Page 91 of Fighting for You
My mind had gone to the worst possible scenario when the gunshot went off in the woods. I had felt trapped and helpless, hearing the police officers calling to one another among the trees and on their radios.
That afternoon will haunt me forever. Though everything happened quickly, for me time stood still. Even now, I don’t know if I waited to hear about Brooks’ fate for twenty minutes or two hours. From what he told me, they apprehended anunconscious Julian just a few minutes after he tried to shoot Brooks. Thankfully, my hit to Julian’s head had given him a major concussion, and his aim was off, giving Brooks the opportunity to knock him out.
It wasn’t until much later, after speaking with the police, that Hayes and I were finally able to get an update on my dad.
He’d been in surgery for over three hours when the doctor came out looking grim.
It wasn’t enough.Iwasn’t enough. Whatever I did at the house and at The Pit wasn’t enough to save him.
The doctors tried to assure me, even in a perfect situation where he could have gotten to a hospital faster, it’s unlikely he would have survived. The bullet had gone through his liver, his cirrhotic liver. Even in a hospital setting the bleeding would have been nearly impossible to stop with the damage the many years of alcohol abuse had done to his body.
Brooks kisses the top of my head and pushes me back a little to look at my face. His large hands hold my cheeks as he asks, “Want me to kick everyone out? Hayes mentioned making dinner.”
I sniff and nod. His eyes ping around my face, and he uses his thumbs to wipe at the tears on my cheeks. With a soft kiss to my lips, he steps away.
“Alright, everyone. Thanks so much for coming. Margot and Hayes are so grateful for everyone being here and bringing all the casseroles and shit, but now it’s time to get out.” This earns him a few quiet chuckles, which cut off quickly when they realize he’s not kidding.
After some last condolences and hugs, the house finally clears out, and Brooks and I are left on the sofa. I put my head in his lap, pulling my knees to my chest, and try to clear my head, focusing solely on the way his fingers gently run up and down my arm.
Hayes comes out of the kitchen, trash bag in hand and looks over at me, face grim. “I’m going to take this out, and then I’ll make dinner.”
“Why don’t you just heat up one of the two dozen casseroles people brought today?” I ask.
“I’m going to make cheeseburger macaroni,” he says and walks out, not waiting for an answer. He used to make the dish for me often when I was a kid. I think it’s the only thing he knew how to make as a sixteen-year-old raising a picky four-year-old, but I’ve come to associate it with safety and home. Maybe it brings him the same comfort.
Brooks and I sit without speaking for a while, and I track Hayes coming back into the house and into the kitchen. After a few more minutes, I break the silence, “How did you do it?”
“Do what, baby?” Brooks asks, voice soft and rumbly. His hand never stops moving.
“How did you get over it? Your parents, I mean. How did you move on?”
There’s a long pause and then an even longer sigh. “I didn’t,” he finally says. “Not really at least. Time has helped, but I’m definitely not over it. As cliché as it sounds, it does get easier.”
I hum in acknowledgement.
“The grief is heavy, and it takes time to figure out how to keep going. But then you notice it gets a tiny bit lighter day after day. Don’t get me wrong, some days the wound feels as fresh as the day it happened, but then it dulls again. As much as I hate to admit it, having Cary here helps. And with you—I don’t feel so alone. And you’re not alone in this either. I’m going to be here for you, Freckles. I’m going to help share the load so hopefully even the hard days don’t seem so overwhelming.”
He trails off at the end, and a sweet warmth unfurls in my chest. This man. How does he not see how good he is?
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you too, baby,” he replies and runs the fingers from his other hand through my hair. The gentle caresses and the sounds of Hayes banging around in the kitchen help soothe the stress I’ve been holding and empty my mind. It’s only a few minutes later before sleep takes me.
Chapter Forty-One
Brooks
The smell from the kitchen hits my nostrils. I’ve been so focused on Margot and trying to get her to fall asleep, I didn’t pay much attention to Hayes when he mentioned making dinner. I spent the last thirty minutes tracing my fingers down Margot’s arms, into her hair, over her cheeks, anything to keep the contact between us.
The last thing I had expected was for Keaton to die. Margot said he was sober when she got there that day. He’d looked like her dad again. And what a cruel fucking world to take that away from her after giving her the smallest glimpse. I hate it.
I hate how much it reminds me of my own parents’ passing.
I hate how much it affects Margot.
I fucking hate seeing her cry. And this was more than just crying; she’s been sobbing nonstop. This may be the first time in the last five days she’s stopped crying for more than a few minutes. It’s killing me slowly to watch her fall apart.
She blames herself, which has only made it harder to watch. The first forty-eight hours, she played the ‘what if’ game over and over.
