Page 48 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

Hayes

B y the time the wheels hit the tarmac in Charlottesville, my spine feels jackhammered into the seat. I stretch my legs on the way out, dragging my backpack like it weighs a hundred pounds—though I’m pretty sure it’s my bones doing the heavy lifting.

The airport smells like dusty carpet and burnt coffee.

It’s a small place, quiet, almost too calm for what I’m walking into.

For a moment, I stand there blinking into the sunlight, unsure whether I want to move forward or disappear into the crowd.

Until I spot her. Hoodie, ponytail, eyes already glistening.

It’s been only four months since I last saw my sister Raidyn, but I fold into her embrace the same way I did when I left for basic training and when we dropped her off at college. Not wanting to let her go, I hold her too tight. My muscles used to bracing, not releasing .

“I know,” she whispers and cries with me.

With how fast the tears come, I can’t help but wonder if this is the first time she’s set them loose. Always the calm one—the family champion, the solid ground, the toughest of us siblings. If she’s rattled, then I’m already halfway to sinking.

I draw in the scent of her shampoo. Flowers and candy. Innocent things. Things that don’t belong at the edge of heartbreak. And suddenly I can’t tell whether I’m holding her up or she’s holding me.

Eventually, we pull apart, and move through the airport to the car in silence.

“There are some things you should know before going in,” she says, after we pull onto the highway minutes later.

The warning in her voice is worse than anything she could say outright, reminding me of my last text conversation with Mom.

Rather, her chiming in long enough to ensure I don’t lash out and make it harder on everyone.

My father may be the last person I want here, but it still hurts to know she doesn’t trust me to keep that to myself around my baby sister.

“Ava isn’t the same little girl she was when you left.” She glances sideways at me. “She can handle her sisters upset or scrambling for hope but not you.”

“Shit.” The word comes out as a whisper, breaking apart on my tongue.

I grip my knees, swallow back a scream or a sob or both. I can’t let either emotion out or the fragile cage keeping me upright might snap. My jaw locks shut as I stare out the window at nothing.

Raidyn gives me a few minutes before breaking the silence. “Her heart condition—”

“Did they confirm it?”

“Yes.” She sighs. “It’s cardiotoxicity, a condition caused by her chemotherapy. It could cause muscle damage, weakness, abnormal heart rhythms . . .” Her practiced nurse tone from years in the field yields. “Heart failure.”

“Failure?” I can’t feel my lungs. Raidyn’s still talking but her voice fades into a white noise, like the world muted itself to save me from myself.

“Get it out now,” she says.

I pound the dashboard, once, twice, three times. It doesn’t help. There’s not enough space to absorb the rage. My pain has no outlet. I wish to rip the universe apart and stitch it back together without this in it.

“Why the fuck is this happening?” I rasp. “She’s a kid.”

Raidyn doesn’t move. Just drives with her hands glued too tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles pale. That alone tells me everything I need to know.

“She doesn’t want pity, Hayes. She needs normal, laughter, love.”

I nod slowly. Raidyn’s right, and I need to reset my thoughts to what’s most important. “She’ll have it as long as I’m still breathing. Is there anything they can do to help?”

She says something about the cardiologist, tests, and maybe more meds, more monitoring—but I can’t follow any of it.

All I can think about is Ava’s tiny arms wrapped around my neck before I left, her voice still trying to be cheerful, still calling me Haysie as if everything was fine.

Like she wasn’t chained to the house or the hospital, fighting for every damn minute she got on this side of the dirt.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, hoping to find a sense of calm. As Raidyn said, Ava can’t see me like this. She’s counting on me to be the strong one, her big brother, her hero. I’m supposed to protect her.

But I can’t scare off leukemia or heart failure. I’m as useless as the jar of rocks in my bag.

Silence creeps in again. It’s heavier this time. Too damn heavy.

“Also, when you’re ready . . .” She pauses, surely to examine whether I can handle whatever she’s about to throw at me. “Dad wants to talk to you.”

Nope. I will never be ready for that.

Bitterness takes form and bursts from me as a chuckle. Sounds better than what I’d prefer to say. “Good for him.”

“Hayes.”

“I’m serious. What he wants doesn’t mean shit to me.”

She glares at me over her sunglasses.

“What? Do I have to hide my feelings from you, too?”

“No, but—”

“Then, fuck him.” There it is. That feels better.

She lets out an audible exhale. “He’s still our father.”

I puff out my disagreement. It takes more than blood to earn that title. After what he did, leaving Mom to fend for herself, I can’t trust anything he says or does now. Forgiveness, if that’s what he’s after, has always been a bridge too far.

I’m gearing up to say as much when the hospital sign comes into view and all that rigid anger dissolves into dread.

After a week of wishing for this day, it’s finally here.

I’m not prepared.

Raidyn parks the car and cuts the engine. For a beat, her focus stays forward, unmoving.

“We’re so glad you’re here, Hayes,” she begins, resting a hand on my arm. “We all need you, love you. But I know you, and I swear to God . . . don’t do it.”

New steel bars shoot up around me, shielding me from whatever she’s demanding of me. “Don’t do what?”

“Brave your storm alone.” She claims my hand and squeezes. “You always soak up everyone else’s troubles, emotions, and needs, neglecting your own. You don’t have to be perfect, just present. No matter what you do, you’ll always be our hero. But even heroes need help sometimes.”

“Thanks. I’ve learned that recently.”

“Good. Maybe Ava’s list did its job.”

“What?”

“Come on.” Pulling her hand free, she pats my leg. “Our little sister needs her hero . . . and so does Mom.”

“No pressure.”

“None at all but stop stalling.” She throws open the door and steps out, leaving me alone in the car .

I’m excited to see Ava, but damn, what if I can’t make her feel better? What if she senses how terrified I am? What if—

Raidyn pounds on the hood and tilts her head. “What are you doing? Trying to teleport inside?”

Letting out my frustration, I push open the door with more force than necessary, catching it before it slams into the car beside us.

“I wish. Then I could teleport myself away from this ridicule.”

“It’s too bad your superpowers can’t make that happen.” She hooks her arm around mine, directing me toward the entrance. “As you know, big brother, sarcasm is my superpower, and I’m just getting started.”

◆◆◆

Walking through the hospital, all joking dies a miserable death. A sterile sadness clings to the walls in here, so thick it seeps into my lungs, making every breath feel like swallowing dust. Each step becomes slower than the last.

We don’t talk. There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t sound insignificant compared to what’s waiting for us behind the pediatric oncology ward door.

Separating at the restrooms, we wash our hands and put on masks. The quiet here isn’t peaceful—it’s haunted.

I stall outside her door to steady myself. A few seconds to breathe before facing her, but Raidyn doesn’t allow it. She nudges the door open with her elbow, hinges whining like it’s saddened by what’s behind it .

I don’t know what I expected before walking in here, but it sure as hell wasn’t what I see.

Mom sits slumped forward in a chair beside the bed, elbows on her knees and fingers laced tight in either prayer or surrender.

Her hair’s pulled back in a messy knot, mask strings digging into her cheek.

Everything about her is muted, exhausted, anxious.

Her head lifts when we walk in, but she says nothing.

Just watches us like she’s been waiting for this moment to exhale.

Beside her, tucked under a fuzzy pink blanket, Ava rests with wires and tubes connecting her to multiple machines.

The bed swallows her, like it was made for someone twice her size.

She’s wearing a plaid cap that folds over her ears, skin pale and tight.

But when her dull blue eyes find me, they come alive.

“Sprinkles,” she squeaks, and her teary smile slices me in half. “You’re here.”

Crossing the room fast, I snag the rolling stool on the way and sit beside her. “Where else would I be?”

“In California.” Her tiny fingers wrap around my thumb, anchoring me.

“I was in California. Do you need proof? I have a photo.”

Her wiggly excitement gives me the answer. I pull out my phone, swiping through the photos I took for this moment, and show her the ones of me on the beach.

“It’s so pretty there. Did you get some seashells?”

“Duh. The best ones ever.”

She looks at me as if I brought the sun back from California and hung it over her bed. I would have if that’s what she wanted.

Raidyn crossing the room draws my attention. “We’re going to grab some coffee from the cute little shop across the street.”

“We are?” Mom protests but allows Raidyn to lift her off the chair.

“Yes. I think we both need some caffeine and vitamin D.” Her wink tells me she’s not only doing this for Mom. She’s giving me time alone with Ava, and I’m grateful.

“But—”

“No buts . If you sit here any longer, you’ll sprout roots and become a permanent part of this hospital.”

Mom rests a hand on Ava’s arm. “Ugh. No one wants that. Right, baby?”

Ava grins at her, their bond as strong as ever.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“It’s okay. I have Haysie with me.”

“You’re one lucky girl.” Mom rounds the bed and kisses my cheek. “Welcome home,” she whispers and reluctantly leaves with Raidyn on her heels.