My heart pounds in my chest wildly like an animal trapped in a cage, clawing and banging on my ribs, almost as if it would fly out of my throat if I allowed it to. Pure adrenaline courses through my veins with nowhere to go, so my body just trembles to expel the unwanted energy overwhelming me.

I can feel Clay's fingers tighten slightly on mine, asking a silent question that I can not answer. He is trying to see if I am okay, but I honestly don't even know myself.

The elevator doors are trapping me, my lungs could collapse from all the work they are doing, heaving quickly and desperately without any real oxygen coming in. I feel his questioning gaze on my face, but I refuse to turn towards him. My body won't let me.

When the doors finally open, I feel a sense of relief but the pressure on my lungs never leaves. All I can think about is my Dad back on his machines, just like how he was two years. Just like Jeff last year.

Clay gasps and stumbles behind me as I wrench my hand away from his, tearing out of the elevator and down the hall the second that the doors fully open. My eyes peer down every doorframe, searching for the familiar faces of my parents, who probably hate me right now.

Why didn't I answer her texts? This is all my fault, I fucked up so badly. What if it's my fault? My heart stops at this sudden intrusive thought. If my Dad was hurt because I didn't come home— I stop myself before I can spiral down that train of thought.

I continue to sprint down the hallway. I don't even know what number my Dad is in, or if it's the right floor, but I just keep running. I tear through the halls exactly the way I did when Jeff was here.

A breath hitches in my throat as wide, familiar brown eyes meet my identical gaze. Standing there at the exact same height as me, arms wide open and trails of mascara down her face, is my mother. She's dressed in one of my jackets, the one that I never wore anymore, and a pair of beaten up slippers. Her frame is shaking, her hands pulling at the corners of the jacket to wrap tighter around her tiny body. The long hair that she prides herself in is hastily thrown into a messy knot that only somewhat resembles a bun. She looks broken and unsteady, swaying unevenly on the spot.

My heart instantly breaks and I fall into her arms, instantly dissolving into tears. "Oh, mija, don't cry." She holds the back of my head, her fingers entangled in the messy red strands as she whispers comforting words in my ear.

Pulling away, sniveling, I whisper, "Where is he?"

She looks at me for a second, her wide doe eyes swimming with tears, before turning slightly to the side to reveal my father.

He is laying in a hospital bed with a gown and the cover pulling all the way up to his neck. Long IV lines connect to his wrinkly hand and stretch across the room to various machines. He's small and tired, but alive. With a loud sob of relief, I notice that he was looking at me and blinking, signaling that he was alive.

I tear past my mother and crash into his arms. He wheezes and I instantly retract myself. "Oh my God, that was so stupid, I'm sorry." Shame fills me as he readjusts his IV line.

"It's alright, Belle," he croaks in his thick Southern accent. His watery eyes hold a sympathetic smile and I sob again, wanting desperately to hug him.

"I love you," I manage to say without choking.

He pauses to look at me for a moment before he opens his arms, wincing. "Come 'ere."

I fall into his chest as the tears finally pour down my face, guilt overflowing me from his state. He was quite a large man, but always in a jolly way, like how he would dress up as Santa Claus every year since I was four years old. The memories only make me cry harder and he holds me tighter despite his slight grunts it pain, as if he can read my mind.

My mind is so overwhelmed with the sadness, guilt, and nostalgia that I don't notice when Clay had come into the room.

When I finally pull away from my father, realizing it was hurting him for me to be hugging him, I see Clay engaged in quiet, hushed conversation with my mother.

Her arms are crossed, but in more of an interested way than a threatening stance. He stands so much taller than her that I have to do a double take. My mother and I are the same height, so I hate to think that I look that hilariously tiny every time that I stand next to him. She gazes at him with her eyes narrowed, her eyes examining and processing him and everything he says.

He looks up at me with slight panic in his eyes, searching for any indication of what to do. "So," I stand up and wipe away my tears, "this is Clay."

"Who?" My Dad asks innocently from his bed.

My mother shoots him with a knowing, reproachful look. "This is a new boyfriend of Ellie's."

"Oh, hello then!" Smiling, my father reaches a hand out to Clay for him to shake it, which he accepts gratefully and smiles back. "What happened to that Justin fellah? I always liked 'em."

Stiffening, I look to Clay for help. "Justin and I broke up, Dad," I say bluntly as Clay stands silently.

"Well, what in high heaven did'ya do that for?" My fathers drawl is joking and playful, but I watch as Clay winces and his eyes narrow at Justin's name.

Of course, Clay knows exactly what the reason for why Justin and I were not together. Clay was the one that found me that night in Bryce's backyard, and that's not something you can forget very quickly. This instance, and the fact that I had broken up with Justin the day after, all added up quite plainly.

I simply looked down at the ground, unable to answer his question. Seeing my hurt expression and Clay's tense stance, my mother swoops in. "She doesn't want to talk about it, Jim."

"Why n —" he suddenly gasps and clutches his chest.

"Dad!" I yell, throwing myself towards him only to be waved away.

"I'm alright, Belle, just a second." He takes deep breaths, also dismissing my mother as she rushes over to his side. "It'll only be a bit, darling."

My anxiety spiking right back up to its precious place, I whip around to face my mother.

"What happened to him? Is it the same thing as last time?" I hear the panic in my voice, and watching my mothers face only confirms my worst suspicions.

Almost two years ago, around the same time, my father had finally beaten his battle with lung cancer. Being from the deep South, he was never seen in his teenage years without chewing on or smoking some form of tobacco, it was normal for him. My mother had finally decided that she had enough of it, and after he had proposed to her, she said she would only agree if he quit completely. He did it for her, he quit cold turkey to be with her.

But his God didn't care, the world didn't care.

My father was a religious man, and he always asked for everyone to pray for him instead of giving him gifts or words of pity. I never did.

He was diagnosed after years of being clean, and after it had almost killed him the first time, I lost faith in God. Why would he inflict this terrible of a disease on his devoted follower? It wasn't fair, but I still prayed, only cause my father asked me to. When it didn't work after months, I stopped and refused to pray ever again.

I would not ask favors for someone who almost took my father away from me. I would not grovel at the hands of the God who took Jeff and Hannah away.

"Ellie," Clay speaks softly beside me. He had run over to me when he noticed my expression harden, my hands twiddling with each other nervously.

My father thumps his chest, emitting a final cough before looking up at Clay. "Y'all gonna keep me waitin'? Introduce me!" He is clearly trying to keep everyone's spirits up, who all look around at each other with concern.

"Um, my name is Clay Jensen," Clay begins and I shoot him a cautious glare. "I go to school with Ellie. I swear, I have only good intentions. My Mom's name is Lainie Jensen, you might know her from school stuff. But yeah, uh, Isabelle and I have been going out for about —"

"— a bit," I cut him off and all three people in the room turn to stare at me. Clay shifts his head slightly to the side in confusion, but I keep my eyes glued to the wall, not returning his gaze.

"A bit, yeah," Clay continues slowly, "and I know it's really not my place, but what do you mean by what happened last time?"

My mother shifts uncomfortably in the chair that she had sat down in earlier. She is a very private woman, and I am sure that she never wanted anyone to know what had happened to my father.

However, I feel that Clay has a right to know. Our eyes meet for a solid minute, silently debating with each other before I break away.

"Dad used to smoke a lot when he was younger. He quit years and years ago, but it didn't matter. He was diagnosed with lung cancer two years ago, and now it's back." My voice is steady and almost cold with a monotone pitch, but I start to choke up by the last sentence.

Clay notices my tone and reaches for my hand, which I take gratefully and squeeze tightly to stop the tears from flowing out of my eyes.

"But he's going to be fine," my mother says with a booming definitiveness, "right, Jim? Estas bien."

"Si!" My father declares in a terribly accented voice, and my mother laughs weakly. Smiling in a soft, reassuring way, he reaches his pale hand out to my mother's, who laces her fingers with his and sits back down in her chair.

Clay looks down at our hands, still intertwined, and squeezes once before loosening his grip from mine. "Do you need anything?" He turns towards the door and speaks to both of my parents.

"No, thank you," my mother says quietly at the same time as my father who yells, "Puddin'!"

"Pudding it is, then," Clay laughs.

I smile at my mother's stern glare that she shoots to my father, who shrugs. "Jim!"

"Catalina, we 'been married long enough for you to know, I love me some puddin,'" he states lovingly.

Clay looks at my mother for a second, trying to figure out what to do with himself. "You can have all the pudding you want, Jim." She nods slightly as she pats my fathers hand, addressing Clay but keeping her eyes on my father.

With a quiet smile in my direction, Clay slips out of the door and into the bustling hallway.

I roll my eyes at his somehow positive attitude, trying to hold back my laughter as he waves eagerly to a solemn looking nurse, who merely glares in response. The way he walks made it seem like he is on the moon rather than a hospital, bouncing on his heels and saying hello to half of the people he passes. I have to clap a hand over my mouth to suppress my giggles when I see Clay excitedly greet a clearly unconscious person, obviously not receiving an answer. He turns to me with an unshaken look, giving me a ridiculous thumbs-up just as he disappears from my view.

My mother watches Clay leave. I brace myself, ready for the stream of comments from her. "Mija—" she starts after a slight pause with her eyes fixated on mine.

"What?" I say sharply, my voice tired and short.

Her eyes widen and she leans back in her chair. She watches me with an arched eyebrow, her jaw slightly ajar in a shocked, disapproving face. "Isabelle," her voice is even shorter than mine.

"No, I didn't— I meant, 'what' as in a question, I'm not being rude— mamá?" She sits silently, the absence of volume even more unsettling than if she had screamed at me.

I immediately regret every single thing I have ever done to end up here, and realize the gravity of just a single word as my mother looks absolutely furious with me.

"Do you want to rephrase it?" Her voice is level. My father watches the exchange, his watery blue eyes darting back and forth like he is viewing a tennis match.

"Okay, um, I'm sorry. What were you going to say?"

My mother's manner changes completely, her shoulders losing the tension and she relaxes in her chair. Her mouth, which had been stretched into a thin line, softens with a small smile.

She takes a deep breath before starting, "Who is this? I have never seen this boy in my life, and you bring him in here while your father's on a machine?! Isabelle, do you have no shame? I don't want to meet this boy for the first time in a hospital. This is a private matter. What were you thinking?"

I simply sit there, stunned.

My father looks at me sympathetically before being incredibly brave, turning to my mother. It was a known fact that you don't challenge her when she gets angry. "Oh, Catalina, I ain't worried 'bout —"

"Jim!" Her voice was high.

He fell silent, shrugging slightly at me. "At least I tried, Belle."

I silently thank him while my mother readies up again, and I sink into a chair. "How long has it been since you and Justin split? We still haven't heard that story yet."

"Oh, um, well," my throat tightens, "that's a long story."

"Don't force her —" my father sits back up again.

My mother straightens her hand out, silently signaling him while keeping her eyes trained on me. She was not forcing me, I silently told my father with a smile, and she knew that she wasn't.

I was ready to tell them.

"Justin wasn't there for me when I really needed him and honestly, he was always so immature on top of all that. But Clay is supportive and cares about me so much. Clay and Justin are complete opposites, but I'm actually glad about that. I know you loved Justin, but you don't know him, and it's okay. I thought I knew him too, but I didn't."

I raise my eyes up to my mother's. "I understand," her tone is comforting and soft, and my father and I exchange surprised glances.

My father smiles brightly at me. "He seems like a nice young man, he got me puddin' and e'rrything."

When I look inquiringly at my mother, she turns to whisper to me, "He's still on some pain meds."

I nod and smile warmly at her as her eyes sparkle with humor. Sighing, I sit back as a minutes silence passes over us.

"Isabelle. How long have you been seeing this boy?" My mother says to the wall, and I open my eyes to look over at her.

Fuck, I think to myself.

She is always incredibly acute, and must have picked up on my fear, or how I had cut Clay off when she had asked me the first time in front of him.

Ever since Jeff died, my mother had taken the wheel away from my suddenly unstable father and adapted quickly. He had lost a son and was nowhere near fit to be the strong one. While I had coped by remaining as a rock for my family, and my father by burying himself in his work, she had undeniably become the head of the household. She learned to cope by exercising strength and control, since she had her control swept away from her the night he had died. Her questioning is intense, and might seem scary or unhealthy to an outside perspective, but I know that she always means well.

I'm scared, of course, she's terrifying, but I have never once doubted her.

"Well," I speak slowly, trying to buy time, "Justin and I had been broken up for a while before Clay and I got together, if that's what you're asking."

"It's not," she responds quickly.

I take a deep breath. "Okay, then when you do the math, Clay and I have been going out for about two months now." My is hard and truthful.

She pauses for a moment, her brain racing and her head nodding without expression. Avoiding my eyes, she engages in a silent conversation with my father. It feels like hours have passed before anyone makes a noise.

"Alright!" A booming, accented voice calls out. My father claps his hands loudly. My mother and I jump in our seats from the abrupt noise, both snapping out of our individual trances. "Oh, my bad for scarin' you two," he drawls quietly, his voice small and apologetic.

"It's okay, Dad," I whisper in response.

Standing up to hug him, I halt abruptly when something catches my eye. I fear the worst, turning around towards the trash can in the corner of the room that had taken my attention.

My father seems to freeze when he notices where I am heading, his arms outstretched and suspended in place, and he tries to wordlessly warn my mother. She is oblivious, watching only me.

I give him a reproachful glare, knowing what was going to be in that trash can before I even see it.

I take another step forward, and my father groans and buries his face in his hands.

Quickening my pace, I almost run to the trash can and snatch it in my hand. My heart falls into my stomach, like a boulder dropping off a cliff, and I feel the sudden need to vomit.

Just like I expected, a singular cigarette sits at the bottom of the metal can. My mother peers to see what I look so shocked at, and her eyes widen at the sight of the but, still slightly smoking at the tip.

The room around me grows suddenly swelteringly hot, or maybe it was just the feeling of anger in my veins. I wheel around to face my father with nothing but pure fury in my eyes.

How had I blamed myself only an hour ago? Why would I ever assume that he had stopped cold-turkey, just because I told him to?

I was stupid to think he actually cared how upset it made me. Why would he?

Clay steps into the room, and I bitterly wonder how he got his talent for finding bad situations to walk into, holding a carton of pudding with a bright smile on his face.

"Pudding!" Clay laughs excitedly, bright blue eyes darting to each person in the room.

Stunned silence greets him and the smile fades slowly from his face. "Clay, we're leaving," I cut in abruptly.

"But why —"

"Come on." I grab his arm but I forget his innate knack for clumsiness, and he stumbled alarmingly fast into the wall.

My mother looks shell-shocked, her head moving terrifyingly slow over to face my father. The anger in her eyes shocks Clay as he stands back up, staring at me worriedly. His jaw gapes and he waits for an answer.

"Belle —" My father sits up in bed, his face washed out and bone white with fear.

Before he can say another word, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the room, feeling nothing but anger and betrayal.