, several shades darker than it was when she first came to live with us.

I feel her eyes on me as I pull up his contact and hit call and lift it to my ear. I hold my breath, counting each ring, praying he answers.

Finally, the line clicks.

"I'm on my way," he says before I can say anything at all.

And the air rushes out of me with a broken sound not unlike a sob.

How…

But then I realize?—

Izzy must've called him.

I hunch over, wrapping an arm around my sister, face buried in her hair, eyes squeezed shut as I will myself to hold it together. I can't fall apart. Not now, not yet. Not in front of Phoebe.

In my ear, Jeremy's reminding me to breathe, and that it will be okay, and he's coming. He's on his way. He'll be here in only a few short minutes.

He stays on the phone, talking to me, and I hear tires rolling over gravel just as he hangs up.

Phoebe scrambles off my lap, and I tell her to grab her coat. She rushes upstairs as I grab my shoes from the closet by the door, slipping them on, quickly tying the laces.

And then I'm out the door, the screen door slamming shut behind me, and I'm jogging down the steps just as Jeremy's black Nissan skids to a stop, kicking up gravel. The car's still running when he throws open the driver door, and climbs out.

"Is Phoebe—oomph."

He stumbles back when I crash into him, throwing my arms around him in a crushing bear hug.

For a moment he's frozen, his arms pinned beneath mine. He's skinnier than me, though you wouldn't notice by the baggy clothes he wears. Shorter too—always has been. But he shot up a lot in recent months, putting the top of his head just under my lips.

I seal my eyes shut, burying my face in his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent—the cinnamon gum he loves so much, combined with the cloying earthy notes of weed, and something else. Something I can't pinpoint, something that makes me think of hours spent in his bedroom, pouring over comics, and watching movies late into the night, glow-in-the-dark stars and planets shining down on us from his ceiling.

"Hey," he whispers roughly.

I pull back, gripping his shoulders, and our gazes meet, my pale blue colliding with his warm, amber brown.

"It's gonna be okay," he utters in a surprisingly fierce voice, and for some reason, coming from him, I believe it.

Nodding, I give him a small, sad smile. "You're my hero."

"He's gonna be okay,"Jeremy says, startling me out of my thoughts.

"I hate him sometimes," I confess in a whisper.

"Jealous over him and Izzy?" he teases gently, infusing some much needed levity.

Shaking my head, I smile ruefully, "No."

"Music then."

I nod.

He looks down, lashes fanning over his cheeks. "It's okay to feel that way. I get it."

"What if he can't—" My voice cuts off. Even just giving voice to the worry feels risky. Like it'll tempt the universe too much.

Jeremy tilts his head, eyeing me with a look I can't place. "The doctors said he should make a full recovery."

Physically.

They said he should make a full recovery physically.

Still, I try to find relief in his assurances.

Because, for as much as I resent Waylon sometimes, the idea of him losing that…that genius part of him…

He needs it.

"Come on," Jeremy says gently. "We should get back before Izzy wonders where you went."

Nodding, I push up from the floor, dusting off my pants.

Jeremy leaves the alcove first, and I'm just about to follow, when realization rockets through me, halting me in my tracks.

Waylon…

"He couldn't care less." That's what I always told myself, what I always believed.

In my mind's eye, I see his eye roll.

His small, secret grin, he quickly covers with a vicious smirk.

The heated cheeks he hides by turning away to busy himself with something else.

The barbed comments…

He cares too much.

So much that it scares him.

Having it…

Only to lose it.