Page 9

9

QUINN

Hospitals have a way of pressing into your skin, of making the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end. The cold sterility of the air. The low, mechanical hum of machines. The scent—sharp, antiseptic, too clean.

I’ve spent enough time in places like this to know that the worst moments of your life don’t come with dramatic soundtracks or flashing warning signs. They happen quietly. In waiting rooms, in hallways, in cramped hospital chairs. In the lull between doctors’ visits, where you sit there, staring at the speckled tile, waiting for someone to tell you something definitive.

Wesley stirs beside me, shifting against the thin hospital sheets. He’s been out for the last hour, breathing slow and steady, his dark curls a mess against the pillow. The IV line taped to his arm looks out of place on him. I hate it.

I glance at the monitor above his bed, tracking the soft beeps of his heart rate. Normal. Stable. Fine.

He’s fine, Quinn. It was only a seizure.

Not the worst one he’s had, but bad enough. He collapsed in the middle of the kitchen, his head smacking against the tile. By the time Mom got to him, he was already coming out of it, confused, unsteady. Dad carried him to the car while she called ahead to the hospital.

They kept him overnight for observation, running the usual tests. Checking his heart. Watching for anything they might’ve missed.

He’ll go home today, they told us. And that’s what I keep reminding myself, that at least he’s stable for the time being.

But I know how this works. Stability doesn’t mean safety, and fine doesn’t mean forever.

The bed creaks as Wesley shifts again, his eyelids fluttering. He groans. “You’re still here?”

“Nah,” I murmur with a tiny half-assed smirk. “You’re hallucinating.”

“Damn. Kinda hoped I was.”

I flick the side of his arm, careful of the IV. “Asshole.”

Wes huffs a laugh, but it turns into a wince as he moves too fast.

“Slow down,” I warn, my smirk fading. “You good?”

He presses his fingers to his temple. “Yeah. Just ... headache.”

I nod, leaning back in the chair I’ve spent too many hours in. It’s uncomfortable as hell, but I’m used to it by now. I’ve spent too many nights in chairs like this, memorizing the shape of worry and what it feels like to wait.

Mom and Dad stepped out to get coffee, promising to be back in ten minutes. They left together, which means they’ll be gone for at least thirty. Mom will linger by the counter, asking about caffeine levels in the decaf, Dad will get caught up reading the news on his phone.

For now, it’s just me and Wesley.

He squints at the window, where weak morning light is starting to filter through the half-drawn blinds. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight.”

His brows furrow. “You stayed all night?”

I roll my shoulders, trying to stretch out the stiffness. “So did Mom and Dad.”

“Yeah, but they’re—” He cuts himself off, biting his lip.

They’re them . The ones who have always been by his side, through every appointment, every hospital stay, every emergency. The ones who dropped everything, rearranged their entire lives around making sure he was okay.

Me? I was just the extra set of hands. The built-in backup.

I watch as he shifts again, slowly adjusting to sit up.

“I’m fine, you know,” he says softly. “You don’t have to babysit me, too.”

“Right. Because the whole collapsing in the kitchen thing was just for fun.”

He rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Tell that to Mom. Pretty sure she aged another ten years.”

He sighs, rubbing at his temple. “I just hate this shit.”

Yeah. Me too, kid. I don’t say it out loud, just press my lips together, leaning forward to prop my elbows on my knees. “You scared them,” I say instead.

He glances away. “I know.”

I run a shaky hand through my hair. “You scared me, too.”

He blinks, caught off guard for half a second before covering it up with a smirk. “Didn’t think anything scared you.”

“Yeah, well.” I exhale through my nose, looking back at the monitor again. Still normal. Still fine.

A beat of silence stretches between us before his smirk fades. He picks at the edge of the hospital blanket, looking a whole lot younger than seventeen. In fact, he looks like the kid I used to read stories to in the back seat of Mom’s car, not the teenager who just got his learner’s permit and now has to wait at least three months to drive again.

“I really am okay,” he says, quieter now.

“I know.”

Another beat. Then, “But you look like shit.”

I snort. “Wow. Thanks, Wes.”

“Just saying. You could’ve at least changed your clothes. The Sycamore polo has seen better days.”

“I didn’t exactly plan for an overnight stay.”

He gives a crooked smile, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something grateful.

Before either of us can say anything else, the door creaks open. Mom and Dad step inside, two coffee cups in hand. Mom looks exhausted, her bun a little looser than it was last night, worry still etched between her brows. But she smiles when she sees Wesley awake, a little tension easing from her shoulders.

Dad steps in behind her, his expression harder to read, but I know that look. The quiet concern, the wheels turning in his head, already planning the next appointment, the next precaution.

“Morning,” Mom says, setting one of the coffee cups on the bedside table. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Wes shrugs. “Fine.”

Mom presses her lips together, clearly debating whether or not to argue. She doesn’t. Just reaches for his hand, rubbing gentle circles over his knuckles.

Dad’s eyes flick to me. “You should go home, Quinn. Get some rest.”

I stretch my arms above my head, feigning indifference. “I’m fine.”

Mom frowns. “Honey, you were here all night.”

“So were you.”

She sighs, looking between me and my brother. I don’t know why they’ve suddenly decided that my presence is optional, like it hasn’t always been expected. Like I haven’t built a second skin out of showing up.

Dad shifts, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “We appreciate you staying,” he says carefully. “But you don’t have to carry this, Quinn.”

A familiar weight settles in my chest. I know they mean well. I know they’re saying it because they care. But that’s the thing—I’ve always carried this. It’s part of who I am. It’s not going to end just because I’m graduating college soon and suddenly they’ve decided I’ve done enough.

They can pretend the balance was ever even, pretend I didn’t spend years trying to prove I mattered too. But that doesn’t erase the past.

I push to my feet and grab my bag. “I’ll head out. Just let me know when he gets discharged.”

“Text us when you get home,” Mom says.

I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Will do.”

Wes watches as I step toward the door, something flickering in his expression. It’s hesitation, maybe. A kind of guilt that doesn’t belong to him but is there anyway. I don’t wait for him to say anything. If he opens his mouth, it’ll just make it harder to walk out.

So, I push through the door and let it swing shut behind me.

The hallway is bright and clean, stretching out in a sterile blur of white tile and muted colors. Soft greens. Powder blues. The kind of palette meant to calm kids down but just makes everything feel like a waiting room inside a cartoon.

The walls are lined with painted murals: smiling animals, rainbow kites, a sun with wide cartoon eyes. It’s all a little too cheerful, a little too forced. Like the place is trying too hard to make you forget where you are.

This is the Hawthorne Children’s Hospital, which is why the murals make sense. Doesn’t make them less weird. Or babyish. Or kind of haunting when you’ve grown up walking these halls.

I’ve been here more times than I can count. First as a wide-eyed kid trailing after my parents, later as a teenager keeping Wes entertained between appointments. The faces change—new nurses, new doctors, new scared parents—but the feeling doesn’t.

I pass a small girl clutching a stuffed elephant, her IV pole rattling quietly beside her. Her mom murmurs something soft as they head toward the playroom. Another kid, maybe six or seven, sits in a wheelchair, staring blankly at an iPad. His arms are thin, covered in faded hospital bracelets.

Wesley was once just like them, all wiry limbs and quiet bravery. He grew, got stronger, outlived the worst predictions. And now he’s taller, sharper, more sarcastic than ever. Sprawled across that hospital bed like he owns it, tossing out jokes to make me roll my eyes. He seems older.

But seventeen isn’t grown. It’s barely anything at all.

And if seventeen still counts as a kid, then what does that make me?

I’m twenty-one. Technically an adult. Old enough to be on my own, to make decisions that matter. Old enough to be working, studying, building something. But most days, I still feel like I’m waiting for someone to hand me the blueprint. Like I’m stuck on the edge of something I don’t quite know how to step into.

I don’t stop at the waiting area. Don’t glance at the receptionist. Don’t acknowledge the low murmur of nurses at the desk. I just keep walking, straight through the automatic doors and into the thick summer air.

Outside, I blink against the sudden light. The heat hits instantly, clinging to my skin after too many hours breathing stale, filtered oxygen. I move on autopilot—cross the lot, unlock the door, slide behind the wheel.

The drive home blurs past. Stoplights, street signs, late-morning traffic. I couldn’t recount the route if I tried. My brain stays back at the hospital, stuck somewhere between the beep of a heart monitor and the feel of Wesley’s too-cold fingers brushing mine.

I pull into the lot outside my apartment complex, cut the engine, and sit there with my fingers curled tight around the wheel. The AC hums, blowing lukewarm air that barely touches the sticky weight pressing down on me.

I should go inside. Take a shower. Sleep. Pretend I didn’t just spend the last twenty-four hours in a hospital room pretending to be fine.

But the thought of walking through that door, of stepping into a quiet apartment where everything is normal—where my roommates are probably stretched across the couch watching trashy TV and complaining about who forgot to buy oat milk—feels impossible.

I can’t do it. Not yet.

So instead of heading in, I climb out of the car and start walking.

It’s just a quick walk down the street. Five minutes, tops. By the time I reach the gym, my pulse is already thrumming, but not from the pace. It’s something else. Something wired and restless buzzing under my skin.

Inside, it’s louder than before. Packed to the brim with movement and noise.

The hum of bodies. The sharp sound of fists meeting pads. The deep grunts of effort. It’s a different kind of energy than the last time I was here. Not just old, worn-down lifers who’ve been coming for decades, but younger guys too. Focused. Hungry. The kind of people who have something to prove.

It makes me pause. That awkward, out-of-place feeling creeps in again. But then I remind myself—everyone starts as an outsider. You fake it until you don’t have to.

And more than anything, I want that feeling back. The one I had after that first night. After I spent an hour taking it all out on the bag, after the adrenaline left my system and my body finally went quiet. I’ve been chasing that silence ever since.

I need it now more than ever. So, I step inside.

The owner’s behind the counter again, arms crossed. He doesn’t greet me, doesn’t ask why I’m here, just tips his chin toward the lockers.

I make my way over, drop my bag onto the bench, pull my hair into a knot, and start taping up. When I finally step onto the mats, he’s already waiting.

“Good,” he says. “You came back.”

I roll my shoulders. “Yeah. Found a gap in my schedule.”

His expression stays dry. “Sure. That’s why.”

I don’t bother replying. My eyes drift past him to the ring where a pair of guys are sparring. Fast. Clean. Controlled. They move like their bodies already know exactly what to do.

I want that. I want to be good enough to let it out without overthinking every move. I want to stop holding it all in.

I want to hit something and finally feel free.

Without me asking for it, the owner steps in and taps the inside of my elbow.

“Last time, I let you go at it. Wanted you to feel it, to let it out. But if you keep throwing wild-ass punches like that, you’re gonna blow out your shoulder before you even figure out what you’re doing.”

I press my lips together. I don’t like being called out, but he’s not wrong. My body still aches in places I didn’t know existed.

He gestures toward the bag. “Hands up.”

I square my stance, lifting my fists, and he steps in again to adjust my elbow.

“Keep them tighter. You’re leaving yourself wide open.”

He moves behind me and presses two fingers to my spine.

“Straighten up. Engage your core. You’re not throwing from your arms. You’re throwing from here.”

I exhale and shift my weight. He steps back, letting me find it on my own. When I punch this time, it feels different. More controlled. More intentional.

He gives a short grunt of approval. “Better. Again.”

I throw punch after punch until my arms feel like lead, until my legs tremble with exhaustion, until the sharp edge of everything dulls just enough.

By the time I peel my gloves off, the owner has drifted back to his desk. My body hums with the same tired relief as last time. There’s a steady burn in my muscles, a dull ache in my knuckles. I welcome it.

For a minute, I lean against the wall, dragging my hands down my face.

“Hey,” I say quietly.

He glances up, eyes narrowed like he’s expecting me to complain or quit.

“Thanks,” I mutter. “For . . . you know.” I gesture vaguely, unsure how to explain that I needed this. That I was unraveling when I walked in, and now, somehow, I feel like I’ve been stitched back together. “For today.”

His expression softens. “Right. I’ll see you again in a couple days.”

It’s not a question. I should say no, should remind him I don’t have time for this. I can’t afford to spend my nights in a dingy gym throwing punches at a bag. I need to sleep more. Focus more.

“Yeah,” I say instead. “See you soon.”

I step outside into the cool night air, still feeling the sting in my palms. It’s sharp, but the tension I’ve been dragging around all day feels quieter now, like someone finally turned the volume down. My lungs pull in a steady breath, deep and grounding, the kind that doesn’t catch or tighten.

I fish around in my pocket for my phone, half expecting it to be dead. I haven’t checked it since yesterday morning—since the second I got the call about Wesley. I texted Robbie, my manager, a quick “Family emergency. Can’t come in.” Then I shoved my phone away and forgot about it.

Now, as the screen lights up, I blink at the notifications. Ten missed texts. A few are from my roommates. Some from my mom. One from Robbie, checking in. But none of them matter quite as much as the one at the bottom.

Warren

heard about Wesley. hope he’s okay.

I stare at it for a second longer than I should, my heartbeat thrumming somewhere in my throat. Warren fucking Mercer texted me. For the first time in two and a half years, he reached out to say something that wasn’t sharp or loaded or angry.

He reached out to check on me.

I swallow hard, my fingers hovering over the screen. I shouldn’t care. It’s a simple message—nothing heavy, nothing that should make my chest feel like it’s folding in on itself. But it does. And when I scroll up, just to see it, I find the last thing he ever sent me.

Quinny, please.

I remember exactly where I was when I first saw it. Sitting on the steps outside my dorm, my heart lodged somewhere between my ribs, my mind a hurricane of what-ifs and too-late regrets.

I ignored it. Not because I wanted to and not because I didn’t have anything to say. But because, by then, it didn’t really matter. Warren had already made up his mind about who I was and what I was worth.

Maybe he was the one to say the final words, but I was the one who really ended it. Just a girl with too many secrets and a habit of breaking things that matter.

That’s why I let the message sit there, unanswered. A final period on something that had once been everything. I spent a long time wishing I hadn’t. Wishing I’d fought harder. Wishing he would have listened.

But now he’s the one reaching out. And I have no fucking idea what to do with that.

I don’t know what to do with him, either. The way I still feel him everywhere. The way his voice sneaks into my head when I’m alone, low and certain, like he’s standing right behind me. The way I still ache for something I told myself I didn’t need.

And I hate that a single text is enough to make me feel like I’m standing on those steps all over again, drowning in those same regrets.