Page 119 of Wreckage

“We were looking for you, Adrian,” he said. “I promise we were. We used the photo Troy sent from his phone. It took a long time to narrow it down, but we did.” He exhaled, his voice thick with guilt. “I’m sorry ittook so long.”

I stared at him, my chest tight with emotions. A week ago, those words would have made my heart jump. Now, I just felt empty.

I shook my head. “It’s not your fault.”

My dad nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe that. I hesitated momentarily, staring at my hands, my breathing slow and uneven.

Then, softly, I whispered, “Dean.”

My dad’s expression hardened instantly.

I barely had time to brace myself before he held up a hand, silencing me before I could say anything else.

“His remains have been brought home,” he said. “There will be a funeral for him.”

I sucked in a breath, my stomach twisting painfully. The weight of what we’d done crashed into me all over again.

I lowered my head, my fingers digging into the sheets, my eyes burning with tears that should have been gone by now.

“Dad,” I whispered.

He reached over, gripping my arm tightly, grounding me, anchoring me.

I shook my head, my voice breaking.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I—God, I—I only wanted to live. How selfish is that?”

My dad pulled me into a tight, crushing embrace, his breath shaking, his body trembling.

Tears slipped down my cheeks, and I let myself break against him, sobbing softly, begging for forgiveness that I wasn’t sure I deserved.

My dad held me, rubbing slow circles into my back, his voice steady.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he murmured. “I understand. It’s not selfish to want to survive. Don’t you think that, Adrian.”

I cried harder, hating myself, hating everything that happened, hating that there was no right choice.

But his next words shattered what little strength I had left.

“I’m proud of you, Adrian.”

I pulled back sharply, staring at him in disbelief, my breath shaky, my chest aching.

His eyes were wet and red-rimmed. There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And I broke all over again.

Once I finally calmed down,my dad sat with me, talking softly, his hand still gripping mine like he was scared to let go.

I hesitated, but eventually, I forced myself to ask the only question that mattered.

“Elena?”

My dad sighed heavily. I felt it coming before he even spoke.

“She was worse off than you,” he admitted.

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