I expected to see a nurse enter the room. But when my eyes finally focused enough to see who had entered, it was a tiny woman with a shock of bright-red hair.
Nic.
“Hi—” I rasped out. My throat was dry and scratchy. “You’re here. How did you?—?”
“I told them I was your sister,” she said proudly. Of course she did. Even though my eyes were swimming, Nic’s boldness made me chuckle internally. “But are you okay?” She couldn’t keep the panic from her voice. “That wassoscary, the way you just—passed out like that,” she continued. “Has this ever happened before?”
“I’m okay,” I told her in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. “My—head. It hurts. And my arm. I’m... not sure what happened.”
Now a nurse did come in, fortyish and all business. She filled in the gaps of our conversation.
“It’s a concussion from the fall, plus you somehow sprained your wrist. It must’ve been the way you landed when you fell,” she informed Nic and me briskly.
I met Nic’s searching eyes. I took a sip of water when the nurse offered it, then tried to explain.
“I—faint sometimes, especially when I drink alcohol, or when I don’t have enough water. I’m on medication that has some pretty serious side effects.” I took a deep breath and continued. “I have RA. It causes inflammation of the joints. The fainting has happened before. The concussion is new,” I tried to joke.
Nic looked momentarily stunned, then regained her composure. After checking the machines around me, the nurse slipped back out.
“Why didn’t you ever tell us?” Nic asked, her voice more stilted than normal. I hated that she sounded hurt.
“I didn’t know about it in high school. I didn’t get diagnosed until college, and it was in its early stages then,” I told her, mentally processing and sorting through details, attempting to make my jagged thoughts make sense. “I’ve recently gone up a dose in my medication. I guess... I didn’t realize how much more the alcohol might affect me. It’s been a long time since I had a drink...” I finished lamely.
I felt like a prize idiot for my behavior, and I hoped Nic wouldn’t call me on it. I didn’t need to add wounded pride to my catalog of current injuries.
Nic nodded, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “Is there anything I can do?” she finally asked.
“Actually, yes. Nic, I need a favor.”
“Name it.” I smiled at how willing this girl was—had always been—to be a friend to me when I needed it. I made a mental note to water this friendship more in the future.
“Hand me that bag?” I asked, pointing with my good arm to the crossbody bag that was sitting in a nearby chair. When she gave it to me I unzipped it, pulling out a white envelope.
“You—” I thought for a moment, then started again. “You know where Cade lives, right?” I asked apprehensively. “I need you to deliver something for me. A letter.”
40
CADE
Imade it home from the call-out around one a.m., exhausted and in desperate need of a shower and some dry clothes. We’d found the missing boy—thank God. My job was sometimes brutal, but days like this—outcomes like this—made it infinitely worth it, and I felt like I was part of something greater in the world. I knew I’d spend weeks savoring the high of seeing that little boy back in his mother’s arms.
As Echo and I approached my door I saw a rectangular white envelope taped to it, just my name written on top in familiar loopy handwriting. After I unlocked the door, I tore it open. Inside, I found a long typed letter. Exhaustion momentarily forgotten, I began to read.
Dear Cade,
I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I do owe you an extremely long-overdue apology, and an explanation for some of the things I never confided in you. That means I have to dig into the past, just a little.
One thing I never told you was why Brock and I broke up. After the last reunion, Brock and I moved in together, for about a month.
The way he lived was so detail-oriented. I felt like I was walking on eggshells every time I left a box of cereal out on the counter or left my shoes in the “wrong” place. I was constantly trying to appease him.
His moods started changing, and he started getting angry. When I was laying around the house in my sweats on my days off, he called me things—like “lazy” and “dull.” It chipped away at my self-esteem, and at some point, I started to believe it.
I realized eventually that what I originally saw as Brock taking care of me was actually him controlling me. In small ways, at first. Always going to places inhiscar, spending the night inhisapartment, eating wherehechose.
When I moved in, those instances increased. Wearing what he suggested, putting things away where he wanted them. His way was right—my way wasn’t valid.
I think in a way he liked that he was so much older, and that I didn’t really have any family or my parents around. He never encouraged me to reconnect with my mom. He never tried to get close with Whit, or ask me about Owen—it was like all of those people, my closest relationships, only fit outside of my relationship with him.
