Page 37 of What You left in Me

“No.” Eleanor snaps it before anyone else can speak. Her chin lifts, voice brittle, biting, a whip crack. “You fix hearts. You fix brains. That’s what hospitals are for. That’s why people like us donate millions of dollars. You will not stand here and tell me there is nothing you can do.”

“Mrs. Wagner…”

“You will not use that tone with me.”

The doctor doesn’t flinch and I almost admire him for it. “I understand this is difficult. But you need to prepare yourselves. There is a significant chance that Mr. Wagner may not regain consciousness. If he does, there may be cognitive impairments. Memory loss. Loss of motor function. We won’t know until, and unless, he wakes.”

The words fall like bricks, heavy and final. I can’t breathe. The hallway tilts, and I press a hand to the wall just to stay upright.

My stepfather, the man who taught me how to skip stones, who burned pancakes every Sunday and laughed about it, might never even know my name again.

Julian slips an arm around my shoulders. “Doctor,” he says smoothly, his voice all elegant authority, “what are the next steps? What can we do to support recovery?”

“We will monitor, manage and wait.” The doctor’s eyes flick over me again, too kind, too heavy. “But you should alsobegin thinking, preparing, for the possibility of long-term care. Or… the possibility he doesn’t recover.”

Eleanor shakes her head violently, pearls clacking like teeth. “Absolutely not. That is not an option. He will recover. He will. We’ll bring in specialists, private consultants, whatever it takes. Money is not an object.”

Julian squeezes her elbow, murmuring something about how of course they’ll get the best. How Richard is strong. How miracles happen. His tone is soothing, perfect, the kind of soundbite you could lift and place in a campaign ad about family values.

And me? I’m choking. My chest feels like its collapsing inward, ribs folding like paper. My throat burns, but no sound comes out. I want to scream, and grab the doctor, demanding he take it back, but all that comes out is a strangled whisper. “He promised me forever.”

Finn’s behind me still, silent, arms folded, eyes shadowed. He hasn’t moved since the doctor started speaking. Not a sound. Not a protest. Nothing. Just… still.

I glance back once, desperate for anything, anger, grief, even sarcasm. Something human. But his face is carved from stone, impenetrable. Detached. And that hurts more than all the doctor’s words combined.

Because if even Finn, the man who feels everything too much, the man who left this town because of the ghosts it kept, can stand here and hear this without cracking, then maybe I really am alone in this.

The ground feels like it’s gone. And still, the machines down the hall keep breathing for Richard, like they’re mocking me with every hiss.

Chapter 13 – Finn – Cracks in the Glass

The automatic doors spit me into the parking lot like the hospital is done with me. Fair. I’m fucking done with it, too. The sodium lights throw everything into sick yellow cones, cars, oil rainbows, a Styrofoam cup waltzing in the breeze like trash has choreography.

My head’s a storm with broken glass in it: Ariane’s mouth on mine, Dad’s chest moving because a machine tells it to, Eleanor barking orders at people who save lives for a living, and Julian… being fucking useless.

I get in the car and sit there with the key in my hand, not turning it, staring at the empty passenger seat like it owes me an explanation. The smell of hospital clings to my jacket: antiseptic, coffee gone bitter in the pot, fear.

I roll my shoulders until I hear the joint pop and say, “Fuck,” into the steering wheel because there’s not a better word and there hasn’t been in hours.

Engine on. Lights on. I pull out slow, check the mirrors like an old habit could fix anything, and point the car toward the road that cuts along the lake. Willowridge at sunset pretends it’s a place worth keeping. Trees huddle close. Houses sit back like secrets. The water keeps pace on my left, a black sheet with one ripped seam of moon.

The doctor’s voice keeps replaying:Cerebral hemorrhage… Not a candidate for surgery… We’ll monitor… We’ll wait…

I wanted to put my fist through a wall and punch a cure out of the fucking walls of this place.

Instead, I stood there like a good boy and let Eleanor argue in pearls while Ariane tried to stay upright and Julian stroked the scene like a fucking campaign ad.

I didn’t say a word because every word I had was a weapon, and the person I wanted to aim them at wasn’t wearing scrubs.

I hit the first curve and the memories start like they always do when the road gets empty enough to hear them.

Mom, in the kitchen after sunrise. Hair shoved into a crooked clip, swaying to some old song on the radio and singing off-key on purpose just to pull a smile out of me. She’d hand me a wooden spoon like it was a microphone, pretending she didn’t notice the flour on her cheek or the smoke creeping from the pan she’d forgotten. “Cooking’s just chemistry with better music,” she’d say, though she burned half the things she made. She’d tap the edge of the counter like it was a stage curtain and bow with exaggerated grace that made her look years younger. Later, too soon later, I stood in that same kitchen alone, the radio still playing, every drawer too loud when I opened it. I knew then where this was heading, even when everyone else kept pretending it wasn’t.

The road unwinds and I hit the gas just enough to make my heartrate spike. The purr of the engine is the only thing that shuts my brain up. It lasts a mile. Maybe two.

Ariane bleeds in through the edges. Emerging from the lake: a siren in a provocative excuse of a bathing suit clinging to skin I had no right to touch. A vision in green velvet under those party lights. In this fucking car, last night—her legs spread around me, the warm valley between her thighs grinding against me while her hands and mouth roamed all over me. Her enormous fucking ring catching the dash light like the worldflashing a siren I could’ve ignored. The taste of she’s-going-to-stop and the shock of she-didn’t.

Only, then she did stop. Stopped herself. Stoppedme.