Page 51 of Bitter Truths

The ICU waiting area sprawls in front of me with its uncomfortable chairs and buzzing lights, the smell of bad coffee and fear hanging in the air. And there, clustered near the windows, is my family.

Mom sees me first, and her coffee cup slips from her fingers, hitting the floor and splashing brown liquid across the tiles. Her face does this thing I remember from childhood—crumples and lights up at the same time, like she can’t decide if she’s devastated or relieved.

“Bianca.” Just my name, but it comes out like a prayer she’s been whispering for years.

I swallow down a sudden ache.

The grief she wears on her face is not from my brother alone.

I carry blame for that too.

She’s across the room before I can prepare myself, arms wrapping around me like I might disappear again if she doesn’t hold tight enough. She feels smaller than I remember, more fragile than ever, like five years of worrying about her daughter who won’t come home has worn her down to nothing.

“You came,” she says against my shoulder, and I can hear years of uncertainty in those two words. “I wasn’t sure... I hoped, but...”

My gut twists. I’ve only seen them once since I left—three years ago when they came to Hunter’s Creek for a weekend, and I tried so hard to act normal, to prove I was okay.

I can remember it clear as day. We were at Metty’s Diner, the four of us crammed into a corner booth. Dad was telling a ridiculous story about one of his patients, using dramatic gestures that made Mom laugh until she snorted. Winston was stealing fries off my plate, the same thing he did when we were kids.

“Remember when Bianca collected cat hair from the neighbor's house and put it in my bed?” Winston says, nudging my shoulder. “I kept wondering why I was suddenly allergic to my own room.”

“You deserved it,” I say, stealing a fry back. “You kept scaring me with those very real-looking fake spiders.”

“Fair point.”

Winston’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, and I see the name flash across the screen.

Freddie.

The diner tilts sideways. The life I’ve carefully created—the one where they don’t exist, where I’m safe, where I can sit with my family and pretend to be normal—crumbles in a single heartbeat. I mumble a few words about feeling sick and bolt from the restaurant.

Ezra found me later, hyperventilating behind the post office like some kind of feral animal. He didn’t ask questions, just sat with me until I could breathe again. And later that night, when the panic turned into something desperate and raw, he was there for that too. Gentle and kind and patient in a way that made me understand why people write songs about first times. It wasn’t who I’d imagined, wasn’t the moment I’d dreamed of as a girl. But if it couldn’t be them, I was grateful it was him. Someone who knew all my tattered pieces and cared for me anyway.

It seems stupid now, how that one name destroyed me. My family was understanding when I told them it was too much, but I avoided all plans after that to see them. I regret that now.

I hug her back, trying to find words that don’t sound hollow.

“I’m here,” I say, settling for simple truth. Not ‘of course I came’ or ‘I wouldn’t miss this,’ just the reality that I’m here now, even though I haven’t been here for anything else.

Dad’s next, pulling me into one of his bear hugs, though it’s gentler than it used to be, like he’s not sure how much contact I can handle anymore.

“How is he?” I ask, stepping back and putting space between us before the guilt can crawl up my throat and choke me.

“Stable,” Dad says. “But the doctors say the next day or two will tell us everything we need to know.”

“Bianca,” Mom says carefully, “this is Ben and Matt. They’re part of Winston and Clara’s pack now.”

Clara steps forward, and for a second we just stare at each other. She looks exhausted, dark hair escaping from a messy ponytail, but when she sees me, her face crumples with relief.

“Bianca.” She doesn’t hesitate, just pulls me into a hug that feels like much more. “Oh my god, you came. You’re here.”

I hug her back, remembering how she used to braid my hair and teach me about makeup when I was fifteen and awkward and desperate for an older sister figure. How she’d listen to me complain about high school drama like it mattered.

Ben and Matt hover nearby—both tall, both broad-shouldered, both radiating that alpha tension that comes from wanting to fix what they can’t control. Ben has kind eyes, the sort of face that would make scared kids feel safe. Matt looks like the uber-smart type, pushing his glasses up his nose with the nervous energy of someone who reads medical journals for fun.

“We’ve heard so much about you,” Ben offers, his kind eyes studying my face. “Winston and Clara talk about you all the time.”

They do? After my lack of communication, I figured I’d become a distant memory, someone they used to know.