Page 65 of Twisted Love

And I cling to the words, fragile as they are, like a lifeline.

My mom adjusts the blanket around my shoulders as if I’m still the child she used to bundle up during snowstorms. Her lips press into a thin line as she studies me, and I know she sees past the surface.

“I just spoke to Earl,” she says softly, the words making my heart jump. “He was worried about you running out the way you did.”

I glance at her sharply, blinking in surprise. “Earl? You spoke to Earl?” I repeat, the name heavy in my mouth.

She nods, watching me closely. “He called to make sure you were okay.”

The air between us feels charged, and I don’t know what to do with it. My thoughts are too scattered, my emotions fraying at the edges. Why would he call? Why would he care? My surprise quickly gives way to anger. After last night, what right does he have to act concerned?

I shake my head sharply as if I can physically push him out of my mind. “Of course, I’m all right,” I mutter, dismissing her words. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

Her brows knit together, her concern deepening. “Is everything okay between you two?”

“Yeah, everything is fine.” My tone is clipped, leaving no room for further discussion. “I just want to focus on Dad, right now, Mom.”

She doesn’t look convinced but lets it drop, instead pulling a chair closer to the bed and settling in beside me. The minutes stretch on, filled with the quiet hum of machines and the occasional murmur of nurses outside. I barely register the passage of time, too consumed with watching my father’s face and listening to the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

I must have fallen asleep in the chair because I’m startled awake by the dull vibration of my phone on the bedside table. My pulse quickens, and for a moment, I’m disoriented. I grab it, squinting at the screen in the dim light. Earl.

The name flashes like a beacon, and I stare at it, debating. My fingers hover over the screen, but the anger simmering in my chest holds me back. I let it ring, the sound cutting through the stillness like a reprimand.

Minutes later, another vibration—a text. I hesitate before opening it, my breath catching when I see his message.

I’m outside your father’s room. I don’t want to intrude on your parents’ privacy. Let me know if it’s okay for me to come in or if you’d rather step out.

The words sink in strangely, and I have to read them again just to be sure. He’s here? My mind sluggishly tries to process what this means. He came all this way? Why? For what? The shock of it nearly eclipses my anger at him, but not entirely. I set the phone down, staring at it like it’s something foreign.

I glance at the closed door, half expecting him to walk through it despite his message. The thought makes my stomach twist. I’m furious that he’s here, furious that he thinks he can insert himself into this moment after everything that’s happened. But I can’t deny the flicker of something else beneath the anger. A small weak flicker of hope.

I pull the blanket tighter around me. My mom stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. Just for a few moments, I focus on my father, on the sound of his breathing, on anything but the man waiting outside the door.

CHAPTER40

EARL

The hospital corridor is eerily quiet at this hour, the fluorescent lights casting a cold, sterile glow that only amplifies the feeling of guilt inside me. I stand just outside her father’s room, peering through the narrow glass window in the door.

Raven didn’t come out. She simply put the phone down and slumped deeper into the chair and almost immediately fell back to sleep. Under the blanket tight her body is curled into itself as if she’s trying to shield herself from the world. Her exhaustion is palpable as her chest rises and falls slowly as she drifts in and out of a restless sleep. The dim light accentuates the shadows under her eyes.

I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s always been a force of nature, strong-willed and defiant, even in the face of chaos. But now? Now, she looks so fragile it makes my heart ache. She’s still so beautiful, even in sickness, but that only makes the guilt twist harder in my stomach.

I’ve done this to her.

I’ve been so wrapped up in my anger, my need to punish her for the past, that I’ve ignored what she’s been carrying.

My phone vibrates softly in my pocket, but I don’t look at it. My focus stays on her, on the faint furrow of her brow as she shifts slightly in her seat. My gaze shifts to her father. He’s lying pale and still, the machines around him humming softly as they monitor his condition.

I’ve avoided her parents for so long, not out of malice but because I couldn’t face them. They’ve always been kind to me, treating me like family. And now, seeing him like this, I’m ashamed about how I’ve acted. I should have been here for him, for her. I should have done more.

I step away from the door and lean against the cool wall.

She’s sick. I can see it in the way she moves, sluggish and weak, but knowing her, she’ll ignore and carry on as if nothing is wrong with her. This mule-headed stubbornness is usually a mixture of infuriation and endearment, but right now, it’s terrifying. She won’t let herself rest, not while her father is like this. She’ll push herself until she breaks.

I pull my phone out and type another message, my fingers hesitating over the screen. The words feel inadequate, but it’s all I can do right now.

Please take care of yourself.

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