Page 96 of Lassoed Love

I respect her request, rooted to the spot, unsure of how to navigate this storm of emotions. Isla begins to pace back and forth, the weight of the situation causing her to tremble. Tears continue to stream down her face, and I ache, witnessing her struggle.

She huffs, and for a moment, it almost sounds like a laugh, a sound that doesn’t match the sombre surroundings. Confusion sets in as she repeats it, a nervous laughter escaping her lips. I can’t comprehend it, and my concern deepens.

“Are you... are you laughing?” I ask.

She does it again—laughter intermingled with the chaos of emotions. Isla starts to ramble, wiping at her eyes, her words pouring out in an unfiltered torrent of despair.

“I can’t believe this. I thought coming here would be a freshstart—a fresh start from living in the city, an escape from that shitty fucking life I was stuck in with Justin. I felt so fucking trapped there, and ironically,” she huffs a laugh, “I had thought escaping to the city would have been my freedom—freedom from this shitty fucking town, from my mother’s death, from my father’s alcoholism, abuse, and here I am, back here, and I haven’t fucking escaped anything.”

Her voice breaks, and the strength she’s been holding onto crumbles. Tears fall freely, and the weight of her words hangs heavily in the air.

“I just can’t catch a fucking break. I don’t know what to do, Xavier. I’m fucking drowning here, and this…” she gestures around us, to where we are, “this is all my fucking fault.” Her voice breaks, cracking, shedding every ounce of her stability, strength, and her tears start to fall.

“This is all my fucking fault.” She repeats her words with a strangled sob.

My attempts at reassurance falter as I say, “Baby, it’s okay,” but she cuts me off, her voice frantic.

“No, nothing about this is fucking okay, Xavier, nothing. MY FUCKING FATHER IS IN THE HOSPITAL, sitting in a fucking bed with tubes down his throat and more strapped to his body, he is in a fucking coma, and it’s all my fucking fault,” she says, waving her hands around.

She’s breaking right in front of my fucking eyes, and I don’t know what to do.Fuck.

Isla continues, shaking all over, “I should have been there, I shouldhave been with him, I need to be with him 24 fucking 7. He’s not in a right state of mind, and I fucking left him, and he drove his fucking car and got into an accident, who knows what happened, he could have…” her voice falters, sucking in a breath, “what if he forgot how to fucking drive? Oh my god, Xavier, he could have fucking died, what if he—” her words trail off.

“Don’t finish that sentence. I can’t tell you how things are going to be, but I can tell you that your father is fighting for his life inthere.” I raise my arm, pointing back down the hallway.

“He’ll need you to be strong, strong for him. None of this is your fault,” I emphasise, trying to anchor some sense into the chaos of her emotions.

But Isla, in the throes of her breakdown, insists otherwise. “But it is my fault,” she retorts, her voice laden with guilt. “Because instead of trying harder to be there for him, I’ve been too busy with work, with—” as she tries to articulate the weight on her shoulders, her words trail off. I can sense the unspoken word, the guilt that claws at her.

“Finish the sentence,” I dare her, my tone firm. Isla falters, her eyes meeting mine with a mix of regret and sadness.

“Instead of being there for my father, I’ve been too busy swept up with my emotions, with this newfound, whatever it is, that I haven’t made the time for him,” she finally confesses, the weight of self-blame hanging heavy in the air. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.

Whatever it is?

“This is,” I wave my hands, gesturing between the two of us, “whatever, huh?” I shake my head in disbelief. I thought we had established what this was between us. This is bullshit—I’m unable to comprehend the complexity of emotions unravelling before me.

Isla tries to brush me off with an apology, insisting, “I’m sorry, I just—I need to be there for him now, any chance I can get. I don’t have time for distractions,” Isla says, her voice strained with the weight of her emotions. I can read between the lines.

“Isla,” I insist, my voice tight, “what are you not saying?” I ask, wanting her to say the words I know I will fucking hate to hear.

She looks at me with pleading eyes, her voice breaking as she confesses, “I just need space, Xavier. I need to be alone. I need time… to work all of this out.”

I pause for a moment, trying to bear my thoughts as I frown.

“You can have that time. I’ll be here with you, to support you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve told you this. I want nothing more than for you to work this all out, for your father to get through this, baby.” She winces at the endearment.

“Please, Xavier, don’t call me that. Not right now,” she croaks, her voice raw. “I think you should just go. It’s late, Imogen is here. I’ll be fine. Thank you,” she sighs, releasing a shaky breath, “for everything. I…” She cuts off her words, wiping at her tears.

“You want me to... leave?” I say with pure confusion.

At this moment, Imogen—not entirely sure how long she’d been there and how much she had heard, decides to break the silence with a clearing of her throat. “Isla, what’s going on here?”

“Nothing, Midge. I think… Xavier was just about to head off.” Is she for real? If she thinks I’m going to fuckingleaveher here, she’s got fucking Buckley’s.

“I never agreed to fucking leave,” I growl, frustration and determination lacing my words. “I’m not going anywhere. You can’t shut me out, Isla, not after everything we’ve been through. I’m not one to fucking beg, and it’d be wise not to mistake my kindness for weakness. I’m here because I want to be,” I respond sharply. “You’re not pushing me away, Isla. Not when you’re hurting like this.”

She shakes her head, frustration evident in her eyes. “Please, Xavier, I just need you to understand. I need space. I can’t deal with everything at once.”

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