Page 78 of Wildest Dreams

I give him a shallow nod and walk into the living room to collect my belongings before climbing the stairs and grabbing a crochet blanket from the foot of my bed and a few other little things I may need. Lainey stirs behind me in her crib, and I feel an ache present itself deep inside my chest.

Leaning over her, I stroke her brown hair, soft whimpers leave her, and I just want to scoop her into my arms and run far, far away. But I couldn't.

I am too grounded here. Anchored even. Even thinking about leaving hits me right between the shoulder blades with force, winding me in an instant.

Lifting my hand from Lainey's head, I step back, clutching my bag and tossing it over my shoulder. Walking out the room, I pull it until a small gap is all there is stopping the door from hitting the doorframe.

Walking downstairs, Jorge and Orla are nowhere to be seen, but standing in the large lobby is Hudson.

“Ma'am,” he lifts his hat from his head, uncovering curly blond hair. His eyes are piercing green and his skin has a glorious sun-kissed glow to it.

“Hudson,” I smile before walking into the living room and seeing Jorge and Orla cuddled up asleep on the sofa, Lainey's baby monitor wrapped in Orla's clutch. My heart skips a beat or two as I look at them both. Bending, I grab a blanket from the blanket box and cover the both of them up.

Walking towards the armchair I was tucked into, I grab my book and begin walking back towards Hudson.

“Ready?” he asks as he opens the front door for me to take and I give him a soft nod.

The drive is silent as I watch the pretty pink sky settle over the mountains of our hometown. Hudson keeps looking over at me, checking on me to make sure I am okay. But honestly, I have no idea how I should feel.

I feel guilty for taking a man’s life, but that same man took the life of Harlow. My daughter’s uncle shot Pacey Rivera and Tripp, the only man I have ever loved.

If I could have, I would have taken them all down.

But I couldn't.

Tilting my head, I look down at my hands. They're clean with no marks, yet all I see is them tainted with blood.

“Get out your head, kid,” Hudson mutters as we pull into the hospital car park, and I snort a laugh. “Think about the future, not what’s going on right here, right now. The Rivera boys will be alright, they're made different. A little bullet isn't going to keep them down for long. Kids are wild at heart, like mustangs, you can't keep them pent up for too long.”

I turn my face to look at him, my eyes feeling heavy with unshed tears.

“Come,” he says as he puts the truck into park and jumps down, then opens my door and helps me down.

We walk in silence towards the reception, Hudson giving the reception ladies a little nod as he walks past and their cheeks blush a pretty pink. He is very easy on the eye, but he is no Tripp Rivera.

The ward is quiet, the sound of machines beeping softly in the background as we walk down the long corridor to where Pacey is. Walking into the room, my heart stutters in my chest as I see the boy who is like a ray of sunshine laying lifeless with a tube in his mouth and hooked up to a machine.

“Hey Pace,” I whisper as I walk into the room and take a seat next to him. I am unsure what to even say to him and I am sure I am the last person he would want to see here, but I don't want him to be alone.

I turn to look at Hudson and he gives me a nod.

“I'll go sit with Tripp, come down when you're ready and we will switch it out,” I smile at him just as he walks out the room and disappears.

“Everyone is real worried about you,” I say softly, hand reaching for his. “Austin misses you, he really needs you.” I sigh for a moment, “He is lost; not only has he lost Harlow, but he has kind of lost you too in a way. You're the person he would turn to if you were at home,” I rub my thumb across the back of his hand, my eyes pinned to his handsome face. “Wake up now Pace,show everyone just what you're made of,” I whisper through a tear that rolls down my cheek. “Please,” my voice trembles and I think everything has hit me.

Tripp.

Pacey.

Orla.

Jorge.

Lucian.

Even Harlow.

I begin to hum softly, my eyes closing as I begin to sing a song I wrote years ago when my mom gave me my first guitar.

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