Page 94 of From the Wreckage

Everett

Bri’s unpacking in her room, humming low under her breath, the sound faint but steady. It makes something in my chest unclench. She’s trying to reclaim her space, her life, one folded sweater at a time.

I step out onto the back deck, needing air. The night is cool, the lake black glass under the stars. The door opens behind me, and Grayson steps out, two beers in his hands. He passes me one, then leans against the railing, silent.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out the blister pack of dull green capsules. I hold them out in my palm.

He looks up at me, then back at them, his jaw tightening. “What’s that?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s what was slipped in Bri’s drink at the party. I found them in their apartment when she was packing. Kitchen counter. Right beside the fridge and a bottle of blue alcohol.” My voice is low and sharp. “Doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots.”

Grayson’s eyes darken. He takes the pack from me, turning them over in his hands. His teeth grind, muscle ticking in his jaw. For a moment, I think he’s about to hurl them into the lake.

Instead, he blows out a breath through his nose. “I know a pharmacist in town. Old friend. Let me have him take a look.”

I nod once. “Keep me posted.”

“I will.” He tucks the evidence into his jacket pocket. His voice is rough when he adds, “You did the right thing not telling her. Not yet. She’s… she’s fragile. She deserves the truth, but she deserves it when we’ve got answers.”

I stare out at the lake, my fists clenching. “When she hears it, it’ll break her all over again.”

Grayson exhales slowly, his shoulders tight, his profile carved in shadow. “Then you catch her when she falls.”

The words hit me harder than I want to admit. I nod, unable to speak, because he’s right.

Inside, Bri’s laugh carries faintly out the window, light and tentative. I’m not sure what she’s laughing at, but the sound cuts through the night like the first crack of dawn.

I grip the beer bottle until my knuckles ache.

She deserves more than the wreckage we’re standing in. And I’ll give it to her. One way or another.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, striping across Bri’s hair where it spills over the pillow. She stirs, blinking up at me with sleep-heavy eyes. For once, she doesn’t flinch awake from a nightmare.

I brush my thumb across her cheek. “Morning, angel.”

Her lips curve faintly. “Morning.”

We sit in the quiet for a while, until she whispers, “Do you think… Maybe I should talk to someone?”

The vulnerability in her voice makes my chest ache. I don’t push, don’t smother. I just nod. “I think it’d help. And I’ll help you find the right person.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but she nods. “Okay.”

By midmorning, I’m at the kitchen table with her laptop open, scrolling through local listings. I read reviews out loud, cross-check credentials, and listen when she shakes her head or leans forward with interest. When her hands start trembling, I cover them with mine.

“Let me call,” I say gently.

Relief floods her face, and she nods.

The appointment is set for that afternoon.

When we pull into the lot, Bri’s breathing grows shallow. Her grip on my hand turns fierce. I shut the truck off and face her. “You’re braver than you think, angel. I’ll be right here the whole time.”

She nods, then steps out, her shoulders squared.

I watch her walk inside, every protective instinct in me screaming to follow, but I stay put. She needs to do this her way. If she wanted me to go with her, she’d ask.

An hour later, the door opens. She comes back out, her eyes red but her step lighter somehow, like she left some of the weight inside. She slides into the passenger seat and exhales, shaky but steady.

I don’t ask questions. I just reach over and take her hand.

Her fingers curl into mine, and she whispers, “Thank you.”

Those words feel like a victory.

On the drive back, she rests her head against my shoulder, her sunflower pendant glinting in the sunlight.

For the first time in too long, hope feels real.