Drew (Heaven Hill Shorts Book 8) by Laramie Briscoe

Author:Laramie Briscoe [Briscoe, Laramie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Laramie Briscoe Books
Published: 2020-06-11T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Four

Drew

“She should have been here fifteen minutes ago.”

“Maybe she ran into traffic,” Doc Jones’ calm voice echoes throughout the room.

To be honest, it grates on my goddamn nerves. How dare she be logical when I’m worried to death?

“Maybe she didn’t.”

“Drew,” she sighs. “You’ve got to stop imagining the worst every single time something doesn’t happen when you think it should. It’s not healthy for you, and it’s not healthy for anyone else.”

“She’s my pregnant wife.”

Doc Jones makes a little squeal in the back of her throat, rolling her wheelchair closer to where I sit at the table in her room. “Charity’s pregnant?” Her hands are interlocked in front of her, almost like she’s praying, probably for my soul, or patience for my kids having to deal with me.

“Yeah.”

My fingers thrust angrily through my hair, but they don’t go as deep in as they used to, reminding me I’m not as young as I once was.

“Why don’t you sound happy about it?”

Opening my mouth, I expect a sound to come out, but nothing does. So I close it, and then try again. Nothing comes out again. Frustration gnaws at my soul because I want to tell Doc Jones how I feel, I want her to fix me, but I’m not sure if I’m even fixable right now. My life is speeding along some track that I don’t know the route to. The blind spots are killing me, and there’s no turn signal up ahead to let me know which lane to take.

“I don’t have any control.”

“None of us have control, Drew,” she laughs lightly. “The only one who knows what’s happening at all times is our maker. We’re not meant to have control.”

“That’s just it.”

Putting my arms on the table, I push myself out of the chair, then begin to pace. The cadence of my boots is the only thing keeping me from lashing out. Counting the steps until I turn at one wall, and then back again.

“What’s it? C’mon Drew, we’ve gotta get to the bottom of this. What’s bothering you?”

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, trying to figure out what it is I’m truly mad at - where my anger lies. “For a while I thought I was mad at myself, then I was mad at Justice…” I stop, letting that sink in for a minute. “I was mad at my daughter. What kind of a father am I?”

Doc Jones rolls over to where I’ve stopped in the middle of the floor. “You’re a great father,” she reaches up, grabbing my hand in hers.

“A great father? I blamed my daughter for getting taken.”

“No you didn’t,” she argues. “You blamed her for making you worry, and that’s what all parents do. Think about it. When your parents were angry with you, they weren’t angry with you because of what you did, they were angry because you’d potentially put yourself into harm’s way. It’s human nature.”

“Every time I look at her,” I whisper, “I don’t see the daughter

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