Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Oh fuck, Gertie,” my dad slurs, his clenched fists releasing with a spasm. “I didn’t see, I didn’t know it was you.”
My breath rushes out and stays out as I clutch at my midsection. Pain blooms deep in my core, spreading like a fast-moving cancer. A second later, my knees buckle and hit the ground.
“Oh no, oh, Gertie, I’m sorry,” Dad says, sinking down beside me as I fight for a breath. “Come on, honey, let me help.”
“Get away from her,” Weaver grunts from behind him.
“You get the fuck away!” Dad screams like the lunatic he is, adding a heaping helping of shame to the misery roiling through my belly. “This is your fault, you piece of shit. You ruined my life. You ruined everything! You’re a fucking devil.”
“This isn’t about you or me. She’s hurt,” Weaver says, his voice thick-sounding. “She could have internal injuries. We need to get her to the emergency room.”
I finally manage to wheeze in a breath, but before I can speak my dad shouts, “Fuck you! Don’t you dare tell me how to take care of my family.”
I look up, my heart shattering as I see the blood pouring from Weaver’s nose and down the front of his Yacht Club sweatshirt. He’s clutching his stomach, too.
I want to tell him how sorry I am. I want to tell him to run, to get away from my toxic father, but suddenly I’m bent over, vomiting watery streams of coffee onto the shining white tile as my internal organs continue to throb.
“Oh honey, oh no,” my dad sobs, his words barely audible over his blubbering. He puts his hands on my back, and I instinctively flinch away, which only makes him cry harder.
From my hunched position, I see two hospital employees with walkie-talkies and security uniforms running across the atrium, and know this nightmare is almost over. But the thought doesn’t bring much comfort.
The damage has already been done.
Everything is ruined. Even if Weaver still wants to be with me, my father has basically guaranteed that it will tear our family apart. As awful as Dad is, he’s still a Sullivan, and the Sullivans are a tribal lot.
As the guards grab Dad by each arm, dragging him away from me while he shouts and cries, I’m already making a mental list of all the relatives I’m pretty sure will side with him. There won’t be any more Christmas craft beer bingo at Great Uncle Charlie’s for me, no summer sleepovers at Aunt Emma’s little island cabin, and maybe not Thanksgiving dinner, either. Aunt Cathy loves me, but Dad’s her baby brother. There’s at least a fifty percent chance she’ll choose him.
Or choose neither of us.
The Sullivans might decide this entire branch of the family should be cut off in a clean break. If Gramps dies, there won’t be anyone with real influence to advocate for us. Gramps is our patriarch, our leader, and he’s lying in an operating room on the third floor having stints put into his heart.
“Oh God,” Aunt Cathy says as she crouches down beside me, breathing so fast I’m afraid she’s going to hyperventilate and pass out. “Oh God, honey. Are you okay?”
I shake my head, tears sliding quietly from my eyes as I watch Dad being tasered by a third guard who’s appeared on the scene. Or maybe he’s a police officer. Maybe they all are. I can’t really tell. Whatever they are, they’re efficient. Once they’ve tasered Dad, they have him flat on his stomach with his hands zip-tied behind him in seconds.
“Oh no, oh no,” Aunt Cathy says, continuing to babble something about how she should have known better than to call my dad with bad news as Weaver appears on my other side, resting a gentle hand on my hip.
“Can I help you up?” he asks, his words still muffled by the blood in his nose. I thought Dad mostly got him in the stomach, but he clearly hit his face at least once, too.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to mumble, the tears coming faster, hotter.
“Don’t you dare apologize for him,” Weaver says, squeezing my thigh. “He doesn’t matter. You matter. Can I help you up and carry you to the ER? Do you want me to find a nurse and a wheelchair?”
“I can walk,” I say, even though I’m not sure I can. I’ve never experienced pain like this before. It feels like someone put a hot coal in my guts and left it there to burn.
“All right, let’s take this nice and slow,” Weaver says, guiding my good arm around his shoulders. Then, with his arm around my waist, he lifts me to my feet as gently as he can.
I know he’s being gentle, but the shift of my dislocated arm causes another blinding wave of pain to shoot from my shoulder straight into the base of my neck. Bright light flashes behind my eyes and for a second, I’m afraid I might pass out.