Page 83 of What Hurts Us

Before I could get the rest of the words out, a voice I had sworn I would never hear again broke through the chaos. “Callum.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Slowly, I turned and met cool gray eyes. Gray like handcuffs. Gray like jail cell bars. Gray like mine.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I spat.

His face was impassive. Stone cold. “I received a phone call from your fiancé that my mother was in the hospital.” For a moment, a flicker of humanity crossed his face, but it was quickly extinguished. “I didn’t know you were engaged.”

“Don't know why you would think I’d bother telling you.”

“Callum,” he huffed, glancing around at the packed waiting room. He hated any situation that was out of his control. He gritted his teeth and hissed, “At some point, you are going to have to grow up.”

“Grow up?” I scoffed. “I have. No thanks to you.”

His eyes glowed like flaring coals. “Your mother and I did our best, but you… You were out of control.”

“I was a fucking kid,” I shot back.

“There’s no need to use that kind of language, son.”

“You know better than to call me that. You’re dead to me.” I shoulder-checked him as I stepped away from the front desk. I had been here enough. I could find Gran on my own.

My father whirled around and pointed a finger in my face. “You were the one who put me between a rock and a hard place! How do you think my teenage son getting arrested looked for my career?”

“Well,” I said with a caustic laugh. “Seems like everything turned out alright. You still have your career, and all it cost you was your son.”

“I did what I had to do!” he roared. “It was that or jail. What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to be a fucking parent!” I shouted. The waiting room had gone quiet. Apparently, we were better entertainment than the recycled pharmaceutical commercials on the flatscreen in the corner. Heat flashed up my neck. “You sent me away when I needed you! I needed you to get mad at me because I messed up. At least that would’ve shown me you cared.” I stabbed my finger at his impeccably crisp button-down. “But you did what you always did. You worried about the optics. You stayed calm, got rid of the problem, and moved on like I never even existed.”

For once in Mike Fletcher’s pathetic life, he looked sorry.

The double doors that led into the emergency department crept open on a motorized track. Layla rushed through, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw me. “Cal!” She ran, weaving around chairs. “Thank God. I kept trying to call, but I couldn’t get up with you.”

I was stiff as a board as she hugged me, keeping my eyes trained on my father. “Come on. Gran just got out of her CT scan. She broke her hip and messed up her wrist a little. I’ll take you back and fill you in.”

When Layla took my hand, my father’s jaw dropped. “That’s the ring you gave her?”

She looked between us, then down at her hand.

“Well,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I think this reunion will let us hit our quota for the next fifteen years.”

Layla gently laid her hand on my back. “Come on,” she said, urging me away from the fight I so desperately wanted.

My dad stepped out of the way, tapping his phone on his palm. “Let Gran know I’m just calling Cynthia to tell her what happened.”

I followed Layla through the maze of emergency department hallways. Having flown in and out of this particular hospital more times than either of us could count, she knew the layout like the back of her hand.

“Honey—”

Layla tugged me into a small corner lounge where the flickering light buzzed inside of a half-stocked vending machine. She pulled me into a hug, wrapping one arm around my back. The other hand stroked the back of my hair, gently caressing my neck. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

“No,” I croaked.

Estelle Gould was right. Time was in short supply. When dispatch said that Gran was in the hospital, I assumed the worst.

It was the cherry on top of a shit sundae. All morning I had been trying to come to terms with letting go of Layla.

I didn’t know if I could ever love her the way that she deserved, but I knew that watching her leave would hurt worse than coming home at fifteen-years-old to my bags sitting in the driveway.

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