I flip the eggs as the toast pops, then I put everything onto a plate before I place it on the island and slide it to Bria. When I look up, she’s watching me, those dark eyes lifting away every layer she sees. She places her hand on mine, but like the hug, the action seems foreign to her. She looks down at our joined hands for a long moment before meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“It was a long time ago. It feels like a lifetime,” I reply as I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. When I let her go, I motion for her to eat before I pull a few cold pancakes on to my plate and warm them in the microwave. “My brother was the catalyst for both my work and my freedom from the church. He always talked about how cultish it was, how the church used language and ritual to modify and control the behavior of the community. He talked about how it manipulated members and how damaging it could be. I didn’t really start paying attention until shortly before he left. Whereas Gabe funneled his need to break free into risky behaviors, I funneled mine into academia. When he was kicked out of the house, I started to understand how much of his unraveling was related to his religious trauma. Over time, everything shifted in me, and my work became my way to stay connected with Gabe, in a way.”

“And your parents?”

I shrug as the microwave dings. “They’re still in the church. They don’t see it the way Gabe and I did. Though it took some time, our relationship is okay now. But the grief and the guilt they feel has definitely taken its toll.”

Bria nods and looks down at the island, lost in thought. When she meets my eyes, she offers a faint smile. I don’t know what she’s experienced of grief and guilt, but I’m guessing the scars below the surface have seen a lot of both.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“Sharing with me. And breakfast, of course. But mostly sharing.”

Warmth spreads through my chest and hums down my arms. I ache to ask her about her past, but I somehow know I need to give her the time to come to me with whatever she’s comfortable sharing. Her trust is as fragile as spun sugar. If I tap it too hard, it will shatter. If I heat it with frustration, it will melt. I just need to be gentle with it. Sooner or later, she’ll let me get closer.

“Can I tell you a secret? Something shocking?” she asks.

Well, that was sooner than I thought. “Of course.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Bria gives me her most innocent doe eyes, but there’s still a wolf beneath the mask. “I don’t hate you.”

My loud laugh breaks through the memories that seem to float through the room like phantoms. “You don’t say. I’m shocked.”

“I know, right? No one is more surprised than me, I can assure you.”

I beam at her like the love-drunk, sexed-up fool that I am. I just hope it comes out as a cocky smirk with full dimple appeal rather than heart eyes. “I’d venture a guess to say you actually like me, Pancake.”

Bria scoffs and scowls at her half-eaten eggs, pushing a piece of toast through the runny yolk. “Keep calling me Pancake and we can go right back to hate, if you prefer.”

“I’m definitely not going to stop in that case.”

Bria sighs and glares at me as I take a slow bite of a strawberry, my grin widening. “Why are you so hard to despise?”

“Sex appeal.”

“Jesus Christ.”

I top up our coffee as she takes her last bites of egg and pushes the plate to the side with a word of thanks. I’m about to ask her to spend the day with me, which I secretly hope turns into the rest of the weekend, when an incoming call dings on her watch. The moment she looks down at the caller ID, I know.

The light leaves Bria’s eyes, and I know it’s bad.

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22

OceanofPDF.com

BRIA

“Has he been conscious?”

“Yes, he was awake on arrival. We’ve given him TPA, and the stent was successful in removing the clot.”

“NIH Stroke Scale score?”

“Thirteen.”

Thirteen. That number knocks the air from my chest with a whoosh. A moderate ischemic stroke, on the brink of severe.

Samuel’s chest rises and falls beneath the thin, striped blanket. I make a mental note to bring him something warmer from home. It’s the only thing I can think of to do. Otherwise, all I feel is helpless. Adrift.

We’ve been planning for this. After the first stroke, I felt the grains of sand slipping through my fingers. It was only a matter of time until there was another. This was inevitable.

Last time, I was there. We were sitting at home, eating salad and grilled chicken. Kane was winding around Samuel’s ankles in a cloud of white fluff. We were talking about music. “Sweet Apocalypse” by Lambert was playing. Samuel wanted to see an upcoming piano concert on campus. He slurred the word “summer.” When I looked up, the left side of his face started to droop. I called 911. I kept him awake. I rode with him in the ambulance. I did what I could until there was nothing more to do. This time, I’m just a spectator. Will he wake up? And who will he be if he does?

These questions are caught up in my mind as the neurologist runs through the possible permanent damage and the recovery process. Potential cognitive impairment. Potential loss of speech. Potential loss of ambulatory abilities.

All I hear is potential loss of personhood.

When the doctor leaves and the nurses have checked Samuel’s IV and documented his vitals, it’s just me, standing in the room, looking down at the man who saved me. Day after day, he saved me. From the world. From myself. He nurtured a darkness that would have consumed my life had he not taught me how to feed and care for it.

I pull one of the chairs with its pink vinyl cushions and worn wooden armrests to the side of Samuel’s bed and take his hand. I wonder if he can feel it when I squeeze his fingers. We’ve never been affectionate. It’s not really in our nature, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, all things considered. Maybe that means he’ll feel my touch. Maybe he’ll know that I’m here.

A long breath fills my lungs as I turn Samuel’s hand over in mine. I trace his life line, wondering if any palm reader would ever guess how many deaths have been absorbed in that crease of skin. My eyes drift closed as I remember the gentle work of his hands on my back when he cleaned and dressed my wounds each night after he’d found me in the desert. It felt like a privilege. I had been chosen. I was being cared for. Finally. Some would say it came with a price, the weight of fulfilling a legacy of death and destruction. But that’s not how it feels to me. Nothing I wanted in life came without pain. At least because of Samuel, that pain is someone else’s burden to bear. It just comes from my hand.

Despite being so still and quiet, with only the beeping of monitors and the squeak of nurses’ shoes down the hallway, I don’t notice anyone enter the room until the first words pass Eli’s lips. “Hi, sweetheart.”

My heart stirs like some creature washed up on a muddy, desolate shore, struggling to come back to life. I open my eyes and Eli is standing next to me, a coffee in each hand. Something in me must not look right, because he doesn’t ask questions or even pass me my drink. He sets the coffees the bedside table and squats at my side, reaching up to sweep hair back from my shoulder.

“Hey there, Pancake,” he says with a gentle smile.

I’ve suddenly lost all will to fight this horrible nickname Eli insists on pursuing. In fact, it feels oddly comforting. “Hi.”

“He’s stable?”

I nod. Eli searches my face as though trying to find something I’m missing. Some key that will fit into a lock. “What do you have on for the weekend? Anything that needs to be taken care of at home, or at Cedar Ridge for Samuel?”