Chapter Five

An eerie chill washes over me, seeping into my bones as I step over a threshold that separates life and bustling medical workers with an unforgiving kiss of black death. The cold is only one element mirroring a certain heartbreak deep in my chest. Nurse Jim has pulled back the white sheet, just enough to reveal Brogan's face. But it's not his face. It's a waxen mask, a cruel imitation of the man I love. My attention turns to a hissing ventilator, where I focus on the rise and fall of LED bars showing what percentage of oxygen is being pushed and pulled from his lungs.

I swallow back a harsh wave of bile. "Is he?—"

Jim nods. "Well—" he says, noting the young doctor entering this sanctuary of misery.

The doctor, somewhere around my age with kind eyes, places a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I'm Dr. Johnathan Craven," he asserts with kind eyes and a somber expression. "Mr. Williams, I'm so sorry to have to tell you this—but Dr. Baxter has suffered a severe traumatic brain injury. Despite our best efforts, there's not been a change in his condition—scans show no signs of activity—after my exhaustive tests?—"

His words fall heavy on me like a tsunami. Yet they continue to fall off his tongue as a leaden anchor, keeping my ship of heartbreak in place.

"I'm afraid we have to declare Dr. Baxter—brain dead— yes ," he finishes with a click of his tongue.

Brain dead. Such a clinical term, devoid of emotion, yet it razes under my flesh all the same. My knees buckle, and I grasp the edge of the table for support. As Dr. Craven's words muffle into a distant hum, my limp body collides with the cold tile floor. Hearing those words, validation of my deepest fears despite the hope this is all some horrible dream, doesn't come easy. Brain dead. The end of hope. The end of Brogan.

A hollow void opens inside me at this moment, threatening to swallow me whole while a river of tears falls to their demise in a puddle below me. Dr. Craven reaches to help me up from the floor, but I don't want to confront this anymore. As much as I'd like to wake up from this miserable nightmare, I know it's not a dream.

"I need a few minutes to take all this in," I reply, shaking my head. "I don't know how to deal with this."

As I allow the doctor's strength to lift my hopeless body, I entertain the dark thoughts swirling through the labyrinth of my mind. A minute ago, I was a pillar of strength for Lily—a parental unit holding back the floodgates. But now, the dams have broken free, and I fear how I'll keep this emotion from Lily until I tell her. Which won't be for long, that's for fucking sure. The tears blur my vision while I slump over in a plastic chair alongside the wall. More sobs wrack my body, each one a shard of glass piercing my soul. Hearing it and seeing it are two very different things. Broken promises are all that remain in Brogan's wake, scattered around my feet, dampening the hem of my shirt, and heralding an uncertain future ahead of me.

Jim and Dr. Craven mumble in unison. "We'll give you a moment alone with Dr. Baxter, Mr. Williams."

The young doctor's voice, crisp and professional, cuts through the fog of my grief like a surgeon's scalpel. "But only a moment, Mr. Williams," he urges, offering a blue ballpoint pen like a lifeline. "Dr. Baxter can save seven lives tonight with the flick of this pen."

Seven lives. What a cruel joke. A twisted consolation prize. I snatch the pen, a surge of fury propelling it across the room. It clatters against a metal tray, resonating with the hollowness I feel inside. "What about his heart?" I spit in a fit of fury. "Can I have it? Because I'm gonna need a new one before too long."

Dr. Craven and Jim exchange a look of pity before slipping out of the trauma room, leaving me alone with the grotesque mockery of the man I love. Each beep of the heart monitor, every artificial breath forced into his lungs, feels like a hammer blow to my soul. Bile rises in my throat as I approach the bed with a scent of disinfectant thick in the air.

Reaching for his cold and lifeless hand, I can feel another wave of nausea crash over me. It's like I can feel the weight of metal impaling my car—and the agonizing pain that extinguished my lover's light. The once clean smell of sanitizer morphs into the sour smell of burning rubber, and the beeping monitors resemble the screeching of tires. A flash of light drowns my mind, leaving me with the realization that he's gone. This is no fucking dream at all.

"Seven lives, Brogan?" I choke out, almost whispering. "Goddamn it—" A guttural sound of pure anguish repels from my chest. "You could have saved seven hundred more if I'd just kept you from leaving the restaurant."

The last dinner. The last laugh. The last time I'll ever see his charming wink. The finality of it all crushes me like the impaired driver's car into mine. It's a cruel reminder of all that I've lost, but it wasn't always like this. I can remember the first time we met as if it was just yesterday.

In the food court at the mall, Panda Express was bustling. The clatter of trays and the chatter of mall shoppers offered a comforting hum for my ears. I retrieved my food tray, flashing a smile at the clerk, who warned me about the lid shortage. As I stood at the soda fountain, it seemed like the universe had intervened with a full Pepsi cup, highlighting the bad habit I couldn't kick.

Yet my clumsiness prevailed as I stumbled, bumping right into the most chiseled man I'd probably ever met. With this casual encounter came the predictable and entirely inevitable collision of ice-cold Pepsi and his deep burgundy Oxford shirt.

"Oh shit, I am so sorry," I blurted, my face burning with embarrassment. "Please excuse me for being a major buffoon."

All the man could do was chuckle, emitting the warmest sound that eased my mortification. "It's quite all right, Mon frer. It's just a shirt."

My head wavered. "No, no," I insisted, already feeling the familiar pull of guilt. "I'm a walking disaster here lately," I added, rustling around the food court with napkins.

Dabbing each flimsy piece of paper at the sticky mess, I realized there was no way his shirt would come out the victor over my addictive, sugary Pepsi. With that in mind, I exerted the instant guilt muscle that has plagued me my whole life.

"Please let me replace it," I added.

A playful glint entered his eyes. "There's no problem in being clumsy," he said. "In fact, I quite fancy a man who lives on the edge from time to time."

His reassurance sparked something in me. Perhaps a flicker of interest. "I'm Maxwell Williams," I introduced myself, wiping my hands with one of the sullied, sticky napkins with a grimace.

Regardless of my poor planning, he took my hand anyway with confidence. "Brogan Baxter," he replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you, even under these—unique circumstances."

My lips clamored together. "Unique indeed," I agreed nervously. "But I'm no stranger to awkward moments—here—why don't you join me for lunch?" I insisted. "Besides, I owe you a fresh shirt."

Brogan's first wink lit a fire in my soul. Something I knew was the moment I'd finally found my first friend in Denver shortly after moving to the Mile-High City. "I rarely allow guys to buy me things on a first date," he teased, flailing a wrist. "But sure, I'll order my lunch and sit with you."

As I watched Brogan's confident shuffle to the counter, a giddy excitement fluttered in my stomach. A first date in a mall food court seemed unconventional, to say the least. However, something about Brogan's effortless charm and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes had already drawn me in.

A chill courses through me, something that has nothing to do with a frigid hospital room. Tears flow freely now, a torrent of grief that's inescapable. "I miss you already, my Papa Bear," I choke out, the words sinking in. "What the fuck am I gonna do without you here?"

My salted remnants fall to Brogan's lifeless face while another rush of nausea consumes me whole. "How am I gonna tell Lily?" I cry out in despair. "What about her, Brogan? I can't do this alone."

The thought of explaining Brogan's accident to Lily is overwhelming. How do I explain death to a seven-year-old, especially one on the autism spectrum? How do I put the concept of mortality into words she can understand? And who else do I have to tell?

Brogan's parents, for starters. Even though they barely spoke after he moved in with me, they deserve to know. Then there's my family: Melanie, Mom, and Kristopher. Lily's babysitter, Jenny. The list seems endless, a crushing weight on my already heavy heart. But right now, all I can focus on is the pain. The gut-wrenching, soul-crushing agony of losing the love of my life. It's a knife twisting in my gut, a never-ending ache that I don't see any respite around the bend.

"Goodbye, my love," I whisper, barely audible enough through my sobs. "I hope you'll be at peace and watch over us from wherever you are."

Wandering into the corner of the trauma room, I retrieve my phone from the pocket of my jeans. Finally, I'm spared a couple of minutes to send Melanie a text message.

Hey Mel, I have horrible news. Brogan was struck by an intoxicated driver tonight and did not survive. Here I am, standing bedside to his brain-dead body, and I'm at a complete loss. How the hell am I supposed to tell Lily? I can't do it, I just can't.

No sooner do I slip the phone back into my pocket when Dr. Craven returns through the sliding glass door with a clipboard.

"Mr. Williams," he says gravely. "It is time."