Just Let Me Love You (Judge Me Not #3)(43)

But how can I be fine when Chase is so obviously not?

Sighing, I silently pray to God: My brother’s been through enough shit in his life, he doesn’t deserve this. He’s finally found happiness, God, so please let him live.

Chase isn’t waking up, or even moving, and suddenly, I feel a surge of anger, anger I thought I had under control. But this ire isn’t directed at my brother, or even my mom, who is all too often the target. No, this anger is directed at God.

Closing my eyes, I hiss, “You know what? Fuck you, dude. If you can’t help Chase, then what good are you?”

Shit, I am going to Hell, for sure, for that remark. But if getting God’s attention in this blasphemous way saves my brother’s life, I’ll go to Hell willingly.

His life for my immortal soul seems like a fair trade.

Someone knocks on the window just then, scaring the living daylights out of me. I just about jump out of my hide, and then look to see who it is.

It’s no one I know, but, damn, quite a crowd has gathered outside the car.

The guy who is knocking on the window, still—some middle-aged business dude with a basset-hound face—yells in, “Are you all right, son?”

His eyes go to Chase’s limp form, and then to where I’m holding the plaid shirt to my brother’s head. Instantly, the businessman’s basset-hound face falls when he sees how heavily the shirt is soaked with blood.

“Can you open the door?” he gently prods. “Your friend there doesn’t look so good.”

No shit.

I whisper, “He’s not just some friend, dude; he’s my f*cking brother.”

“What?” the man outside the car says. “I can’t hear you. Open the door, son. Okay?”

I wish he’d quit calling me son. He’s not my father; my dad is dead.

Suddenly, I lose my shit. I start to shake and cry. The businessman tries to open the door on his own, but it’s locked. Between gasps for breath, I hit the unlock button.

The ambulance arrives at the same time the man who’s trying to help swings open the door. But paramedics rush over immediately and shoo him out of the way before he can help.

I close my eyes and tell God I’m sorry for cursing him out. And then, for the first time in a long time, I pray for real.

With all my heart and all my soul, I beg God to let Chase live.



An hour later, I am at the hospital, waiting in the appropriately named waiting room. It’s empty, and I’m glad.

After we arrived at the hospital, Chase was admitted immediately. Me? I was taken to an open ER room to be checked over, and since I was fine, I was released.

And here I sit, in the empty waiting room, waiting for my mom to arrive to take me home. Not that I want to leave anytime soon. I plan to stick around as long as I can in case Chase wakes up.

I just wish I knew more. But they won’t tell me anything.

One thing I did find out, though, I know exactly how Chase and I ended up in the accident. Listening to the paramedics on the way to the hospital, I overheard them saying that the lady who hit our car was some ninety-year-old who isn’t even supposed to be out on the road. Apparently, her license was revoked two months ago, when old age had taken away sixty percent of her vision.

Like me, though, she walked away from the accident unharmed. She’ll be fine, unlike Chase. He is nowhere near being fine.

Not that I have any real info to base that assumption on. I just know he was still bleeding and still not awake when we were wheeled in to the ER on stretchers. After that, Chase was taken to a different part of the hospital, leaving me in the dark as to his current condition.

Guess the staff is waiting for our mother to arrive to give out any updates. She’s been called and is on her way.

I sigh and glance around the waiting room.

Since no one is around, I can finally let go. Placing my head in my hands, I let the tears fall. And fall they do. Although a few minutes into my crying jag, someone clears their throat.

Quickly, like, lightning-fast, I straighten and wipe my eyes. Just in time, too. When I look up there’s a young nurse before me.

“Oh, hey,” I say to the girl.

The nurse is cute and not a hell of a lot older than me. Maybe she’s a candy-striper. She looks like she’s on an errand, since in her hand is a plastic drawstring bag.

She toys with the tie for a few seconds, and then asks, “Are you Will Gartner?”

“Yes,” I respond.

She hands me the bag. “These are your brother’s clothes and belongings. He won’t need them—”

My whole world drops out from beneath me.

“What…” I whisper.

I can’t even go on. What does she mean Chase won’t need his things?

“Oh, no,” she says. “I didn’t mean your brother won’t need his belongings because he’s gone, like, gone. Mr. Gartner is just going to be staying here at the hospital for a few days, that’s all.”

I can breathe again, and I slump down in the chair on a long exhale of air. “Jesus,” I say to the candy-striper, “you just about gave me a coronary.”

“I’m sorry. I should have mentioned that he was okay first.”

“You think?” I mutter.

I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m just tired and worried and out of patience.