Page 100 of Deliverance

“I’ll be outside,” Brad says as he quickly walks out the room, disappearing in the direction Maggie went.

Blowing out a breath, I lean my head against the pillow as I listen to Dr. McCarthy talk about her role and why she’s here.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Maggie

Maryia: So are you coming back to campus today or are you going to keep playing nurse?

I look down at the snarky text and roll my eyes. It’s the third like it that’s come in today. Bridgette is getting discharged today and since she was admitted, neither myself or Brad has left and Maryia is pissed.

Me: I told you this morning that she was being discharged today.

Her response comes in almost immediately.

Maryia: Yeah, well. Just making sure your story stays straight. For all I know, this is just her way of trying to drive a wedge between us.

Are you fucking kidding me? She thinks Bridgette tried to kill herself as a way to…what? Make Maryia’s life miserable? How fucking narcissistic can you get?

I pocket my phone, refusing to respond to that baiting bullshit. Stepping into the room, I watch Brad help Bridgette into a wheelchair, even though she’s perfectly capable of walking. She looks good, though. Rested. There isn’t much else to do when you’re confined to a hospital room for seventy-two hours except for rest and watching bad TV. Trust me, we watched it all, too.

Brad left a few times to grab a shower and some new clothes for all of us while I stayed here. The doctors told us it wasn’t necessary, that they have plenty of people to watch over her and that we could go home. Like hell that was happening.

Seventy-two hours in the hospital and her father didn’t stop by a single time, or my mother. Apparently, Brad called him and told him what happened, to which he called her stupid and hung up. What a fucking guy.

It didn’t seem to bother Bridgette. When she asked Brad if he had told their father and he let her know that he wouldn’t be coming, she wasn’t sad. She was relieved. I’d be relieved too if that prick was my father. I got fucked when it came to the mom department, and so did Bridgette and Brad, but at least I had a good example of what a father should be like. Harry Brenton is not it. I can tell you that.

After getting Bridgette to my car, Brad sits in the back while Bridgette sits up front. Brad and I discussed a schedule for watching over Bridgette. Not a twenty-four-seven thing, but just to keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t feel alone. That’s what the hospital psychologist told us she needed right now. They also told us that she needed to get into therapy as soon as possible.

That was a little bit harder of a sell. Surprisingly, though, it only took a little begging from Brad and I to convince her. I dropped Brad off at his place before heading to the university. We ride mostly in silence until Bridgette and I get to our dorm. She hits the button for her floor, and I don’t press mine, choosing to ride up with her.

“You know, you don’t have to stick to me like glue, Maggie. You have a life outside of worrying over me,” Bridgette says.

“I know,” I say.

I also know that she likes us worrying over her, and that’s okay. Sometimes we all need someone to give a shit, and I never want her to feel like she doesn’t have anyone again.

I wave my master key card over her reader since all her stuff is still inside her room and she looks at me sideways. It’s the same look she gave me when I told her that’s how I got to her. It saved her life, though, so she really shouldn’t judge.

When we step in, a sort of PTSD hits me. Remembering the last time I was in here, the adrenaline filling my body, the panic and fear. My eyes move to the flask still sitting on her bed and the empty pill bottle.

Before she can, I move over to it, quickly scooping them up and throwing them in the trash. Of course, the hospital told her that, especially with her current mental state, alcohol is something she should stay away from. She also got a thirty-minute lecture on how dangerous and addictive opioids are, to which she completely tuned out. I gotta be honest; I did, too. Maybe that lecture would have been helpful if she was searching for a fix, not an OD, but we all knew it was more than that, so it seemed like a waste of time.

Bridgette promised Brad and I that she would quit drinking, at least for a little while. She said the drinking helped keep her numb, which kept her functional. Until it didn’t.

She still hasn’t opened up to either of us about why she tried to kill herself, why she wanted to escape. I could see she was unhappy on the outside, withering away into a shell of the version she used to be. I convinced myself it wasn’t my business, not my concern. She walked out on me, pushed me away, hurt me. I didn’t owe her anything.

I now know that’s a crock of shit, because if she had died in this bed, scared and alone, I would have never been able to live with myself. So, yeah. Bridgette’s mental health and wellbeing are officially my business. Brad feels the same way, too.

When I look up, I see Bridgette staring at her desk. Two white envelopes are on it, one with Brad’s name on it and the other with my own. The one with mine has a red lipstick kiss against it and instinctively, I reach for it.

Bridgette is fast, though, ripping the letters off the desk and ripping them to pieces before throwing them into the trash. I blink at her in her confusion. I know what they are before she even speaks.

Her goodbye letters.

“I thought I wanted you to read them in the hospital, but…I don’t. I just want to forget this whole mess,” Bridgette says as she takes a seat on the edge of her bed.

“I won’t,” I say as I come to sit beside her. “I won’t forget how alone you felt, how helpless. I won’t forget that I was one of those people who made you feel that way. That you asked for help, and I refused. That?—”

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