Page 144 of Broken Trails
And that’s the fucked-up part.
Because if I hadn’t caught Liam cheating, if I hadn’t walked in and seen him for the lying bastard he really was, would I still be there? Would I have stayed, day after day, convincing myself that misery was easier than starting over? The thought terrifies me. More than divorce papers. More than the risk of letting Michael close.
Because it means I could have wasted my whole life waiting for scraps of love that were never coming.
As twisted as it sounds, maybe I’m grateful. Grateful for the crash and burn. For the wreckage Liam left me in. Because if not for that, I wouldn’t have found my way back here. I wouldn’t have found my way back to myself.
And I sure as hell wouldn’t have found Michael.
By the time I burst through the hospital doors, my chest is tight, lungs screaming for air. I rush to the reception desk, voice shaking as I give Michael’s name. The nurse scans the chart, then looks up with a polite but firm shake of her head.
“Only family can see him right now. There are too many already in the waiting bay.”
The words land like a punch, knocking the air clean out of me. Family. I’mnothisfamily.
Not in the way that counts here. My throat burns as I nod, stepping back before she can see how much that small truth has gutted me. I turn toward the waiting room, blinking fast, refusing to let the tears spill—at least not here, not in front of strangers—when a voice stops me dead in my tracks.
“Zoe!”
I spin around to see Imogen striding toward me, her pace quick, her eyes locked on mine. Determination radiates from every step. The nurse opens her mouth to stop her, but Imogen doesn’t even slow down.
“Let her through. She’s family, too.”
Whatever thread I’d been clinging to snaps clean in half. I stumble into her arms, the sob tearing out of me before I can hold it back. My face presses into her shoulder, and I breathe in the scent of her perfume, grounding me as everything I’ve been holding in—panic, guilt, exhaustion, the ache that hasn’t left me since the moment I heard his name over the phone—pours out.
She holds me like she’s done this a thousand times, rubbing slow, steady circles into my back, her voice low and certain. “He’s going to be okay.”
She keeps an arm around me as we walk, her presence steadying my jelly-like legs, guiding me down the hallway toward the waiting bay. My pulse is still hammering in my ears, but the second we turn the corner, I’m met with a wall of familiar faces—Isla, Olivia, Amelia—all standing to meet me.
What I don’t expect is Harrison, towering over them all, stepping forward without a word and wrapping me up in a hug that swallows me whole. His arms are heavy and warm, solid in a way that says without speaking: you’re safe here.
When he pulls back, Xavier is there, just as quick, pulling me into his chest for a brief, firm squeeze. These two big, broad men, all rough edges and hard lines, shouldn’t feel this gentle. Shouldn’t be so willing to give comfort so easily. But I’m not an outsider anymore.
And to hell with letting myself believe I ever will be again.
“You all good?” Xavier asks, studying me with that assessing look.
“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice too quick to sound convincing.
Harrison tips his chin toward me. “You get everything settled?”
A tear slips free before I can stop it, and I nod, exhaling a shaky sigh of relief.
“Atta girl,” he says with a grin, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Wait till Mikey hears.”
That undoes me all over again. My breath catches, and the tears spill fast, again. “Oh, Michael… I feel like this is all my fault.”
Imogen’s voice leaves no room for doubt as she states, “Don’t you dare say that. This is nowhere near your fault. The man who hit him is being dealt with. He’s the one who should be sorry.”
I nod, but my chest still aches, the guilt still clinging like a second skin. I sink into one of the chairs, surrounded on all sides by people who love him—people who, somehow, love me too—and for the first time since my phone rang this morning, I let myself believe Imogen’s words.
He’s going to be okay.
43
Hurricane – Luke Combs
The first thing I see when my eyes crack open isn’t a ceiling, or a blinding light, or even some angelic vision.
