Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

“He needs to make it happen,” I say. “When’s the last time he’s been here?”

“Christmas. I think,” Peck replies. “But it’s not easy having a kid and being on your own. He does the best he can.”

I nod, looking at the floor. Peck is right. Vincent is a hell of a father to his kid. I’m just pissed off.

We sit quietly, the only sound coming from a cable news program on a television hanging precariously from the ceiling. I studied it earlier in-depth to take my mind off what’s happening here.

“Blaire is on her way down,” Lance says, looking at his phone. “She just sent me a text.”

Walker gets to his feet and heads to the vending machine. He doesn’t buy anything. Just looks.

I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes, imagining I’m at home and in bed, and Hadley is there at my side.

There’s an unsent text in my phone to Had. I’ve gone back and forth in the three hours we’ve been here about calling her or texting her to let her know about Nana. I told Cross in a quick outburst on the way over, but he was a couple of hours away at some boxing clinic and promised he’d come by as soon as he got back to town.

She wanted space. Does this count? Or is this something I should tell her?

My lungs threaten to collapse.

I have no fucking idea, and I have no one to ask. It just feels like bullshit.

I stand but sit again.

I rough my hands down my pants.

I stand again and pace a small circle, ignoring my brothers’ sideways glances.

I sit again.

What the fuck do I do?

I want her to want to know. I want her to be here, holding my hand, waiting for the doctor. I want to wipe her tears if she’s sad and buy her cookies from the vending machine if she hasn’t eaten.

I’m in a room surrounded by my family and a few people who are waiting on people of their own, but I couldn’t be more alone. They aren’t mine. They have people waiting on them, lives to go to, things to live for. And I don’t.

I can’t even text her.

I lost her.

I finally fucked up in the greatest way possible.

My hand grips my stomach as pain rips its way through.

“The Gibson family?” A doctor in light blue scrubs and a clipboard stands in the doorway.

We all spring to our feet. Walker walks toward him. “That’s us. Do you know anything? How is she?”

“Follow me.”

We scurry after him down a long hall and into a room not quite big enough for all of us to fit comfortably. We watch the doctor sit on a stool.

“I’m Dr. Moore,” he says. “Mrs. Gibson is your grandmother? Is that correct?”

“Yes,” we all say.

“And who might be the decision maker?”

“Blaire,” I say. “Our sister. She’s on her way from Chicago.”

He scribbles on the clipboard. “Very well.” He sets the pen down. “Your grandmother has had a myocardial infarction, or a heart attack, as it’s commonly called.”

“Is she going to be okay?” I ask.

“The blockages appear to be partial, which is a good thing,” he says. “She’s resting now. We’ve given her some medications to calm her down, and I expect she’ll be out of it for a while, if not most of the night. She took a bit of a beating today.”

I sag against the wall. “Can we see her?”

“When she wakes up, you can. But as I said, that likely won’t be for a while. In the meantime, we’re going to send her charts to a cardiologist and see if we can get him in here first thing in the morning. He’ll take over her case and put together the best game plan going forward.”

“But she’s going to live, right?” Peck asks.

“Right now, she’s stable,” the doctor says. “Her vitals are good, and from the information we had on file from Dr. Burns’ office, she seems to be fairly healthy. I have hope, but as I tell all my patients, I’m not God. I can’t guarantee anything.”

Walker stands and extends a hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome. You should get some rest. She’s going to be counting on you in the days and weeks ahead. Remember that. This is a marathon, not a sprint.”

With a final nod of his head, he’s out the door.

A collective exhale rattles the room as we look at each other.

“I’m not leaving,” I say. “You guys do what you want, but I’m staying.”

“Me too,” Peck says quietly.

Walker clamps a hand on Peck’s shoulder. “I’ll head back to Crank and lock up. I’m not even sure we locked the damn doors.” He looks at Lance. “And you look like shit.”

“I feel like shit,” Lance admits. “I think I got Mariah’s flu.”

“You go home,” Walker commands.