He sees it before I do. She lifts both hands to push him, but he catches her wrists and leans down to get in her face. “You do not want to see what’s on the other side of that counter. You donotwant to see her like that.”
I’m caught between wanting to punch him in the face for grabbing her like that, even though it was only in defense of himself, and wanting to wrap her back in my arms when I watch her face transform. Bryn fractures in front of me. The crease in her forehead smooths, the clench of her jaw relaxes, and a lone tear slides down her cheek. Her anger morphs into defeat and devastation.
“Let her go,” I say quietly, leaving no room for debate.
His eyes flick to me, and I give him a short nod, accepting responsibility for however she reacts. Brody’s jaw clenches, unhappy with me, but he does as I tell him.
Eyes round with fear and shock, Bryn looks to me, and I take her hand, lacing our fingers together before bringing her around the other side of the island where she’ll be out of the way but able to see.
Because I realize she needs this. For whatever reason, and however it might hurt, I instinctively know that she needs to see her Gran right this second. And whatever the fallout of it, I’ll be there to catch her.
And I do need to catch her.
Chapter 19
Bryn
Nothingcouldhavepreparedme. Stumbling into Wyatt, his arm wraps around my waist as I lift mine to my mouth, muffling a cry.
Dark red blood is pooled all over the kitchen floor, splatters of it on the white cabinets beside where the paramedics and firefighters kneel. The space is cramped, Gran lying on her back in the middle of it all, a C-collar stabilizing her neck. I can’t see much of her face because one of the firefighters has bandages all over, but I’m not sure I want to see it.
And yet, at the same time, I do. I want to see her. All of her. Her warm brown eyes, full of love, sass, and a little bit of mischief. I want to hear what she’d say if she saw a bunch of firefighters crowded around her, giving her all kinds of attention.
I need her to wake up.
I need her to be okay.
One of the firefighters shifts, and I see more of her, her nightgown cut open from the top to expose her chest, electrodes plastered to her skin. A machine beeps, something I didn’t hear before now, and it lodges my heart in my throat, my breath halting.
“Ruby?” one of the paramedics, a woman, says. “Can you squeeze my hand?” A second passes, and the woman tilts her head back and forth. “Maybe.”
“Pupils are still equal but sluggish,” the other paramedic says.
“Equal pupils are good,” Wyatt says in my ear. “The sluggish part is concerning.”
My hand falls to his over my stomach, and I squeeze it, grateful for his honesty as I blow out a breath.
“Still altered,” the first paramedic says. “Let’s get her loaded.”
“Altered?” I whisper.
“Not with it,” he responds. “It sounded like maybe she came around a bit, but it might not have stuck. Clear sign of a head injury, which given the state of… everything…”
Wyatt trails off. He doesn’t need to say more. I can see it with my own eyes. This can’t be real. It can’t be happening. A million different things run through my mind, trying to determine what might have happened, how she ended up here.
How could I let this happen?
The question invades my mind before I can stop it. My heart squeezes tight, my entire chest set on fire. If I’d been here today, if I’d seen her tonight, if we’d done what we do every Fourth of July and watched the fireworks together on the front lawn, she wouldn’t be in this position right now.
I wouldn’t be having déjà vu of coming home to find my grandpa dead. Wouldn’t have my worst nightmare lying on the floor before my eyes. I’ve lived this once. I can’t live it again. I can’t pick up those pieces again. Not with her. Especially not with her.
Wyatt pulls me backwards from our spot, but not out of view of Gran. They’re getting ready to move her and get her on the stretcher. With the new angle, with everyone moving, I see her cell phone lying next to her at the edge of the pool of blood near her shoulder.
I suck in a breath. Was she okay enough to dial 911? Had she been feeling ill before she fell and had called them? Was she having a heart attack? Or a stroke? Maybe she cut herself and needed helpand tried calling and then fell. Was she calling out? Did she call for me? How long had she been lying there?
God. How long had she been there? Lying in a pool of her own blood.
My eyes close on the thought, and I turn my head, fresh tears leaking down my cheeks. I don’t know if they’ve stopped since they started. It doesn’t feel like they have. They feel like a continuous stream, burning tracks along my skin with their saltiness.
