He was sitting in a stupor, forgotten by the corridor of nurses passing by and the occasional visitor moving around. He wasn’t supposed to hear that Bailey was doing fine, and she was stable. He was relieved more than he could articulate at the moment. He was desperately relieved . . . but he also wasn’t supposed to hear her blood alcohol level. His eyes snapped up to the two nurses still standing at the desk. Another had joined them, and they were talking quietly. They hadn’t realized he was sitting there as quiet as a mouse, waiting for something to happen.
“She was nearly twice the legal limit. When are these kids going to learn? They’re not invincible. It’s just so avoidable.”
“Detective’s been waiting to talk to her for a while, but she’s not gonna be leaving without handcuffs. Two more lives ruined. One in a grave, another in jail.” That’s when they saw him. He was just staring at them. Their eyes glanced furtively away from him, and he returned his eyes to the floor.
Drunk. Avoidable.
He was numb. He didn’t know how to process it. Bailey was drunk. She hadn’t seemed at all drunk when he’d left. She’d been drinking earlier in the evening, but drunk? She had done this—his Bailey. He had to be upset at her—didn’t he? He was supposed to—wasn’t he? He didn’t have any clue how he was supposed to feel. Relief that Bailey was doing okay felt wrong, but he was. He was relieved. He cared too much about her not to be relieved. But she’d done this.
“Darren . . . Darren.” His head was swimming in some other place, and he was having a hard time responding. It was his mother, and he needed to lift his head. His hands were cramping as he held his head in his hands, and the places on his knees where his elbows rested were painful. His back ached as he forced himself to sit upright. He hadn’t been asleep, but he also hadn’t been conscious. His brain had been zoned out as he’d replayed his whole day.
It was a surreal thing remembering their morning, talking to Jess and Bailey. He hadn’t had a clue his sister would be dead by the end of the day. How could he? And yet, it was such an odd thing to think he didn’t. How could Jess just be gone? How could Bailey be responsible? He didn’t realize just what that meant at first. He hadn’t much questioned why the detective was there. Of course there would be questions, but he figured out quickly this wasn’t just some little thing. There wouldn’t just be questions; there would be charges.
He didn’t know how to feel about that, either, and after sitting in the hallway for too long, watching the detective come and go from Bailey’s room, he stood and walked back into Jess’ room. His parents were sitting vigil. The word “vigil” almost assumed they were waiting for something to happen. Nothing was going to happen. Jess was going to be the eternal vegetable or his parents were going to agree to allow her organs to be harvested. He knew what their choice would be, and there was no disagreement to be had. It was what she’d want. How many times had he either been told that or thought that in the last eight hours? Odd, he’d never had to consider such a thing before. Of course it was what she’d want! But it didn’t mean she wanted to die.
“Darren?” His mom rested a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up at her. He didn’t need her to tell them it was time. They’d sat with her for a while, and the transplant team was ready. The coordination was crucial, and his parents had given their consent. His mother’s eyes were puffy; his father’s lips were pursed tight. It was how he showed pain. He clamped his lips tight against the tears. Darren did the same thing . . . most of the time. But he didn’t even try now. He closed his eyes, and his shoulders started to hitch and lurch as the sobs overcame him. His mother leaned over him and clasped his shoulders as her tears fell again. His father cleared his throat a few times until it became useless, and he ended up sinking into another chair, bracing his bowed head with a hand to his forehead.
This was hell. He’d always dreaded the passing of his own parents. It was something every child thought about, he supposed. It was usually the order of things, and however cliché it was to say Jess had died too young, or that she wasn’t supposed to go before her own parents, it didn’t much matter. It was just the truth. It was supposed to be the way of the world—the natural order of life. He stood and walked to the door. He looked back once. It was the last time he’d see his sister living, and he just stared. He’d been nearly desperate to escape the room only moments before, but now, he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her. He was too old to find death a mystery; he was too old to find this experience surreal. He’d experienced loss before. He understood it just fine, so why the fuck couldn’t he wrap his head around this one?
The swelling and abrasions on the side of her face were the only sign of the train wreck inside her head. She was a beautiful young woman who was supposed to be just waking up after a night out on the town—just like every other twenty-one-year-old woman on spring break. She looked completely peaceful; of course she had no worries anymore—at least none her brain was able to process. She didn’t know her life was getting ready to end, and the people in the world who loved her most were being forced to confront that fact—still so alive, but already dead.
He finally gritted his teeth, his head dropped, and he forced himself to walk away.
Chapter Thirteen
Now
He was just glaring at her. It was about the only reaction she could expect from him at this point. He liked to glare at her about as much as he used to like to smile at her . . . or smirk . . . or wink. “I’m moving away.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, but he didn’t react to her words at all. His eyes remained on her, and the only reaction she could sense was something unfathomable when she saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed. It meant something—the tightness in his neck muscles—but his expression remained cold and calm.
She got tired of waiting for a response, and since she had no idea what to make of his silence, she continued. “My mom has decided to move to Memphis. In a couple weeks. Most of the galleries that show her work are closer to Memphis than they are to Savoy. My parole office approved the transfer, and the parole office there has agreed to the transfer of jurisdiction.” She cleared her throat. She was stalling for some reason. “I just think it would be better.” And then she looked away. This was a hard conversation. It shouldn’t be. She was likely making his day, but it was hard because it was painful.
Her mother had been absolutely right when she’d said Bailey wanted to be close to Darren. It didn’t seem to matter that he hated her. It didn’t even matter that he was more than willing to show her just how much he hated her. It was funny because her need to be close wasn’t some self-destructive action that she was inflicting on herself—though any shrink in the world likely wouldn’t believe her if she said it. She just really and truly needed to know if he could ever forgive her. He’d given her no reason to think he could, but he’d also not completely given her reason to think he couldn’t. Not completely.
He’d touched her. He’d shown desire where he should have none. He sought her out, and it wasn’t to hurt her. She could understand his need to lash out, to be angry, but there was more there than that, and whether he intended to show it or not, he did. Even now, he was just watching her, seriously and coolly, but he was giving her no real reaction beyond that. What he wasn’t doing was making it clear he agreed with her decision. He wasn’t saying good riddance. He was just watching, glaring, staring, and intimidating her with his dark eyes. But he said nothing. What that meant for Bailey was a load of regret. She was used to regret, but this regret was for an action she’d not yet taken. She was going to move away, and she’d likely never get an answer to her question as a result. Could he ever forgive her?