Page 37

Chapter 37

Levi

I can’t see. I can’t fucking see.

Every time I blink, new tears form. The world is distorted and blurry and bleak, as if I’m trapped in an alternate reality. Nothing makes sense, and I can’t even get G to talk to me.

That’s the worst of it. He’s shut down, totally unreachable. Every time I look at him, a fresh shroud of guilt washes over me.

I was the one upstairs with Hunter. Whatever happened between her and Magnolia, it happened on my watch.

They took her back—somewhere. Fuck. I don’t even know where they took her. Is she okay? Does she need surgery?

Greedy swore she had a pulse. That means she’ll be okay, right?

“G,” I try for the tenth time.

“Don’t,” he snaps back. He’s refusing to let me get a word in. To apologize. To explain.

Fucking hell .

Hands clenched into fists, I kick the row of plastic chairs lining the far wall, sending three of them clattering into an upside-down heap.

I’m still panting and staring at the mess a few moments later when a man wearing light blue scrubs with a hospital badge clipped to the pocket peeks around the corner to the alcove we’re standing in.

“Everything okay in here?” He looks from me to Greedy, then to the cluster of scattered chairs off to the side.

“He’s fine. We’re fine.” Greedy’s voice is suddenly even, his tone brooking no argument. To the outside world, including this stranger, we’re fine .

My guilt turns into anger at how easily he can shut me out and carry on. He rode in the ambulance with Hunter. I had to drive the truck. We’re supposed to be a team—why the hell is he refusing to engage now?

Panic floods my system.

What if he’s acting this way to protect me? What if she’s more hurt than I realize and he’s just waiting for the others to get here so he only has to explain it once?

Does he know more than I do? Why isn’t he filling me in?

I take two long steps forward, ready to demand he talk to me, but before I can, his dad rushes into the room, and the sight of him sucks all the air right out of my lungs.

Dr. F freezes when he’s sees Greedy standing stock-still with his arms crossed over his chest, his face blanching.

They stand off, neither speaking as the seconds tick by.

Finally, in the lowest, most grave voice I’ve ever heard escape G, he says, “Magnolia pushed her down the stairs.”

A shocked, exasperated gasp fills the silence. “Garrett,” Dr. Ferguson scolds. “I understand you’re upset, but to throw around unwarranted accusations—”

“ Enough .” G charges toward his dad, fuming.

Instinctively, I follow, ready to have his back, support him, whatever he needs.

“She pushed her. She fucking pushed her. If you’d open your goddamn eyes and pay a single modicum of attention to anything besides work and your flighty, deranged wife, you wouldn’t be so fucking surprised.”

All the calmness. All the inferred control.

It’s gone. Vanished.

G wasn’t blocking me out. He was barely holding his shit together and harboring it close so he’d unleash on the person who actually deserves his ire.

“Garrett, please—”

“No, Dad. This isn’t a discussion. This isn’t a debate. I heard Hunter’s fucking scream from your office. She was pushed. Magnolia fucking pushed her.”

Dr. F hangs his head. He looks so small. Frail and older, somehow.

With a subtle shake of his head, he lifts his gaze and focuses on his son. “We don’t know that. Not for sure.”

Greedy stiffens, his posture embodying the dismay and disappointment engulfing me in this moment. I used to admire Dr. Ferguson. Hell, I used to be jealous of G because he had such a great dad. But what sort of parent ignores all the ugly they’d rather not see, picking and choosing when to show up for their kid, when to stand at their side?

The jealousy that’s long lingered in the back of my mind evaporates. No longer do I wish Dr. F was my dad the way I did growing up.

No. As I take in the meek man before me, I’m disgusted more than anything.

“I have nothing left to say to you, then,” Greedy replies, whisper-soft.

With a sigh, Dr. Ferguson looks over G’s shoulder at me, his eyes searching and desperate. Whatever he sees in my expression shuts him down once again.

“I’ll be in my office.” With that, he turns on his heel, leaving the waiting area without another word.

I step forward and place one hand on G’s shoulder. He needs to know I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere. When he’s ready, if he needs me, I’m right fucking here.

Without warning, he slumps back, giving me all his weight. With an oomph , I hold him up, steadying him. I thread my arms beneath his and around his torso and rest my chin on his shoulder.

It’s not enough—it’s impossible to dull the edges and soothe the ache of this moment—but it’s all I can give him right now.

“I love you.” This is the least romantic setting. We’re under the most dire of circumstances. Even so, I need him to know. In the face of the most harrowing day of our lives, I just need him to fucking know.

“I love you, too,” he sniffles, smoothing his hands down my forearms. A silent sob rolls through him.

I hold him tighter, determined to absorb as much of his pain as I can. His breathing is shaky for a few inhales. Then, suddenly, it’s not.

G scrubs at his face, turns in my arms, and looks me square in the eyes. “Let’s go find our girl.”