Page 51 of Venus
I shake my head the best I can, making my skin burn even worse than it already is. “No,” I say. Not a question. Not a plea. Just pure disbelief. “He…he…he was with me. The flashover hit and if I made it then so did he. Right? Right? You’re…you’re…you’re fucking with me. You’re—”
Alarms start ringing and my chest gives out. I can’t breathe anymore. I crack open. A sound from another world escapes me, raw and guttural. My heartbeat monitor goes wild in protest. I begin to try and break free from my place on the bed, causing pain to blossom all over my body, but I don’t care. I don’t care about the burns or the wires or the machines. I don’t even care about Jackson or Victoria.
Trevor is gone.
Trevor is gone.
Jackson and Victoria hold me down as gently as they can, trying to tether me to reality when all I want to do is go into the past and try harder to save my friend.
Maybe even die with him.
I give Jackson a pleading look. “Please, Jacks, this is a sick joke. Tell me you’re lying to me.”
His face twists in pain, and that’s when I know he’s telling the truth. My best friend is gone. My brother is gone.
I close my eyes, and the tears don’t stop coming. The nurses administer more morphine and a mild sedative, but it does nothing to ease the ache in my chest.
I stare at the ceiling and cut everything and everyone out. I say nothing to no one. Not even the doctors or nurses coming to check on me. I just give them….nothing.
I’m still here, and he’s not, because I didn’t try hard enough to get him out.
Victoria holds my wrist tightly, grounding me, and I think it’s the only thing keeping me from losing it completely.
Chapter 29 | Venus
He doesn’t answer the door right away. I knew he wouldn’t. He never does anymore.
I stand at his door, fingers tightening around the straps of my bag, forehead nearly pressed to the wood. The hallway is quiet, too quiet for a guy who used to blast classic rock from the kitchen while making me boxed mac and cheese in a pot way too big for the amount of food we need.
“Carter?” I call gently.
Nothing for a second.
Then the lock turns.
He opens the door, eyes bloodshot, face hollow. He looks like a shadow of the man I know—baggy sweats, a blanket falling off one leg, shirt rumpled like he hasn’t bothered to change in days, or maybe even a full week. He doesn’t speak. Just steps aside.
I try my best not to let my eyes linger too long on the burns. All things considered, he still looks like the Carter I fell in love with, but I can’t imagine the psychological torture he’s going through, looking in themirror and seeing a permanent reminder of the worst day of his life.
He’s scheduled for his official skin graft consultation after the funeral.
Carter refused to sit in the hospital any longer, leaving against medical advice, and forcing the doctors to plead with him to be careful. I promised I’d look after him, take care of his wounds, but burns aren’t my specialty.
He doesn’t let me in anymore, and the flames left just as much damage on his heart than his skin. I don’t know how tohelphim.
“I brought soup,” I say quietly, holding up the container like it was something that could bring him comfort. “And gauze. You haven’t changed the dressing, have you?”
Still nothing.
I set the container down on the counter. His apartment smells like smoke and leftover antiseptic, and I hate how normal that feels now.
“You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself,” I say.
“I’m trying.” He rubs his face, hissing when he touches the sensitive patches on his cheeks. “I just don’t know what I’m doing.”
I nod, already reaching into my bag. “Lift your shirt.”
He obeys, slow and stiff. I peel back the old dressing. The wound looks angry. Red. Swollen. Healingslowly. His skin is hot under my fingers. I clean it gently, with careful hands, but I don’t talk. He doesn’t need words right now. He needs care. Small, quiet, deliberate support from someone that isn’t from his fire station, mourning the same loss.
