In Ruins (25 page)

And Tuck stops his attempts to explain. He blinks at me, stunned silent, and I suspect he's finally grasping the weight of his own words. And I realize that even though he's the one who said them, it's only now that he's really understanding their implications. The truth is obvious and cruel, and with it I can stop wondering. I can stop analyzing his words and guessing at their meaning. Because now I know.

Eventually Tucker sighs, raking his fingers through his hair as he searches for words to placate me. But I don't want his guilt, and I definitely don't want his pity.

I avert my gaze and it lands on his overnight bag, three feet to my right. I force in a deep breath and shove my hand inside it, pulling out the first piece of clothing I can grab, grateful to discover it's a T-shirt—fitted for him, but oversized for me. I hastily slip it on.

I look back at him, feeling utterly defeated. “You let me go.”

We both know now what that says about his love, but this isn't about blame—this is about acceptance. It's about moving forward. “So
let me go
,” I beg him, and then hurry out the door.

Present Day

Mercifully I make it to my room without incident. I walk numbly to the en suite bathroom and brush my teeth. I wash my face and for once don't bother with even the most basic makeup. I just don't care. I hastily yank Tucker's T-shirt over my head, desperate to rid my body of his scent, but it clings to my skin, and I wonder if I will ever truly be able to wash it away. I eye the shower, but decide I'd rather do that at home; I need to get out of here as fast as possible.

I put on clean underwear and a bra, and pull a pair of jeans from my overnight bag, absently checking my phone, which I'd left charging overnight.

I freeze.
What the hell?

I have more than twenty missed calls from both a local number I don't recognize and my mother, as well as several texts.

Call me.

Call me Carleigh.

Where are you

Call me now.

And more of the same, all starting around three in the morning.

I'm vaguely aware of light knocking on my door, but I can't respond. Instead I tap my phone to listen to one of the several voicemails.

The anxiety ripping through me makes it difficult to process the messages, but I make out key words.

North Shore LIJ Hospital.

William Stanger, Junior.

Critical condition.

My throat dries and my lungs seize and I suck in gasping breaths.

“Carl?”
I think I hear Tucker's voice, but I'm frantically trying to dial my mother.
“You have reached Nicole Stanger…”

I hang up and tap her contact again, and again it goes straight to fucking voicemail!

Her son is in the goddamn hospital and she can't be bothered to answer her goddamn phone?

“Carl?” Tucker's inquisitive voice is right behind me, but I don't turn. I can't deal with him right now. I need to focus. I can't panic. I need to get to Billy.

I try to force in a deep breath and open the contact for a cab company I have in my phone.

“Carl!” Tucker growls, and he grabs me and spins me to face him.

I watch his expression morph from frustration to concern.

“What is it?” he demands.

“Long Island Taxi,” the man on the other end of the line answers.

I stare at Tucker as I speak into the phone. “I need a cab from— Shit. What's the address here? 14 Briarcliff? Or 16?” I ask Tucker.

But instead of answering me, the asshole grabs my phone and hangs up!

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shriek. I try to grab for my phone, but he dodges me.

“Carl!” he snaps, holding my phone behind his back with one hand, the other gripping my shoulder and giving it a firm shake. “Tell. Me. What. Happened,” he says carefully.

“I don't know!” I wail frantically. “Billy's in the hospital, and I need to get there.
Now
.”

Tucker's eyes widen in shock for a split second before he grabs my jeans from the bed and tosses them at me. “Get dressed,” he orders.

“I need my phone to call a cab,” I plead with him.

“Clothes, Carl. Now. I'm driving you.” His tone brooks no argument, and I'm in no position to turn down a ride.

The moment I fasten my jeans, he's already pulling a shirt over my head, holding it while I shove my arms through the sleeves. I don't take the time to even look at what he selected, but the scent tells me it's the T-shirt I just removed—the one that reeks of my past.

He hands me my phone. “Meet me downstairs.” And then he rushes off, presumably to dress himself.

Five minutes later I'm frantically pacing the Caplans' foyer when Tucker races down the stairs.

He doesn't stop his momentum, just wraps his hand around my forearm and keeps moving. “Let's go,” he murmurs, dragging me along, and I have to jog to keep up with his purposeful stride.

“North Shore?” he asks, and I nod as he pulls out of the Caplans' circular drive, the tires kicking up gravel as they spin into speed.

My knee bounces with nerves and I try dialing my mother twice more before I accept that her phone is obviously turned off. I rake my fingers through my long, unkempt hair, over and over as I try to steady my racing pulse.

Billy has to be okay. There is simply no other option.

I listen to voicemail after voicemail, each as vague as the last. All I am able to deduce is that Billy was in a car accident with one other minor, that there was alcohol involved, and that he is in critical condition. Finally I get to the last message from my mother telling me that she was getting on a plane home, which explains her phone being off. I hadn't even considered that she would fly home, and how sad is that?

Tucker pulls off the exit to the hospital, but at least on the highway we were in constant motion. Now, on the local streets, every red light makes me want to pull my hair out. Tucker squeezes my thigh to get my attention.

“Hey. We're almost there. Try to stay calm, okay?”

“You stay calm, Tucker!” I hiss.

“Carl—”

“No! You know what? This is your fault!” I accuse. “He was drinking again! This is all your influence! He fucking idolizes you, and your bullshit party-boy attitude!”

Tucker just keeps driving, and his non-response agitates me even more.

“I knew I shouldn't have just let him go last night,” I growl. “I can't believe I listened to you! You have no idea what it's like to have responsibility! You just do whatever the fuck you want without any thought of the consequences.” I lay into him, consumed by guilt that I let Billy go last night, to risk his life in his adolescent stupidity while I was busy screwing my ex.

“Carl.” Tucker doesn't say anything more, and my frustration compounds.

But instead of scolding him more, I abruptly break out into desperate sobs, and I hide my face in my hands, hating that he's seeing me in such a vulnerable state. Despite the fact that I just essentially attacked him, blamed him for a fucking car accident like a raving bitch, Tucker still offers me comfort. He wraps his hand around the nape of my neck, his thumb soothing back and forth over my skin, his grip rubbing muscles tensed in dread.

I keep my face shielded by my hands, suffocating in self-loathing, drowning in fear and shame. Because I know—knew even as I said those horrible things to him—that this isn't Tuck's fault. It's mine.

But I don't have the courage to take it back. I can't do anything except surrender to the sensation of Tucker's hand, which I'm quite certain is the only thing holding me together.

Tucker pulls up in front of the emergency entrance to the hospital five minutes later, and I'm out of the car before he even comes to a complete stop, leaving him to go find parking.

My head is spinning, but my feet carry me forward to the reception desk, where a nurse is typing something into her computer. My disembodied voice tells her Billy's name, and answers her obligatory questions.

Who am I?
His sister.

Am I a minor?
No
.

Where is his legal guardian?
Our mother's out of the country
.

And your father?

My patience expires suddenly and explosively, and then I'm screaming at her, demanding to see my baby brother, barely registering that the alien hysterical wailing is actually coming from me.

I'm grabbed from behind and I twist violently, trying to wrench myself from his grip.

It's his scent that gives him away.

“Carl. Stop.” Tucker's voice issues the sharp command.

I stop squirming and he turns me to face him, bringing his face down to my eye level and blocking out the chaos of the room.

“I need to see him!” I plead.

He nods, unwavering army green steadying me. “Take a deep breath for me, okay?”

I do. I force my lungs full of air, and when I release the breath, my pulse seems to settle just the slightest bit.

Tucker nods his approval. He grabs my hand and leans over the desk. “Billy Stanger. William. We need to see him.”

“And you are?”

“Tucker Green.”

“Are you family?”

“Uh—”

“Yes. He's family,” I interject.

The nurse sighs. “If you could both have a seat in the waiting room, I'll let the doctors know you've arrived, and someone will be out to speak with you—”

“Why can't we just see him?!” I snap, and Tucker squeezes my hand—in support or in warning, I have no idea.

“William Stanger's family?” a Middle Eastern woman in blue medical scrubs calls from the double doors, and I rush over to her, hauling Tucker after me.

“I'm Dr. Solamed. I'm the trauma surgeon assigned to William's case.”

“Billy,” I automatically correct, for no relevant reason I can discern.

“Billy,” the doctor agrees. “You're his sister, I presume?”

“Yes.” My voice is a shaky whisper, betraying how ill-equipped I am to handle the stress of the situation. Tucker takes it as his cue, squeezing my hand once more before taking over.

“Carleigh is Billy's sister. I'm Tucker Green, her fiancé. Can we see Billy now?”

“Billy is currently in surgery…”

She keeps talking, but her words whirl together in an undertow of senselessness, only the most terrifying crashing into my consciousness—
blunt trauma, internal bleeding, blood loss, surger
y—but they swim around in no particular order, and I can't decipher any sense. I'm vaguely aware of Tucker asking questions, but all I deduce is that Billy lost a lot of blood, and that they're in surgery trying to find and repair the source of the internal bleeding.

Before I can even focus enough to speak, let alone verbalize any of the infinite questions rolling around in my head, Dr. Solamed is excusing herself, and I'm staring at the new face of a nurse, who tells us to follow her. It takes me another second to understand, and I hold on to Tuck as we dutifully follow her down the bright, fluorescent hall.

The nurse gestures ahead to a small family waiting room more private than the main one of the ER, and tells us to have a seat—that we'll be updated when there's news. Tucker thanks her. I say nothing. When she's a distance away, he squeezes my hand to get my attention, and I look up at him, terrified he's going to leave me now. That he's going to drop me off in that room to await news of Billy's fate without him.

“Please don't go.” My voice quakes in distress, and Tucker's brow furrows, deep and daunted.

“Go where, Carl?”

I bite my bottom lip to stop its pitiful quivering.
Anywhere but here
.

He shakes his head, eyes wide with incredulity. “I don't know whether to be offended that you think so little of me, or feel guilty that I've caused you to.”

I open my mouth to tell him I think no such thing, but he holds up his hand to stop me.

“Hey, it's fine, okay? Now's not the time anyway. But to be clear, I don't go anywhere until you want me gone, got it?”

Today
, I silently correct him. He won't go anywhere
today
. Because my brother is fighting for his life and Tucker is loyal and supportive in ways he's only ever found me lacking. But still, the concrete dread weighing me into the ground eases marginally with his promise.

“What I was going to say, is that I didn't want you to be freaked out about the fiancé thing. I just had to say it, so they would talk to me, you know? If they know I'm not family they might make me wait out there.” He gestures in the direction we came from. “It was just the best way I could think of to be able to help you. If you want me to, you know, talk to a doctor, or whatever you need.”

I nod dimly.

“I mean it, Carl. Anything you need from me, you tell me.”

Another nod. Tucker's unease is palpable. And I get it. Me frozen in fear, unable to form coherent sentences—he doesn't know this me.
I
don't know this me.

My vision blurs with tears, blinding me with fear and guilt. “I'm sorry I said those things in the car,” I tell him. “I didn't mean them.”

Tucker smiles sadly. “I know, Princess.”

“I'm so sorry,” I sob, apologizing for so much more than he knows.

He draws me into his arms in a way I don't deserve, consoling and protecting. But he can't protect me from the stifling regret squeezing my lungs, suffocating me. I can't force my legs to work—to walk into this new room where I'm meant to await news that could change everything, forever. Where they'll eventually either tell me that Billy will be okay, or…I can't even finish the thought.

Billy has his entire life ahead of him. And it's my fault he's here right now, fighting for it. How can I ever forgive myself for our argument? For driving him away and out into the night, upset and reckless. And I just let him go, got drunk like the pitiful excuse for a role model I apparently am, and distracted myself with sex.

I choke on another sob and Tucker's arms band tighter around me.

“He's a tough kid, Carl. A fighter. Like his big sister. If anyone can pull through this, it's Billy,” Tucker promises. But right now I don't feel like the strong girl he makes me out to be. I feel like I'm crumbling.

“I called him an
asshole
, Tuck.” I cry feebly into his T-shirt. “It's the last thing I said to him.”

I look up at Tucker to find his gaze flowing with deep, army green sympathy.

“What if it's the last thing I ever say to him?” My voice shatters and I bury my face in his chest as I choke on more sobs, my body racking with them.

“Billy knows how much you love him, Carl. One fight can't overshadow the lifetime of love you've shown that kid. Anyone who knows you guys can see how much he adores you, and how lucky he is to have you. He's in that operating room fighting his ass off because you showed him how.”