Page 21 of Downfall

Patrick nods his head, putting the papers back into his briefcase. “I understand you need some time. Call me when you want to meet again.”

That won’t be happening, but I give him a curt nod all the same. He disappears down the hallway, and I slump back in my chair. I’m angry, but it’s more than that. There’s a bone-deep ache in my chest because I thought he finally saw me, but just like with Declan, I was so naïve.

That stops now.

It’s dark by the time I lock the office doors. It’s not uncommon for me to be the last one here. I tend to throw myself into work when my personal life goes up in flames, and it is most definitely a complete dumpster fire right now. I’ve been avoiding Ashton since he found out about the marriage, pretending to be on a call or buried in work. Meanwhile, Declan has been avoiding me. I texted him again after Patrick left, reminding him of our appointment, but he left me on read.

I’ve just turned the key in the lock when my phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I shuffle the folders I’m holding in one hand so I can grab it. I’m both disappointed and relieved to see it’s my mom.

“Hi, Mom.” I try to sound as upbeat as possible, but I’m sure she can see right through me, even over the phone.

“Oof. Rough day?” Her voice is calm, even, soothing. She has always been my safe place.

“Something like that,” I mutter.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Well, you have my number. The second you want to talk, you let me know, okay, honey?” That’s the other thing about my mom—like Ash, she doesn’t push me. Instead, she lets me take the lead.

“I will,” I promise. “But enough about me. Did Dave get the results back yet?” I try to keep the hope from flooding my words.

“Yeah, honey. He did.” I feel the moment her demeanor shifts, a strained sigh escaping, one I’m sure she meant to hold back. “I know we talked about how the doctors were hopeful he could be treated medically, but it looks like he is going to need a transplant.”

My stomach dips as the all-too-familiar feeling of dread washes over me. Suddenly, nothing matters anymore. Not the anger toward my dad or the anxiety about the annulment. All that matters is my stepdad, the man who loved me even when he didn’t have to, even though I was already technically an adult when we met, needs a liver transplant and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Skylar, honey? Are you there?”

“I—I don’t know what to say, Mom.”

“I know this isn’t the news we were hoping for, but we will get through this. Dave is young enough that the surgery is lower risk than usual, and he has a good attitude about the whole thing. He’s a fighter. He wanted me to tell you that he’s the ‘captain of his soul.’”

Despite my devastation, I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips at his reference. It’s from William Ernest Henley’s “Invictus.” When he found out about my love of poetry, Dave bought me a book of poems that we would read together and discuss when I’d come home for Sunday dinners. He’s a musician and songwriter, which he says basically makes him a poet. Dave isn’t perfect. He lived life without fear of consequence for the better part of a decade before he had a son and decided to turn his life around. Unfortunately for his liver, it was too late. I can’t help but think that his edge, the faded tattoos and the rasp of his voice from years of smoking are what my mom was drawn to. Such a stark difference from my dad. Dave and my mom came from very different worlds, yet both had struggled, and now they’re just two people who got a second chance at happiness.

Until this.

I start walking in the direction of my cottage as my mom lays out more of the specifics regarding the surgery. The whole time she’s talking, I can’t help thinking that something is missing from the picture she’s painting. It’s not until I get to the steps leading up to my front door that I finally interrupt her.

“What aren’t you telling me, Mom?”

“Skylar, I’ve never lied to you about anything. That has always been really important to me.”

“I know.” I walk up the steps and unlock the front door. “Why does it feel like there’s something you don’t want me to know?”

She sighs, deep and tired. “We don’t have insurance, honey, so it’s just going to be a little tricky.”

“You don’t… what? How do you not have insurance?”

My mom owns a flower shop. She has a friend who helps her, but no other real employees. I’ve never thought to ask about her insurance status, but David works as an audio editor for podcasts. Surely, he has insurance.

“It’s one of those tricky situations. We make too much money for assistance, but not enough to actually afford it. I thought we had a few good years left of paying out of pocket for routine visits.”

“Okay, but Dave⁠—”

“He works freelance, so he doesn’t get benefits. I know it wasn’t smart, Sky. Believe me, I’m kicking myself. I guess I was just so happy to be…” Another sigh.

“Free?”