Page 117 of Their Broken Legend

Do I stay with him?

I need to stay with him.

I need to call Luca.

I don’t have his number.

Clay, then?

No. I don’t have his, either.

The sun makes my head drowsy and lethargic. The light that floods through the front windscreen bathing the wagon in a bright hue that seems wrong. It’ssowrong to besobright. Was it sunny when we left the shops? Or did the sun come out after the crash… It shouldn’t be sunny. It shouldn’t.

Glasses?

“I need glasses!”

A voice says, “She’s in shock.”

“You should lay down, Miss.”

My mouth rolls as I say, “But I can’t hold his hand if I lay down.” My words slur.

Hold. His. Hand.

The meaning sags, then registers, forcing a quiet terror into my throat, daring my wide, still gaze to pan down to see his hand entwined with mine. It’s heavy—his hand. There is a line of sun lying over his knuckles. I cover the line with my hand, but the ray just cuts to mine. He’s here with me in the sun, but I’m completely alone.

“I need to text my mum.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE

kaya

Slowly,my eyes flutter open, my vision climbing my mum’s torso to her face, concern evident in her pursed lips and furrowed brows.

With my head on her lap, my body collapsed over three chairs in a row, my sides ache from the uneven surface. The rims of the plastic bucket seats cut into my thighs and waist. But Mum’s fingers are in my hair, and that’s nice. They slide through the long strands, bringing comfort and unconditional love with her fingertips.

I love you, Mum.

The sound of the hospital moves around me like a current, my limbs heavy from the effect of the Phenergan Mum gave me when she arrived. A simple drug. An antihistamine that puts me on my arse every damn time.

She was prepared.

That’s what Mum’s do.

In a daze, I roll to my side, to face the waiting room. Wanting to absorb some information, be alert and present, when I’m still numb, clinging to sensible thoughts. I look down at myself, seeing that at some point, I changed. My mum brought me clothes: a Gucci cardigan and my faded Armani jeans with distressed thighs.

Opposite me is a clock; it ticks past ten pm. Hospitals aren’t designed for visitors at night. Lights are left on. Overhead announcements rouse. It only offers the families rows of green plastic seating that are fixed to the floor and vending machines with snacks and coffee.

I blink at the men across from me, the fractures of my fatigued reality slowly snapping into place like broken bones mending themselves. It’s painful. And I don’t want to mend without him.

Across from me are Max Butcher and another man I don’t know, who looks a little bit like Xander but has sandy-brown hair and bright green eyes glossy with emotion.

His half-brother, maybe?

I can’t see Max’s face. He is leaning forward, his forehead in his hands. The hugest man I’ve ever seen, cupping his head like he wants to rip the entire thing from his shoulders because the pain is too deep and too devastating.

I’m sorry I let you down, Max.

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