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“I’m coming, too!” Taylor declares, helping me grab my purse and coat.
It’s a stressful drive. I’m in the back seat with Dad’s head lying in my lap while Taylor’s up front yelling directions to the nearest hospital. None of this feels real, like one of those nightmares where you’re running for your life but barely moving an inch. I have a million and one questions, but I don’t know where to start or even who to ask.
How did things get this bad? Why didn’t Dad tell me what was going on? Is he going to make it?
We get him to the emergency in record time. The next few minutes are an indistinguishable blur. They put Dad on a stretcher and wheel him off. We’re not allowed to follow. A doctor says something about getting his stomach pumped. I don’t remember what happened after that.
I’m seated in the corner of the waiting room, my knees curled up against my chest. Hunter hands me a water bottle from the nearby vending machine, but I don’t take it. I don’t have full control of my arms. He takes a deep breath and crouches before me, one hand on the arm rest next to me. Hunter carefully taps me with his finger, like he’s trying to coax me out of my shell.
“You need to drink something,” he says gently.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re dehydrated. And in shock.”
I shake my head, zoning out so hard I feel like I’m on a different plane of existence. Taylor’s gone to find the hospital cafeteria to try and get something for us to eat.
“Eden. Just a sip. That’s all I’m asking.”
I take the water bottle and twist the cap off. I focus on the cool trickle of water down my throat. I feel the slightest bit better.
“You’re shaking,” Hunter observes as he sits down next to me. “I understand you’re scared, Eden, but everything’s going to be okay.”
“I’m not scared. I’mangry.” I wipe at my watery eyes, grinding my teeth so hard they squeak. “What was he thinking? When did it get this bad? Is it my fault? I should have checked on him more often, called or texted more. If I’d known—”
Hunter pulls me into his arms, cutting me off with a tight hug. “This is not your fault, Eden. Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. Thomas is the only one responsible for his own poor choices.” He presses light kisses into my hair. “Tell me you understand that.”
I melt into his touch, pressing my face into the crook of his neck to find solace. “I could have gotten him the help he needs,” I reason aloud. “I could have taken him to see a doctor. I could have checked him into rehab.”
“Maybe, but is the onus on you to make himacceptthe help? You can book all the doctor’s appointments you’d like. You can check him into the best facilities in Malibu. But if he doesn’t want to help himself, how is that on you?”
I groan in frustration. He’s right. He’s totally right, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like absolute shit.
Flash.
A sudden, blinding light catches the corner of my eye. I turn to see someone seated about a row away, their phone held out to snap a picture of Hunter and me. The only reason I know that it wasn’t an accident is because the photographer, a real Chad-looking kind of guy, looks caught.
“Ah, fuck. Didn’t mean for the flash to be on.”
Hunter is out of his seat in an instant. He grabs the guy by the collar and yanks him out of his chair into a standing position. “Delete it,” he commands.
“Yo, man. The fuck is your problem?”
“You. You are my problem. What gives you the right to take a picture of us without our permission?”
“But you’re Hunter Stride. Do you know how much money a picture like this will get me if I send it to TMZ? Why are you here, anyway? Someone sick or hurt? C’mon, man. Spill!”
“Delete it.Now.”
Before either of them have the chance to escalate the confrontation into a fist fight, I dash out of my chair and snatch the guy’s phone straight out of his hand. It takes me all of five seconds to open his gallery and delete the picture in question. My face is obscured, but Hunter’s face isn’t. It’s very obvious that he’s embracing someone in their moment of need. If Buddy here sold this picture to TMZ, there was always the possibility that it could cause quite the stir. I could already picture the headlines.
Who’s Hunter Stride’s mystery woman?
I hit delete and toss the phone back to him. “Don’t be a dickhead,” I hiss before stomping away. Hunter follows closely behind.
I’m not sure where I’m going or if I even have a destination in mind. All I’m focused on is putting as much space between us and the public as possible. Hunter makes me feel so comfortable sometimes that I forget who he is. I forget about his reputation, his public image, and people’s general fascination with him. He’s a celebrity. I’m not, and I want nothing to do with that life.
Hunter takes my hand to keep me from walking any further. “Eden. Are you alright?”
