“Ms. Hart?” the doctor said.
“Hmm, what? Yes, sorry. Long morning.”
“I was just saying that we’ll give him something to help him sleep, which should get him through the worst of the pain.”
“Thank you so much.”
The woman slipped through the curtains, and George stirred. “Pain,” he mumbled, as if repeating the doctor. His eyelids fluttered open, his blue eyes hazy. “Need something for pain.”
“The doctor’s sending us home with—”
“Not that shit,” he said, irritated. “Where’s Trace? Trace knows where to get the good stuff. We don’t need no doctor. Trace’ll just find Chip.”
Chip.
The name flooded ice through Avery’s veins. Chip was the straw that had broken her family apart. Her mother may have deserted them, her father may have been an alcoholic, but she and Delaney and Chloe and Phoebe had been together. They’d had one another to lean on. To depend on.
Until Chip.
Until Chip pushed Austin’s brother too hard in a bar fight. Until Austin’s brother’s death had been blamed on Delaney, even though she’d had no part in the event. Then Delaney, the one dependable constant in their lives, the family glue, had left town, and everything had started to unravel.
But George’s reference to Chip didn’t make sense. He had to mean a different Chip.
“George,” Avery said. “What do you mean, Trace will find Chip? Chip who?”
“That boy your sister’s seeing.”
Holy shit. He did mean the same Chip.
“The one your daddy hates.” George sighed and closed his eyes. “He’s always got the best stuff, and Trace always knows where to find him. Don’t need no doctor. Just need Trace. It’s not like Trace to be late. You think I oughta call school?”
Avery huffed a frustrated breath and rolled her eyes. Forget it. Chip and Trace’s drug use were in the past.
Now, if only Avery’s problems could join them.
Trace was guided back into the ER by a woman he’d dated when they were both about sixteen. She was still very pretty and now very married and very pregnant. And as he walked toward Room Six, where his father was waiting to be released, he realized just how much of his life he’d missed out on over the last decade.
Approaching the door, he heard voices and paused, glancing through the partially open drape. His father lay on the gurney, eyes closed, but he was flailing against Avery as she tended to him.
“George Hutton, stop it right now.” The words might have been stern, but her voice was soft, and she gently manipulated his hands out of her way to lay something ever so lightly over the cut on his cheek. “I know it’s cold, but it’s going to keep the swelling down.”
Trace’s gut stung as if he’d swallowed a horde of bees, and he took a step back. He thought he’d prepared himself on the drive over, but now that she was within touching distance again, he realized he wasn’t ready to face her. He didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” wasn’t going to cut it, and he wouldn’t insult her by even trying to smooth over a rift like the one ripped open between them with words repeated so often they meant nothing.
“There you go,” she crooned to his dad, one arm arched over his head to hold an ice pack on his cheek, while her free hand held his to keep it still. She sighed and laid her cheek on his forehead, but continued to murmur to him as if he were a child. “There you go. Relax. This will be numb in just a minute. Lucky you, you won’t even remember any of it.”
That made Trace smile. But with the smile came a rush of unexpected emotions he’d been trying to keep in check—fear, loss, guilt, sadness. Before he knew how, his eyes burned with tears for the second time that day.
He stepped away from the opening, pressed a hand to the wall, and squeezed the sting from his eyes. Then he took a deep breath, straightened, and stepped past the curtain.
Avery had closed her eyes, and Trace was overwhelmed by the sight of her so lovingly caring for a man she barely knew, all because he was Trace’s father. He was trying to figure out how one person could have so much good in them when Avery’s lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes to check the ice pack.
And just as her gaze darted to him, he said, “Hey,” as softly as he could.
But his father still heard Trace’s voice and opened his eyes. “Is that Trace? Is my boy here?”
“I’m right here.” He stepped up to the other side of the gurney and put a hand on his father’s arm. “Hold still. Avery’s trying to help you.”
His muddy-blue eyes rolled toward her. “Oh, Avery.” He sighed. “Such a sweet girl.”