Page 2 of Outspoken

They didn’t survive.

I did.

Opening my eyes, I squeeze Brody's limp hand tightly, as if the discomfort will make him wake.

“I'm sorry,” I sob, but can't get the rest of the words out.

I'm sorry you got stuck with such a stupid sister. I've been a mess these past nine years—emotionally unstable and out of control. I tried to blame you for not being there when all you've ever done is take care of me, lose sleep over me, and want me to get help and be happy.

I’ll confess all my dumb mistakes to Brody if he just opens his eyes and looks at me.

I can’t lose you. Paige can’t lose you.

Wake up. Please.

What makes this situation worse is that I can't even give Paige updates. After the police came to take statements and remove her stepdad's body, she was taken away to some group home because of that fucking guardianship her mom put her in when she was a teenager. It makes me sick.

She's 25 and has no adult rights. They ushered her away as if she was property of the State. I don't know how I'll ever get her out of that group home or when I can visit. She hasn't responded to my texts, so I worry they've taken her phone. She's non-speaking andneedsher phone to communicate. That phone is her voice, and I'm certain those assholes took it from her.

She must be going through her own hell right now, and I can’t even offer comfort. She loves Brody, and she must be so scared not knowing his condition.

Gripping the bed rail with my hand, I struggle to breathe, covering my mouth to sob.What do I do?I won't be able to pay the mortgage or lot rent on Brody's mobile home. I don't even know if I have money for food. Or if Brody has any money left in his savings after paying for my rehab. Or how we'll pay for Brody’s insane deductible. His insurance is the worst and my credit is shit, so I can't take out loans.

If I could have one drink, just one, I could get a blissful moment of peace from this nightmare. That’s all I’ve wanted since the car accident—a moment of peace.

I gently release Brody’s fingers and grab a water bottle off the nightstand, chugging it. “Stop,” I whisper, trying to give myself a pep talk as I wipe my face with a tissue.

How can I even think about using drugs after Brody and my bestie have done so much for me?

“You can do this. Donotrun away this time and don’t be an ungrateful bitch after Brody and Paige got you into rehab. Brody is alive. He'll wake up. Wewillget through this. Focus on the present—one stupid day at a time.”

One of the many techniques I learned in rehab is to bring my focus to what’s around me—a distraction when my thoughts start to spiral. It’s hard, but I need to keep practicing these ‘tools’ since they’re all I have now.

My eyes dart around the room as I note my surroundings. “Tile floor. White tile. The bed sheets are blue. A TV. A commercial for a cleaning product is on.” I inhale slowly and release it. “Part of the wall is yellow. Now it’s white. A hand sanitizer dispenser. Two puke-brown chairs.”

As I turn to look at the open door, I flinch when I see a very muscular man with caramel skin standing motionless in the doorway. He's wearing white sneakers, blue jeans, and a short-sleeved white button-up that’s speckled with tiny palm trees. His dark, shaggy hair is carefully slicked back, and he's smirking with a small dimple.

If I were to sum up his look, it’d be a mix of ‘boy next door’ and ‘heartbreaker’, considering his rippling muscles. A bouquet of pinkish-purple flowers is pressed against his chest. He looks familiar, but my cloudy mind can't immediately recall who he is.

When I don’t speak, he knocks lightly on the door with his knuckle. “Hey,” he says. “Cool to come in?”

I stand, unconsciously tugging my worn gray T-shirt down. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I’m Amber, Brody’s sister.”

He shakes my hand. “Miguel. He seems like a lilac guy, so I brought flowers.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t know the names of any flowers.”

Miguel smiles at my comment, that single dimple appearing again and drawing my attention.Miguel.He’s Brody’s closest friend, and they work as personal trainers at the same gym. I’ve heard a lot about him and seen pictures, but I didn’t expect him to look so appealing in person. He had a mustache and a slight beard in the pictures I saw. Today, his skin is smooth, his curly hair a bit more trimmed and shorter than in the pictures.

He’sdefinitelyappealing. Too bad we’re meeting under such tense circumstances.

Before he can respond, I take the bouquet. “Thanks for bringing these. They’re beautiful.” There’s no vase around, so I stick them in the open plastic water pitcher on a side table. I turn back to Miguel, who is staring at Brody with a concerned, heavy expression. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” I say. “I hear your name all the time, so it’s odd we haven’t met sooner.”

He glances at me, his face unreadable. Then, my leather jacket that’s hanging over a chair steals his attention. He stares at it intensely for several long seconds, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Hey, I should mention that—”

“Miss Burgess?”

I turn to find one of Brody’s nurses standing in the doorway. “Oh, yes?” I respond, my heart pounding. Every time a nurse or doctor walks in my heart races.

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