Page 32 of Halfway to Hell
Sunday flailed, sputtering as she fought for air. Water splashed over the sides of the tub, soaking the floor as she choked and coughed violently against him.
Relief hit him like a punch to the gut—she was alive.
He scooped her into his arms, holding her tight as he backed out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Dropping to his knees beside the bed, he laid her down gently.
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts. Water dripped from her hair, soaking into the blanket beneath her.
Texas pushed the wet strands from her face with a shaking hand and dropped his forehead to her chest, struggling to breathe himself. The adrenaline, the fear—it all caught up to him in a single, crushing moment.
Then Sunday coughed again, harsher this time.
Snapping back into motion, he helped her sit up, bracing her with one arm as he leaned her forward. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
He patted her back firmly, trying to help her lungs clear whatever was left. She was breathing. Coughing. Alive.
When she finally drew a deep, steady breath, Texas shifted her gently, moving her so he could slide in beside her.
He reached across, pulled the blanket from the far side of the bed, and tucked it around her shaking body.
Her skin was still cold. Her lips pale. But she was breathing. Texas leaned over her, his voice low, rough, “What were you thinking?”
Not a shout. Not an accusation. Just a broken question hanging in the air between them cracked open with fear, anger, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
Sunday couldn’t look at him. She didn’t want to. She wanted to disappear into herself, curl into a ball beneath the covers and vanish.
His presence beside her was too much—too close—too heavy with questions she didn’t have the strength to answer.
She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused, the weight of the blanket doing nothing to stop the shiver in her bones.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, barely audible.
The words felt foreign in her mouth. Distant. Detached.
“I don’t even remember getting in. I… I turned the water on and then…”
She blinked, trying to piece the memory together.
“It’s all just… a blur.”
“Doll, it’s gonna get better. I promise you. Itwillget better,” Texas’s voice was soft but steady, like a lifeline thrown across the darkness.
She shook her head, voice rough and brittle from coughing. Like someone else was speaking through her.
“It won’t,” her words came slow, weighted with defeat. “Tomorrow, you’ll drop me off in Montreal... and I’ll be alone.”
A pause, sharp and raw.
“Monday won’t be there. And you won’t be there.”
When Monday came home, she’d want Sunday out of her house faster than rabbits fuck. It wasn’t Sunday’s fault she was this way. They’d been raised to rely on themselves—no one else—for everything.
Sunday could still remember fending for herself as a toddler. No one had helped her. No one had helped Monday either.
When Monday turned seventeen, she left, and never looked back. Not even once for Sunday. She could still hear Monday’s voice, sharp and final, as she packed the few things she owned.“I’m tired of being here. You’re on your own, kid.”
On her own. Hell, she’d always been on her own, Sunday thought. They hadn’t truly reconnected until years later, and even then, they were little more than acquaintances at best.
You could love someone and still not want them around. Sunday had learned that the hard way. But she was the exception in her family. She felt things. Cared about others. Wanted a family—herfamily. And she hadn’t found one yet.
