Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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Dead or alive.
My dad is either dead or alive, and if I'm being completely fucking honest here, I don't know which one I'm hoping for.
Part of me feels like he deserves this. That the years of torture he put us through are finally coming back to bite him in the ass. That this is the universe righting all of his wrongs. But no matter how hard I try to push it down, I can't deny that there's also a part of me that doesn't want him to be dead. There's a part of me that's fucking terrified I'll never get the chance to see him again, to talk to him again, to go off on him for everything he did to my mother, to my brothers, to me.
But worst of all, I can't seem to ease the anxiety searing through me at the realization that no matter how much I might hate him, it doesn't change the fact that I also don't want to lose him — not yet. Not like this.
I try to shake that thought because, for some reason, the idea of not wanting to lose him is even more unsettling than the thought of him already being dead.
I try to focus on something other than the image of my father being zipped up in a body bag. Looking down, Josie's right beside me as we walk through the maze of the ICU. Her eyes flick up to mine. When her lips pull up into a soft smile and she reaches out for my hand, intertwining her fingers through mine, I try to focus on the calming effect of her thumb gently caressing my knuckles.
I shouldn't be here. I don't want to be here. And looking down at the girl beside me, a pang of guilt hits me hard because I sure as hell don't want her to have be here either. Not for this, and definitely not for my dad.
Her eyes drift up to mine, considering me for a long moment, trying to gauge how I'm doing. Aside from filling her in on what the hell was going on, I haven't said much since we climbed onto my bike and I sent us flying down the freeway because I've been silently spiraling ever since. And by the way she's looking up at me, I know that she can tell. She can sense the change in me since that phone call. She can feel the anxious energy radiating from me in waves.
She's wide-eyed, and her cheeks are still warm and rosy from our time in the creek, but I can feel the shift in her energy too. It's softer, warmer — infinitely more soothing — and when I stop a few doors down from my dad's assigned room, that same energy spikes as she squeezes my hand gently before releasing it. When her eyes meet mine, they crinkle in a reassuring smile, and somehow, standing here in the middle of this cold as fuck hallway, the sight warms me. Relaxing me entirely as if I just stepped into the mid-summer sun.
I tuck a wayward strand back behind her ear, meeting her eyes again. Inhaling a deep breath, I soak in her warmth for a few seconds longer before turning and leading her into the room. That warmth doesn't last long, though. The second we step inside, still hidden by the small hallway leading into the room, my lungs freeze as my dad's low, gravelly voice echoes around us.
"I don't need this goddamn tube up my nose. I can breathe just fine on my own."
"Cliff, leave the oxygen on, please. At least until the doctor comes back in to check you out."
