Page 1 of Angel
Chapter One
Stevie
The road home from the hospital feels longer every time. Same stretch of highway with cracked asphalt and faded billboard for a lawyer who promises justice like it’s something you can order through a drive-thru window. The radio station Angel forgets to turn off because it’s always been background noise in our lives.
But somehow, every mile weighs heavier than the last. Like the universe is stretching the distance just to punish me a little more. Like it wants me to sit in it longer. The sky is gray and low, threatening rain but never committing. It matches the inside of my chest.
The seatbelt digs into my collarbone, too tight and sharp. I adjust it, then adjust it again, like maybe discomfort issomething I can fix. The smell of antiseptic still clings to my skin, even though I scrubbed my hands raw in the hospital bathroom before we left. I can still see the sink. The industrial soap dispenser. The paper towels that shredded under my grip.
I keep flexing my fingers now, in the truck. Over and over. Like I might shake the feeling loose. It doesn’t work; nothing does.
Angel’s driving. Both hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched. Eyes fixed straight ahead, like if he looks at me too long, he might break, or I might. His vest is folded on the back seat. He didn’t wear it inside; he never does for this. He says hospitals don’t need patches.
I study the side of his face. The scar along his jaw from a fight years ago. The faint crease between his brows that only shows when he’s trying not to feel something. Neither of us speaks. We’ve gotten good at this silence. Too good.
The doctor’s words replay in my head on a loop, calm and clinical and devastating all at once.
I’m sorry. There’s nothing you did wrong. These things happen.
They always say that. They never say how many times they’re supposed to happen before it stops hurting quite so much. Before your heart learns not to hope and your body stops feeling like a traitor.
I press my palm flat against my stomach, just under my ribs, like maybe I can feel the ghost of something that was never meant to stay. It was there, I know it was. I saw the faint line. I felt the flutter of possibility. I let myself imagine for a second.Just one second.Angel standing in the kitchen holding a tiny bundle. The clubhouse cheering. Carrie crying. Tank pretending not to. And now it’s gone, once again.
I swallow hard and stare out the window. The trees blur past. A gas station sign flickers. Life goes on as if nothing happened. Iwon’t cry. Not here, it's not the time. Not with Angel gripping the wheel like he’s barely holding himself together.
He’s trying, I know he is. Trying to be strong and steady. To be the Road Captain who doesn’t crack. But I don’t need him to be strong. I need him to be present.
I open my mouth, then close it again.
What am I supposed to say?
Sorry, my body keeps failing us.
Sorry, I got my hopes up again.
Sorry, I can’t give you the one thing I know you’d be an incredible father at?
The words get stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat.Heavy. Sharp. Unmovable.Angel clears his throat.
“You want me to stop anywhere? Get you something?”
His voice is careful. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
I shake my head. “No.”
My voice sounds wrong. Flat. Hollow. Like it belongs to someone else. He nods once and reaches to turn the radio down another notch. The soft guitar riff fades into almost nothing. Like silence at a lower volume won’t still crush us.
I remember when drives like this used to be different. When we’d sing along to old rock songs, badly and loudly.
When his hand would rest on my thigh at red lights.
When I’d lean my head against his shoulder and feel like the world could do whatever it wanted because we had each other.
When the future felt wide open.
Now the future feels like a wall I keep slamming into. And I’m the only one bleeding.
The truck turns onto our road. Gravel crunches under the tires. The house comes into view, the porch light still on from this morning when we left in a rush, thinking maybe this time would be different. By the time we pull into the driveway, I feel hollowed out.
