Page 5 of Not Made to Last

I didn’t get up.

Couldn’t.

Not because I was being a pussy, or because I hurt, or even because I didn’t want to face the person standing above me.

I didn’t get up because… sometimes, I feel as if this life, this world, isn’t worth getting up for at all.

3

Rhys

I wait by the nurse’s station at the emergency room while Little Miss Lead-Foot stands just outside the entrance, phone held to her ear in one hand and the “off-limits” boy in the other. Carrying his backpack on both shoulders, he looks up at her, his blinks slow. It’s probably way past his bedtime, and that guilt from earlier returns, weighs heavier on my chest.

“Can I help you?” a female voice pulls my attention away, and I turn to the nurse behind the desk—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a forced smile. Her shoulders are hunched, her tone weary, and with a job such as hers, I don’t blame her.

“Hi.” I give her my most genuine smile and say, “I got hit by a car earlier.”

The look she gives me shows her skepticism. After making her way around the desk, she stands in front of me and quickly examines me from head to toe. From the outside, I look perfectly normal. “It wasn’t too bad,” I mutter. “I’m just a little…” A little what? “Banged up.”

The nurse—Marion—going by her name tag, hesitates. “Where exactly?”

“Uh… my hip. Thigh…”

Marion heaves out a sigh and makes her way back behind the desk. “Okay, so a banged-up body?” she questions, looking around the waiting area. There are at least twenty people here; a group of girls in one corner, but mainly guys scattered around, a few with obvious injuries. There’s a kid with a clearly broken arm, and one dude has a blood-stained rag held to his temple. And here I am, able to walk, talk, and give Marion my details when she asks for them. At the mention of my last name, her eyes widen. Just a tad. “Garrett?”

I nod.

“As in?—”

My second nod cuts her off, and she smiles the biggest,fakestsmile, her weariness from earlier completely diminished.

A few years back, my parents donated an entire wing in the children’s ward at this very hospital and named it after my sister. The Isabel Garrett Wing provides temporary housing for kids undergoing treatment, with enough room for parents and guardians to stay with them.

My sister has never spent a day here. Ever.

I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’d much rather their money go here than, say, my old high school—which they’ve done in the past—to bury whatever minor mishap or predicament I found myself in. It’s just… it’s hard to be a Garrett in this town.

Poor little rich boy, right?

Even without my last name sprawled on the walls of this hospital, I’m almost positive Marion would have the same reaction. We’re known around here, or at least my parents are. They’re business owners. Venture capitalists. Philanthropists. Millionaires.

And they’re not the only ones. Most of the people in my neighborhood have similar titles. The difference between them and us is that they come from old money—generational wealth.

My parents made theirs after Izzy and I were born.

“I’m sure we can have someone check you out right away,” Marion says, typing away on her keyboard.

I glance around the room again, at the other people in far worse condition than myself, and then to the entrance as my forced companions make their way inside. “You know what?” I tell Marion. “Just add me to the end of the list.” Seriously? What the fuck kind of asshole would I be if I expected preferential treatment on a medical issue just because my parents have money? Besides, the longer the wait, the longer it is until I’m forced to go home and face my living hell.

Marion glances at her colleagues working beside her, uncertain.

My smile is almost pleading. “Please?”

“If you say so…” She taps a few buttons on the keyboard before looking up at me. “We have all your details in the system.” Then she motions to the waiting area. “Please take a seat, Mr. Garrett.”

I inwardly cringe at her words.

Mr. Garrett is my father.

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