Page 194

Or maybe… Fuck. Maybe she'd decided not to leave at all.

Hope hit me so hard it nearly knocked the air out of my lungs.

I'd spent the entire run trying to bury that particular emotion, and here it was, clawing its way out of the grave like a zombie with unfinished business.

My feet started moving before my brain caught up. I picked up my pace. Then picked it up again.

"Damon!" My mom's voice carried across the yard from her back porch.

I lifted a hand without slowing.

"Damon!" she called again.

I turned, jogging backward. "Mom, I gotta go⁠—"

"Mikayla's at the hospital!"

Everything stopped. My feet. My lungs. My fucking heart. "What?" I spun toward her and started running. "What happened?! Is she okay?"

She hurried down the porch steps, one hand gripping the railing. "She's fine, honey. It's her mother. She passed out this morning. Dylan took them to the hospital⁠—"

"I have to go." I turned toward my house.

"Here!"

I glanced back.

My mom stood at the bottom of the steps, holding up her truck keys. "Take my Chevy. It’s out front."

I changed directions so fast my knee threatened to give out. I snatched the keys from her hand, then stopped. Turned back. And kissed the top of her head. "Love you."

Her hand caught my arm for half a second. "Love you more. Drive safe."

I was already running. "Define safe!"

"Damon!"

I grinned despite the panic tearing at my insides. Then I climbed into my mom’s truck and tore down the lane. My mind raced with approximately twelve thousand different scenarios of what had happened, filling in the blanks of information I didn’t have, between the farm and the county hospital. I thought of every single one. Twice. By the time I pulled into the parking lot, my imagination had diagnosed Mikayla's mother with everything from dehydration to a brain tumor. I didn't know much about the woman.

I knew she was obviously sick. I knew Mikayla worried about her. And I knew whatever complicated history existed between them, Mikayla loved her.

Which meant I loved her. Because I loved Mikayla. There it was. The truth I'd spent ten miles trying to outrun.

I shoved through the emergency department doors, ignoring the blast of air-conditioning against my sweaty skin.

A woman I didn’t recognize sat behind the front desk looked up. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Miss Parsons. She came in this morning. Her daughter is with her, Mikayla. My brother Dylan brought them. He's about six feet tall, dark hair, and talks too much⁠—"

"Sir—"

"Actually, I don't know if she's listed under Parsons. She might have a different last name. I should've asked⁠—"

"Damon."

My heart slammed against my ribs at the sound of her voice. I turned.

Mikayla stood halfway down the hallway beside a row of vending machines, holding a bottle of water in one hand and a bag of pretzels in the other. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail. She wore jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.