Page 90 of What We Break
"But what if something happens while I'm waiting? What if?—"
What if he's dying right now in the back of a car on a Cambodian highway, and I'm standing here in my pajamas?
"What if nothing happens? What if it's exhaustion or dehydration like your mom said?" Reid's voice is still gentle. "Look, if you need to go, I'll drive you to the airport right now. I'll help you pack, I'll take care of everything here. But maybe give it a couple hours. Let them get to the hospital, let the doctors examine him."
I want to argue with him. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to move, to get on a plane, to be with my parents. Something breaks, you move toward it. That's the Mitchell family playbook. That's how I'm wired. We take care of each other, always.
But Reid's right. And the nurse in me knows it, even if the daughter in me wants to scream. Eighteen hours in the air with no information, landing exhausted and wrecked, unable to help anyone. If Dad is okay, I'll have burned through every bit of leave I have. If it's really bad —
There's a chance he's gone before my plane even touches down.
My stomach rolls. I press my hand against my mouth, breathing through it.
Don't go there. Not yet.
I lock my eyes on Reid. His hazel eyes, steady and sure. Green flecks catching the morning light.
"Two hours," I say finally.
"Two hours." He nods, looking relieved. "I can work with two hours. That's like... four episodes of something terrible on Netflix. Or one really good nap. Or?—"
"Reid."
"Sorry. Rambling." He takes a breath. "Two hours. And if your Mom calls and says it's serious?—"
"I'm going. No matter what."
"Of course you are. They're your parents." The simple way he says it — no judgment, no trying to talk me out of it — loosens that tight ball in my lungs, just a little. He gets it. He's not going to make me choose.
Even if leaving means leaving him.
"This is hard," I admit, sinking onto his lap after he sits on the edge of the bed. I don't even think about it — just need to be close to him. His arms come around me immediately, and some of the tension drains out on a shaky exhale.
One of his hands finds the back of my neck, fingers gentle. The other rubs slow circles on my back. I tuck my face into his shoulder and breathe him in.
"What's hard?"
"The thought of leaving. I know that sounds awful when my dad might be sick, but..." I look around my bedroom. The photos on my dresser. The plants by the window that I actually water now. The throw pillows I picked out myself. The stack of books on my nightstand that I'm actually going to finish instead of giving them away because they're too heavy to pack.
"Six months ago, packing that suitcase would have been easy. Twenty minutes, out the door, no looking back. Now the idea of getting on a plane and not knowing when I'll be back..." I swallow. "It makes me want to throw up."
When did leaving become the hard thing?
Who even am I right now?
Reid doesn't say anything. His thumb traces small circles on the back of my neck. His other arm tightens around my waist.
"That's not selfish. That's what happens when you build something you don't want to lose." He shifts slightly, bringing us closer. "It means this place, this life — it matters to you now."
"I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you."
"You're not going to lose me. If you need to go take care of your parents, I'll be here when you get back."
"You say that now, but what if I'm gone for weeks? What if Dad needs surgery, or long-term care, or?—"
"Then you stay as long as you need to stay, and I figure out how to make it work."
He says it like it's simple. And maybe for him it is. He lost his brother. He knows what it costs to not be there. He's never going to be the guy who makes me feel guilty for going.
