Authors: Liz Reinhardt
"You can shut the hell up while I run this family!" their father bellows, his lips curled back and his eyes strained dangerously out of their sockets. "This family runs because I run it! I make decis
ions and you all follow my lead.
The last goddamn thing we need is your stupid ass jumping in and ruining things more t
han they've already been ruined.
"
"He needs help!" Ithaca's voice cuts through the swirling rage of her father's words.
"Ithaca. Sit down." Mrs. Youngblood's lips go
tight and her eyes squint nerv
ously.
"No!" Tears are running down her face, spilling onto the tablecloth, and she's wiping them away with the backs of her hand as fast as they come. "No! Everyone in this family just follows whatever Pop says. Well, Remy is really sick. Winch is in love, but he can't be with Evan. Colt wants to play football. I want to be with Andre. But no one gets what they want in this family except Pop, and it's not right!"
Benelli
moves away from Winch's side to comfort her sister, but Ithaca throws herself out of her reach.
"Don't! You gave up on what you wanted so you could be the perfect daughter. I'm not like you. I can't just
forget
the person I love because someone tells me to. Don't you see that being perfect in this family
just makes you the most fucked-
up of all?"
The room erupts int
o a series of screams and shouts and threats
as Ithaca storms away.
In the midst of it all, Remy slides out of his chair, teeth chattering, and smacks his head on the
side of the table before collapsing
on the floor, a slow, seeping pool of bright blood
gushing from the gash at his temple and
puddling
around the table leg.
"Re
my!" Winch's scream
rises
above
all the chaos, and he's at his brother's side in a second.
I grab my phone, poised to dial 911 when Mr. Youngblood snatches it out of my hand.
"What the hell are you doing?" I yelp, trying to snatch the phone back.
He holds my phone over his head, making me jump like some little kid being bullied on the playground
until I realize how ridiculous I look and stop hopping around
.
"911? Are you crazy? No authorities. No hospital. They'll do a
tox
screen, and he'll be in big trouble." He tucks my phone in his pocket and puts his hands on his sobbing wife's shoulders.
"Calm down, all of you.
Jazmin
, go get clean towels and the bandages.
Winch,
lay him down so his head is tilte
d back.
Benelli
, call
Campart
."
"
Campart
?
The vet?" she asks, her eyebrows knit.
"Or
Fillamin
."
Their
father's voice is distracted as he squats low near Remy's shaking, convulsing form.
Winch is smoothing the hair back off Remy’s forehead, looking at his brother’s contorted face. Remy’s eyes are wild and his
mouth
is
open like he's about to wail at any second, even though no sound is coming out at all.
"
Fillamin
isn't even done with RN school."
Benelli
bites her lips and looks at me.
I give her a full-on glare, laced with disgust.
I thought this family was insane with all its lies and secrets and cover
-
ups. But that was before I watched them do anything at all to avoid the one thing that would save one of their own. Now, I'm positive they're criminally insane, and I know for certai
n that if Winch goes back to them
after this, there won't even be a minute's consideration.
He and I will be
unequivocally
done.
"Just call one of them," Mr
.
Youngblood snaps, grabbing a towel out of his wife's hands and putting pressure on the gash on the side of Remy's temple that's
still
gushing blood all over the floor.
Benelli
looks at me across the dining room, and I shake my head. "I would call 911, but
your father took my phone," I say. "But, I'm not the kind of person who'd stand around and watched someone I cared about die."
Benelli
closes her eyes and presses three numbers on her phone. The relief is instant, and a cool, black dizziness circles around me. I stagger back into the corner of the dining room, and it's like I'm in a plane that ascended too quickly. My ears clog up and I can't hear a single thing. All I can focus on are the rushed, frantic movements of the people I love, loathe, and am undecided about until a knock reverberates from the door and breaks me out of my spell.
Paramedics rush in. Mr. Youngblood's face is fierce and accusatory.
Benelli
presses her phone to her lips and watches, eyes wide, as the workers shove Winch and his parents aside and begin the frantic work of trying to save Remy's life.
The seconds tick by in violently quick succession, but also drag like we're all set in excruciating slow motion.
They heave Re
mington onto a stretcher and rush
out the door, Mrs. Youngblood at their heels, Mr. Youngblood following his wife. Winch chases after them, but the paramedic shakes his head. Not enough room in the ambulance.
I turn to Winch's siblings, huddled uncertainly in the dining room. Ithaca, who crept out from her bedroom when
the
screaming died down, is staring at the stain of Remington's blood.
"C'mon." I wave them with my hand. "Let's go make sure Remy is okay."
"Our father will call for us when Remy's ready to have visitors."
Benelli
crosses her arms and clamps her mouth in a determined line, even though her eyes race back and forth with anxious uncertainty.
Colt picks up the chair Remy knocked over when he fell.
"I want to go." His voice is shaky.
Ithaca comes to stand next to me.
"Me too.
I'm sick of waiting on everyone else to make decisions all the time."
I walk towards
Benelli
and keep my words low enough that her siblings can't hear. "You can wait for your father to call you. Just be prepared if you never get the call you're expecting. Did you see him? Remy is sick.
Really sick.
And this might be...you may want to be there.
In case."
I can't bring myself to even say the words, but just hinting at them has
Benelli
blinking like mad, her resolve shaken.
"I'll get my purse," she murmurs, pushing past me.
The twins file to the car, and I come to stand next to Winch, who hasn't moved a muscle since the a
mbulance pulled away. He's frozen
still, his eyes staring at the vacant spot where he last saw his brother.
I'm afraid.
I shake and cold sweat because this was my idea. I pushed things. I added fuel to the fire and
even
threw the match that ignited this raging inferno.
I had no idea it would turn out like this.
I had no idea Remy would wind up in the back of an ambulance.
I'm afraid Winch will blame me.
Will accuse me of working against his family.
Will take out his pain on me.
Will be unable to forgive me.
Will hate me.
I put one hand on his arm, and the touch of my fingertips on the skin above his elbow shocks him out of his catatonic state. He blinks once, twice, his face a complete and total blank that makes my throat go dry.
And then he sweeps me into a huge, crushing hug, his face buried in my hair so I won't see him crying
the tears I feel soaking into my skin
.
I slide my arms around his waist and rub along his back. He's a few towering inches taller and pounds of packed muscle heavier than I am, but I do my best to offer him as much physical comfort as I can.
"This is my fault." The words hiss out, and I know it's because if he speaks clearly, the sobs will make good on their clear and present threat. "I did this to him. I put him in the hospital."
"Shut up." I force my voice to stay firm and rough while my hands soothe and gentle through his hair and knead at his neck. "Shut your mouth. Don't you dare put this on your
shoulders.
Your brother was seriously ill. If he didn't fall today, in front of your whole family, he would have done it in private. And maybe choked on his puke or his tongue and died. Or maybe your parents would have decided not to take him to the hospital. It needed to happen exactly the way it happened. He needed medical attention, and now he's getting it."
He pulls his mouth across my face and presses his lips to mine in a kiss that's more ravenous than romantic.
"I love you," he says against my mouth. "Thank God you're here. I don't know what I would have done without you. I love you, Evan."
The relief is so intense, I sag against his body, dropping the strong girlfriend act for a long second so I can just be with him, locked in his arms, happy in this moment when we somehow crystallized as a unit, a pair, a bonded set of two. I am the pepper to his salt, I am the cream to his coffee,
I am the jelly to his peanut butter,
and it feels good. It feels right.
I hope
with everything in me that
it lasts
.
His siblings file out of the house and squeeze into the back of the car, which I drive because Winch i
s still shaken and edgy. Even the fact that I’m the one
driving is a huge proclamation of how our relationship stands and what it means.
He trusts me behind the wheel, driving his siblings,
taking him to the hospital to join the rest of his family.
I just watched Winch's brother seizure and got talked down to from his parents, but I feel, strangely, good.
Real.
Happy.
And nervous.
Frustrated.
Mistrusting.
I kn
ow very, very well how the
best feeling in the world can sometimes be nothing but the prelude to disaster.
We pull into the hospital, and Winch shakes his unease and pulls on that air of command he wears so confidently.
"Winchester Youngblood, here to see my brother
, Remington." He charming smile bri
ngs out a smile
on the face of
the pudgy nurse behind the counter.
She's not im
mune to his good looks and flirtation
. "Remington Youngblood," she repeats. "That's some name." They exchange a
nother
smile,
and
my blood boils. I know this is all about playing a game, getting things done. I still hate it. But all my stupid jealousy dies down quickly when I see her face lose its flirty smile. "Oh. Your brother is in critical care. I'm afraid I can only admit family."
He doesn't even look back. "We are.
His family."
"All of you?
Siblings?"
I expect her to single me out, but I at least have the dark hair and light eyes the rest of them share. It's blond Ithaca she's frowning at.
"All of us." Winch says the next words with such a simple
flip,
I'm almost able to keep the shock off my face.
"My brother, my younger sisters, my wife."
My heart
races,
and I feel a blush born from a mix of happiness and embarrassment stain my cheeks.
It's a credit to the Youngblood penchant for lying that not one of them even draws an audible breath.
The nurse raises an eyebrow, but there's something about Winch that people want to
believe, and, in seconds, we're headed up to the hallway she directs us to, hushed in the chemically-pungent corridors, not making a single sound other than the squeak of our sneakers on the polished linoleum.
Mr. and
Mrs. Youngblood are at the nurse's station. Her eyes are red
and bleary, and she's
desperately clutching a balled-up tissue in her fist. He looks pale and gray-skinned, his paunch and thinning hair somehow more obvious and relentlessly aging in the dull fluorescent lights. They're both incredibly stupid, selfish parents, but my hate for them melts when I see the crippling weight of their sadness. Even if their problems are their own damn fault, I have a heart.
A small, mean heart, but a heart nonetheless, and it's filled with pity.
Winch approaches his father. "Pop, what do they say?"
"They think the seizures were caused by the mix of drugs in his system. He has a concussion from hitting his head. There's been some damage to his kidneys and his liver isn't looking so good, but may be repairable." Mr. Youngblood lists Remy's ailments in a monotone.