The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)

CALISTA

Hospitals never used to bother me when I was younger, seeing as I was in and out of them a lot with my mother. I got desensitized to the aching groans of dying patients and the sobs of families now harboring terrible news. I got desensitized to the miasma of death and the stench of hydrogen peroxide. I got desensitized to the blinding fluorescents and the shitty food and the uncomfortable waiting chairs. There was even a point when I accepted that my mother’s life was tethered to a countdown clock, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

But now, sitting in this dark and cold doctor’s office, with the outside cavalry of heart monitor beeps and the hushed exchange of doctor jargon closing in on me, I hate hospitals. I hate them with everything I have.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry. Not because I was afraid to embarrass myself in front of whoever was saddled with giving me the bad news, but because I didn’t think I’d be able to stop once I started. Unremitting anxiety kick-starts inside me, baking my skin in a suffocating heat that didn’t exist before I stepped through those stainless steel doors. And that anxious feeling only trickles down to my gut, where it churns the ham sandwich I had earlier, threatening to trigger that delicate reflex at the back of my throat.

It feels like I’m back in my mother’s old room—one hundred forty-four square feet of death camouflaged in peeling wallpaper and fossilized possessions. There’s a darkness here that weighs heavy on my chest, sharpening the jagged edges of my nerves.

The doctor’s face is trimmed to smooth perfection, a cruel kind of cold that only exists within sociopaths or serial killers. There’s no hair out of place, no speck of dust on his pristine jacket, no wrinkles on his skin that could allude to how old he is. Everything is carefully constructed, a façade, an inhuman mask that he mistakenly believes makes him human. I could look past everything else, but it’s his eyes that haunt me. Soulless, unfathomably deep, the color of obsidian, yet even with no life to be found within them, they still follow my every movement.

“Ms. Cadwell, thank you for joining me on such short notice,” he says, and even in his tone lies an aloofness, as if getting too close to someone like me repulses him.

Doctor Grandfield—according to his name tag—folds his hands into a steeple on his desk, lowering his eyes disdainfully at the unprofessional appearance of my stained jacket and sweatpants.

“Uh, thank you for seeing me,” I stammer.

“I’m sure you’re aware that your mother has end-stage multiple sclerosis, correct?” There’s no soft landing for his unsympathetic words. It’s a harsh shove against the hard ground, one that scrapes the skin off my bloodstained face and imbues my tongue with the taste of rust.

I swallow back bile. “I’m aware.”

“I’ve consulted with other doctors, and we believe it’s in her best interest to move her into a nursing facility while her body continues to deteriorate.”

Nursing facility. Deteriorate.

A peaceful place for her to gradually die, is what he’s saying.

I nearly vomit on the spot, chunks of half-digested bread and lunch meat all over his desk and his classified papers, all over that stupid suit of his.

We won’t be living under the same roof anymore. I’ll have to drive to see her; I’ll have to sign in and get a visitor’s pass just to see her. I don’t want my mom to go. I want her to hold me in her arms again and tell me that everything’s going to be okay.

“I see” is all I have the energy to say. Stagnant. Void of emotion. A hollow acceptance. I’m so numb right now that the tears don’t even exist. They’re not banging on the backs of my eyes begging to be freed.

“I’m sure this is a big change for your family, but I assure you that Sunrise Pointe is a perfectly adequate facility to tend to your mother’s needs,” he tells me.

I know that admitting my mother to a nursing home should quell the worries blizzarding inside me, but it doesn’t. What if the one day I don’t visit her is the day she passes? What if she dies all alone, without me or Teague by her bedside?

My leg shakes underneath his desk, slamming against the surface of my hard, plastic chair. It feels like a bucket of ice water has been thrown on me, soaking me all the way to the bone. This will be her new life now. This will be Teague’s and my new life now. Fuck.

Will Teague hate me forever? Will Teague blame me for letting her go? I already blame myself, but that’s a responsibility I can bear. Having Teague blame me is something I won’t survive.

Doctor Grandfield slides a pamphlet across his desk to me, and even his nails are perfectly filed. “Here’s a pamphlet with more information. It includes a lot of the benefits, services provided, frequently asked questions, and most importantly, the cost of it all,” he recites like he’s giving a presentation.

The cost. Oh my God. I haven’t even thought about the cost.

I robotically flip through the pamphlet, quickly passing the exaggerated smiles and the outrageously grandiose architecture until I make it to the small cost section at the very end…that boasts an unattainable four thousand dollars per month. While my mother does have Medi-Cal, the nursing facilities that take that type of insurance aren’t the best in their treatment. The only way I’d feel comfortable moving my mom into a nursing facility is if it’s a good one.

I can’t afford this, even with the extra cash from Gage’s and my arrangement. How am I going to make enough money in a short amount of time to give my mother the care she deserves? And that’s per month. My salary is only enough to keep me and Teague afloat, and it just barely helps with my mom’s medication.

I don’t know what to say. All I do is stare down at that intimidating number, each fume of breath harder to expel than the last one. If I can’t afford it, I’ll fail my mother. I refuse to do that. I’ll get two more jobs. I’ll sell whatever I can to make money. But that can only help me so much in the beginning, and then the tiring cycle continues each month.

And what about Teague? If I throw myself back into my work (more than I already do), I’ll become even more absent in his life. I made a promise to myself that I would start being there for him more. The only way for this to work is for me to…destroy myself.

My belly grumbles nervously, and a hunk of acid and food jet up my throat, filling my mouth until I’m forced to swallow it down. I’m going to be sick.

“Can I…can I think about it?” I lie, trying to conceal the urgency in my tone, needing to get the hell out of here before my day becomes even worse—and before I make his day a lot worse. I’m already up and out of my chair, the chair legs screeching against the uncarpeted floors as I scramble for the pamphlet on the table.

The minute I tuck it under my arm, I sprint out of that windowless enclosure, not caring to listen to whatever advice he’s throwing over my shoulder. I take a secluded set of stairs all the way down to the first floor, and once I’m spit out through the swinging front doors, I find the nearest trashcan and lose the contents of my lunch inside it.

I’m not sure how much time passes as everything gushes out of me in one thick torrent, but it’s long enough for me to listen to a lovely soundtrack of thirty dollars-worth of groceries splattering over already-rotten food.

Maybe I’m too drained to freak out, or maybe it’s because I’d recognize the feel of those hands anywhere, but someone starts to rub circles over my back. The air shifts, giving way to a warmth unparalleled by the sun itself, and I know for a fact that Gage is the person right behind me. I feel my hair get swept back from my face as my loud and definitely indiscreet retching continues, having to sit with the vile taste of liquidized food on my tongue while my body rejects everything I ate in the last twenty-four hours.

“You’re okay, Cali. I’m right here. Get it all out.”

When the nausea passes, I’m forced to overcome my embarrassment. I lift my head up, wipe my sleeve over my vomit-slicked lips, and try to keep some distance between me and Gage because my breath undoubtedly reeks.

We speak at the same time, in two very different tones.

“Did you follow me here?” I ask.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Gage, surprisingly, looks just as embarrassed as I do, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Um, Teague told me you were speaking with your mother’s doctor today. I just…I know you didn’t invite me, but I wanted to come in case you needed the support.”

In any other universe, I’d be mad at him for following me to something so personal. But I’m not. I mean, he was there in the hospital with me while we waited for my mother’s results. I don’t know why I didn’t invite Gage. I guess I just felt like this wasn’t his problem. Not to mention that I’m used to doing things on my own.

Even with the beating sun out, gales of wind slip through greasy strands of my hair, whipping them across my pale and sweaty face. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any saliva in my mouth anymore, but I don’t say anything.

Gage takes a step toward me. “I’m going to ask you again, Cali. Are you okay?”

I take a step backward, resting one hand over my belly to try and calm the inner turmoil. “I’m fine.” My burning eyes simmer with post-puke tears, and even though my arms are protected by my flimsy jacket, goose bumps race up and down them.

I can tell he wants to say, No, you’re not, but he doesn’t.

“Can we go talk somewhere?” he proposes, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, respecting the distance I’ve set between us.

Talking is the last thing I want to do right now, but what other option do I have?

“Okay,” I concede, still clinging to the now-crumpled pamphlet in my other hand and wishing that I had brought my purse with me—or at least a pack of gum.

I know I already look like shit, so I choose a very shaded bench for me and Gage to sit on, hoping he doesn’t look too closely at me.

News flash: he does.

His body is completely turned toward me, his gaze focused on my face like he’s trying to search for answers in a twitch or a micro expression. The breeze doesn’t cease its onslaught on his hair, blowing back those front curls and turning the tip of his nose scarlet. “What happened in there?” he inquires, nearly losing his voice to the raging wind.

I’m sitting with my back to the current, but he chose to sit with his face to it and endure the worst of it, all so I don’t have to. I make my first sound decision of the day and hand him the crinkled pamphlet, because there’s no way he’ll be able to hear me.

He takes it from me with a curious look, and I watch in silence as he flips through the pages, his eyes examining the material diligently, searching for the reason why I upchucked in front of, like, twenty people.

When he finishes skimming the pamphlet, he tilts his head. “I don’t understand. This…this seems like a good thing, right?”

I turtle into my jacket, staring down at my sleeve-covered hands, using my thumbnail to pick at the blue, fraying hems. “I can’t afford it, Gage,” I whisper, too ashamed to bring this reality into existence, too frustrated that I don’t even have four thousand dollars to spare on my dying mother. No money saved up. No nothing. There’s a part of me that wishes he didn’t hear, but he did. Over the howling winds, over the quietness of my voice, over the bustling chatter of the people around us.

His face drops. “Cali…”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help my mom; I don’t know how to help Teague. I’m his legal guardian, sure, but I hardly act like it. I’ve failed both of them. I’m not…I’m not strong enough to hold this family together,” I confess, every terrible reminder of the ways I’ve let them down hijacking my brain, spitting derision and scorn like shrapnel against my bleeding heart.

I want to cry. Fuck, I want to feel something. Anything. But my body’s been feeling for so long that there’s nothing left for me to feel.

“Please tell me you know that’s not true,” Gage says, tearing down the invisible wall I’ve erected between us and enveloping me in his warm arms. “It’s not true.”

I don’t embrace him back. I’m stiff and cold and so goddamn empty that I can’t feel my own heart beating anymore. “It is true.”

“No, it’s not.”

I push him away from me. “It is, Gage.”

Gage doesn’t snap back at me. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even move, really. I have no idea what his next move is, and the sight of his composure isn’t an accelerant to my rage—it’s the complete opposite.

I’m so tired. I’m so tired of everything. I’m so tired of carrying all this weight by myself. I’m so tired of trying to do everything on my own. And the more I hang on to this self-loathing and rage…the more I begin to question if it’s even worth it anymore. I don’t want to live my entire life punishing myself. I don’t know how to save myself.

The final moisture I’ve been waiting for—the preemptive droplets of rain before a torrential storm—wells in my eyes, and the rest of the world stills around me, freezing this exact moment in time where the only medium is the broken cradle song of my heart. I look down at my hands, right where my nails continue puncturing old wounds.

I forget that Gage is right beside me, and I’m only reminded when his voice breaks through the dense fog.

“I want to pay for everything,” he says quietly.

I level him with an incredulous look. “What?”

“I want to pay for your mother’s care,” he repeats, scooting closer to me, refusing to sever our eye contact even for a second. He’s laying his heart out on his sleeve, offering it to the least deserving person in the world, and ignoring the very real possibility that I may be the one to crush it between my hands.

My body pleads with him not to make such a huge mistake, and this blindsided pit in my now-empty gut pulses with a mind of its own. It’s formidable as it grows before my very eyes, latching onto my stomach lining like a parasite.

“Stop. I can’t take any more of your money, Gage. You’ve already given me too much.”

“I want to, Calista. I want to help you and Teague and your moth⁠—”

“Stop,” I hiss, picking myself up off the bench and attempting to storm as far away from this conversation as humanly possible.

But I was stupid to think I’d get very far before Gage grabs my wrist and forces me to look at him.

“Why are you fighting me on this?” he growls, that dangerously low bravado of his flirting along a wrathful edge.

Something visceral snaps inside me, like the inexorable rip of a rubber band, and anger power-blasts me from all sides, tensing every muscle and gearing my brain into hyperdrive. “You’re always fixing my problems for me. You’re always going out of your way to make my life easier, and I’m constantly taking advantage of your generosity.”

“You’re not.”

A frown clips my lips. “I am.”

Gage’s brazenly indignant attitude vanishes, and the inflation in his tone softens to a melody like that of svelte fingers plucking a harp’s string. “Hey,” he croons. “You can’t take advantage of something I offer willingly. Plus, it’s my money. I can do whatever I want with it. And I’m choosing to do this for you.” He’s annoyingly calm as he always is in high-stress situations, still looking at me like I’ve hung the fucking moon and stars for him when in reality, I’ve showered his world in nothing but eternal darkness.

“You’re making a mistake.” I don’t try to rip my arm away, because there’s nowhere in this world that I could possibly go without Gage finding me.

His eyes take on the color of the impending storm clouds above. “I’m not. There’s nothing you can say that’ll make me change my mind. I wasn’t able to save my brother, but I’m able to save your family.”

“I can’t let you do this, Gage.”

“Are you going to stand here and tell me that you don’t want it? Are you going to stand here and lie to my face?”

This is about your mom, Cali. It’s not about you. It’s not about your bruised dignity. It’s not about your fucked-up self-punishment agenda. He’s offering you an escape. He’s offering you freedom. He’s offering you a chance at peace. And most of all, he’s offering your mom a chance to live out the last of her days in the best environment for her condition. Why aren’t you taking it?

There’s a small voice screaming with the same desperation in the back of my head, a little voice that once belonged to a girl who was forced to grow up too quickly.

Help me! Please, help me! I can’t do this by myself!

Gage brings me into his solid chest, and my half-exerted flailing is no match for the unbeatable strength of the two arms that pin me into submission. He holds me to that life force slamming against his ribs, so hard and fast that I can feel it shock my own lifeless heart like a defibrillator.

“I know you’re used to doing everything by yourself, but you don’t have to anymore. You can give me all that pain, Spitfire. You can give me all that weight, and I’ll carry it for the rest of fucking time if it means that you’ll finally be able to breathe easy again,” he whispers into the alcove of my neck, petting my hair like he’s done countless other times.

“Why do you care so much?” I hiccup.

And then, as if Gage has been preparing for this moment his entire life, he says, “You’re my everything, Calista Cadwell. My morning, afternoon, and night. My beginning, middle, and end. My life doesn’t make sense without you in it. I wake up for you, Spitfire. I breathe for you. My heart beats for you. It’s always going to be you, no matter where we are in time. It’s always going to be you, even if we’re oceans apart. It’s always going to be you in whatever universe we find ourselves in.”

The beat of Gage’s heart and his confession are the only things that tear me from the nightmarish landscape of my mind, reminding me that I’m here, in the present, and that my story isn’t over yet. I don’t even know if I’ve digested everything he just unloaded on me. But I got the gist of it, and the gist is enough to make me cry like a baby.

The tears surpass streams and rush out in a flood, drenching every inch of my skin in their unfortunate path, and I cling to the back of Gage’s hoodie like he’s a porous rock keeping me above water in the writhing waves of a merciless hurricane.

“Help me,” I beg. “Please help me.”