Only With Me (Sugarland Creek #4)

Prologue

Waylon

*Please read the content warnings on the previous page before reading the prologue if you have any triggers.*

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

A crashing sound in the distance wakes me up from a dead-ass sleep and the throbbing between my temples makes me wonder if it wasn’t my head that woke me. I squint across the room, trying to make out if my twin brother is in his bed or not.

Yep, even at nineteen years old, we still share a room in our parents’ house.

Luckily, it’s spacious, so we still have our areas, but that’s what happens when you have a larger family. At least when we outgrew the bunk beds at age nine, our parents got us full-sized ones.

Leaning over toward my nightstand, I turn on my lamp and notice his covers are pulled back. We went out last night and came home together, so he’s got to be around here somewhere. There’s no way he’d drive after how much he drank, but it wouldn’t be unlike Wilder to wander downstairs or even outside if he couldn’t sleep.

Our family’s ranch sits on a couple hundred acres fifteen minutes outside of Sugarland Creek. It’s a Southern small town of only two thousand people. Most of them have been here all their lives—like me and my four siblings.

Half of the ranch is used for our equine retreat business. Five cabins sit along the bottom of the mountain for guests to rent out, and then we offer horseback riding, swimming, fishing, hiking, and a handful of other activities. Wilder and I spend a lot of time together since we manage the trail horses and guide the guests on horseback rides.

The other half consists of the family’s personal and boarded horses as well as the stud farm. My younger siblings work there mostly between their school schedules, weekends, and over the summer. It’s all we’ve ever known, but we love it nonetheless. Growing up in East Tennessee provides great weather and amazing views. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

Since the clock reads four o’clock in the morning, I contemplate going back to bed, but the nagging feeling in my gut has me walking out of our room in search of my brother. We’ve had this twin intuition for as long as I can remember and mine is currently on high alert. A feeling of…dread, almost, and waves of sadness consume me. Whether it’s from being half asleep or something to do with Wilder, I need to find out.

The rest of the house is eerily quiet. My dad’s alarm goes off at five. Ranch chores don’t stop on the weekends, so we’ll be expected to be up and ready for work by six. My mom loves to cook and makes everyone breakfast before we head out, so the house will be brightly lit and loud within the next hour. It’s the worst after going out all night, but that’s the price we pay for having a social life.

I could do without the partying, but I don’t like leaving Wilder. He loves to have a good time and can be a handful, so I prefer to be with him to make sure he’s safe and gets back home. Even though we’re not legally allowed to drink, that’s never stopped anyone in this small town—barn, field, or house parties. We’ve been to them all. Sometimes in one night.

As I walk down the hallway, I notice the bathroom door is ajar and the motion night light is on, so someone must be inside.

Not wanting to walk in on Wilder doing his business, I knock softly.

“Hey, you okay?”

I’m not sure how long he’s been in there, but when he doesn’t respond, I push open the door to peek inside.

I chuckle under my breath at his drunk ass passed out on the bathroom floor in only his boxers. Couldn’t even make it back to bed after he took a piss. Typical.

Kicking his arm with my foot, I say, “Dude, get up. Dad and Mom will kill you if they find you like this.”

He doesn’t so much as grunt when I kick him a second time, even harder.

After several seconds of no movement, my heartbeat ticks faster in my neck. Something feels wrong.

“Wilder? Get up, man.”

Moving around him, my bare foot steps in something wet.

I lift it and try to shake it off. “Jesus Christ, did you pee on the floor?”

Again, no reaction from him.

“Okay, time to wakey-wakey, bro.”

This time I flick on the light and the room bathes in brightness. This should get his attention.

“I swear to God, I ain’t carryin’ your drunk ass?—”

When my eyes adjust to the light, I realize it’s not piss on the floor.

It’s blood .

“Holy shit…” Kneeling next to him, I quickly glance around his body, checking for a wound before I notice his black boxer shorts are soaked.

The blood is coming from his thigh.

“No, no, no…” I murmur, grabbing the hand towel nearby and adding pressure to the thigh with horizontal razor cuts. “I think you nicked an artery. Fuck.”

There’s no telling how long he’s been unconscious or bleeding out, but the fetal position he’s in probably helped him not to bleed out faster.

I check for a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.

Then I listen to his shallow breathing.

Since I don’t have my phone on me and I’m too scared to leave him or remove my hands, I shout for help instead. Even though everyone sleeps like the dead around here, one of them should hear me.

“Help! Someone wake up! We need help in here!”

By the third time, my mother rushes in and her face pales the moment she realizes what’s happened.

“Oh my?—”

“Call 911, now!” I cut off her words and she scrambles back to her bedroom.

“How long has he been bleedin’ out?” Dad asks, rushing next to me.

“I dunno. I found him a few minutes ago. He’s still breathin’, but he won’t wake up.”

Dad props Wilder’s head in his lap to clear his airway, then feels his pulse. “He probably passed out right before you got here.”

“What’s goin’ on?”

My younger brothers, Landen and Tripp, stand in the doorway. I give a quick recap so we don’t waste any more time.

“He doesn’t need CPR?” Landen asks.

Dad leans down above his mouth and shakes his head. “Still breathin’.”

“Barely,” I add.

Landen took a lifeguard course and first aid classes last summer when he was sixteen and then taught us what to do in case of an emergency.

Mom returns with the phone to her ear, speaking to an operator, and then kneels next to me to grab Wilder’s hand.

“They’re on their way,” Mom chokes out.

Dad orders Landen and Tripp to get dressed and unlock the front door for the EMTs. My little sister, Noah, wakes up shortly after and panics.

“Wilder!” she shouts, shaking his arm.

“He’s gonna be okay,” I tell her but also because I need to hear it myself.

“He’s lost too much blood. He’ll probably need a blood transfusion,” Dad explains.

Sadly, it wouldn’t be his first one. Or his second.

When we were fifteen, he accidentally sliced his leg open from a sharp metal piece on a fence. He didn’t realize how bad it was and continued working. The blood gushed down his leg and pooled in his boot. I found him unconscious in the barn and Dad rushed him to the hospital.

By the time we got him there, they were throwing around words like sepsis, infection, and blood transfusions. He was fucking lucky I found him when I did.

The second time was self-inflicted a year later.

We were sixteen, and I found him in the bathtub.

There was so much blood in the water, I couldn’t see where the injury was at first. The opposite thigh from the fence accident was covered in little cuts. But it was the vertical one that did the most damage.

It was the first time I saw my father cry—from anger and fear.

It felt like a part of me was dying, and I couldn’t understand why he’d done it. And now again. I wish I could take away his pain.

My brother—the class clown since the day we started kindergarten, the loud and obnoxious one always up for a party, the most rambunctious person I knew—was hurting himself.

It didn’t make any sense.

Wilder has no danger-o-meter. He’s a risk-taker to his core. The adrenaline rush he gets fuels years of antics that have led to him getting injured numerous times. The time he invented Barn Roof Trampoline tournaments and did a cannonball off the roof. Instead of landing on his feet, he bounced and flew right into a tree. He got a concussion and a broken rib.

You’d think that would’ve slowed him down, but a month later, we went to Blackhole Granite to swim in the quarry. He had a little bit too much to drink and when he jumped in from the twenty-foot cliff, he didn’t swim back up. Landen and Tripp rushed in and pulled him out. I gave him CPR until he finally coughed up water.

It’s almost like he doesn’t care about the risks and there’s a small part of me that wonders if he does it on purpose.

After the first time he cut his inner thigh, our parents made him see a therapist and psychiatrist to properly diagnose him. He promised he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to die. Rather, he just wanted to numb the pain. Dull the sadness that overtook his mind sometimes. Feel relief from the overwhelming emotions he didn’t know how to handle.

I suspect that’s why he drinks until he blacks out, too.

Still, they took him twice a month until he turned eighteen and then Wilder was old enough to make the decision not to go anymore.

I wish he had continued.

The depression he was trying so desperately to cover up suffocated me more than he’d ever realized. I felt those feelings too, but I never put a label on it. I thought it was my own sadness consuming me, and maybe part of it is or maybe it’s something we share as twins, but I couldn’t comprehend how he felt it so deeply that he had to find ways to numb it. Ways to live around it.

Perhaps he felt mine too and the weight of each other’s feelings was too heavy for one person.

I wish I could turn them off, take them away from him, and be the one who suffered for both of us. I hate that I can’t.

As far as I knew, he’d gone three years without cutting. This would be the second time he’s cut deep enough to lose consciousness.

Wilder rarely talked about his feelings, even when I tried to get him to tell me how he was doing, he’d swear he was doing great. As if he didn’t want to burden anyone with the knowledge that maybe he wasn’t. Or perhaps admit them to himself. Either way, keeping it in was causing more damage.

My throat tightens as I stare at him, keeping as much pressure on his thigh as possible. I love him more than anything. Even when he’s a real pain in my fucking ass, I’ve worried more about his well-being than my own. I don’t want him to feel sad and would prefer he’d talk to me when he did, but knowing he never does is why I go everywhere with him. It’s the reason I don’t make a fuss out of him acting up or doing dumb shit because then at least for a moment he’s laughing and happy. Whether or not it’s an act, I can’t always tell.

He’s good at putting on a facade.

“They’re here,” Dad tells me when I zone out. I haven’t stopped staring at Wilder.

As soon as the EMTs walk in, I quickly explain what happened when I found him and then move out of their way. They do a quick clean and wrap job before getting him on the stretcher and taking him out to the ambulance.

“Waylon…” My dad’s booming voice shakes me out of my trance.

His hand’s on my shoulder, squeezing me. “Your hands and legs are covered in blood. Wash up, and then I’ll drive us to the hospital. Your mother’s ridin’ in the back with him.”

All I can do is nod.

After rinsing my hands in the sink, I step into the shower, grab the shower head, and then spray my bare legs until they’re clean. My mind’s blank and my heart races nonstop as I go through the motions of getting dressed and meeting the rest of my siblings downstairs. It stays empty as Dad drives us into town.

It’s not until hours later that a nurse approaches us in the waiting room and says he’s awake and asking for me. The doctor gives us a quick rundown of what they did and what to expect.

Wilder’s hooked up to an IV and blood pressure cuff. His thigh is bandaged and covered with a blanket, so I can’t see it, but the doctor said it took them a while to properly suture. He’s going to have one hell of a scar.

The psychiatrist on call has already met with Wilder and our parents. Now that Wilder’s an adult, he can speak on his own behalf. Since he claimed it wasn’t a suicide attempt and was under a lot of stress when he did it, the doctor chose not to admit him as an inpatient. But they’re setting him up with appointments to speak to a psychologist to determine the root of his depression.

If I knew he wouldn’t laugh in my face, I’d tell him he needed to go to regular therapy appointments. Hell, I’d go with him.

But I know my brother and he’ll never commit to anything like that. Doesn’t mean I can’t try, though, when he’s not drugged up and can listen to my concerns.

“Hey, ’sup, Way-Way?” Wilder says as I approach the side of his hospital bed, and I want to smack the lopsided grin off his face.

When we were toddlers, he couldn’t say my full name and ended up calling me Way-Way for years, even when he could finally say it. Now he just does it to antagonize me.

“Oh, not much,” I deadpan. “Just a typical night hangin’ out in the ER.”

He nods once. “Fun times.”

“Yeah, real fun.” I stare at him with intense narrowed eyes. His reflect back, except they’re filled with shame and guilt. I remember the previous times he felt awful for putting us through this and then trying to simmer down my frustration. “Are you in pain right now?”

“Nah.” He jerks his thumb. “Mr. IV over here is pumpin’ the good shit in me.”

“Good. Then you won’t feel anythin’ when I punch you in the face.”

His eyes beam with amusement. “I’d probably feel that.”

I roll my eyes. “I dunno whether to hug you or beat your ass. I’m so angry. And sad. But mostly, scared. You lost a lot of blood.”

“I know. They’ve been givin’ me that too.” He nods toward the other IV.

Grabbing a chair, I sit closer. “Talk to me. What happened yesterday that made you do this?”

I’m not sure how else to ask, so I blurt it out. He knows I want answers.

His gaze looks past me as he lifts a shoulder. “I dunno how to explain it. There’s this overwhelming doom feeling when it comes to depression. Like the stress of havin’ to be an adult and make grown-up decisions. The expectations of being the oldest sibling. The pressure to impress Dad and do a good job on the ranch. There’s this underlying sadness that consumes me in weird ways and it’s uncontrollable. Even when there isn’t anything particularly making me sad, it’s just there—haunting and taunting me. I want to curl up in a ball and sleep through the pain, but I can’t. I have responsibilities, so I try to ignore it and do everything in my power to distract myself, but eventually, it becomes unbearable. I needed to release the pain, even if it was momentarily. Eventually, it becomes an impulse I can’t fight anymore. That moment right before I pass out is when I’m finally numb, and then it becomes somethin’ I’m desperate to feel again and again. Relief .”

Every word of his confession stabs me in the gut. The weird sadness? I feel that, too. The pressure and stress—check and check. That level of pain, searching for relief, I also feel waves of it. Whether it’s mine or his I’m experiencing, I don’t always know.

“Unfortunately, I do get it,” I say softly, reaching for his hand. “Though I’ve never thought to do…” I nod toward his thigh, unable to say the words aloud. “I understand the feelin’ of it becomin’ too much.”

“I get the urges and find ways to cope without doing it, but this time, I just…needed to. It was almost like an out-of-body experience. Something I couldn’t control but at the same time like I couldn’t stop once I started. As soon as I saw the blood, my mind went blank. The depressive thoughts vanished. I only had to focus on one thing at that moment and that was cuttin’.”

I noticeably shiver as he talks about it. It’s not that blood makes me squeamish, but just the thought of seeing my own makes me nauseous.

“Doesn’t it hurt when you…do it?”

“Fuck yeah, it does, but it’s like a high. As soon as the edge of the razor pierces through my skin, my focus is on the physical pain. My brain stops repeatin’ negative thoughts and my mind goes blank for the first time in weeks, months, or even years. That’s when the flood of endorphins hits because I’m no longer being told how worthless and unlovable I am. It’s freeing.”

I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek to prevent my emotions from taking over.

“I went too far tonight,” he admits.

“So you ain’t tryin’ to end your life?” I finally choke out because I need to hear him confirm it.

“No. Just cope with it.”

“So why didn’t you stop before it got as bad as it did?”

He shrugs. “I guess I wanted to see how much I could take so that relief lasted longer.”

My head and heart ache hearing him talk about this, but I’m glad he is. Better to be honest with me so I can hopefully notice the signs before he cuts again. I want him to open up to me before things get worse.

“Trust me, I don’t feel good about it,” he continues. “The guilt of puttin’ y’all through this again. The shame that I relapsed. It ain’t worth it when the consequences are worse. But I didn’t think about ’em at the time.”

Makes sense. All he could think about was relief.

“What about seein’ to a therapist? Or psychiatrist? Get somethin’ to help with the depression so it’s at least a bit more bearable when you feel it takin’ over your mind.”

“I did all that before, remember? The meds made me feel numb as shit—and not in a good way—and gave me the worst neurological side effects. Talkin’ about my teenage problems to an adult just made me feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not, and there are other variations of meds you can try. It ain’t a one-size-fits-all drug. Everyone’s brain chemistry responds differently to medication. You gotta keep tryin’ till you find the right ones.”

“That sounds like a pain in the ass,” he mutters.

“ You are a pain in the ass,” I retort.

He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. What else is new?”

“Nothin’ apparently.” I snort, though he knows I’m only giving him shit. “I better let the others in so you can finally get some rest.”

Standing, I lean over the bed and wrap my arms around him. He’s stiff at first, not sure if he should reciprocate, but eventually, he does.

“I love you, ya know?” I tell him, leaning back.

He rests his head back on the pillow and nods. “Yeah, I love ya too.”

I step around the chair to walk toward the door, but then he grabs my attention. “Waylon.”

Facing him, I lift a brow. “Yeah?”

His tortured expression makes my heart sink. “I’m sorry for puttin’ you through this again.”

One side of my mouth lifts at how genuine he sounds. Although my emotions are threatening to spill over at seeing him like this, I force a small smile to give him some reassurance. “I know. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

He nods firmly with pursed lips, fighting back his own emotions.

When I go toward the exit, there’s a stabbing pain in my chest that has me blowing out a sharp breath. I swear, he’s going to give me a heart attack one day. These anxiety attacks come and go, mostly during high-stress situations, but nevertheless, they’re annoying and inconvenient.

Before I get to the hallway, one of Wilder’s machines beeps at an ungodly high-pitched volume. A nurse barrels in before I even have time to turn around and see what’s going on.

His eyes are rolled back as his body convulses.

“What’s happening?” I blurt to the nurse, but she ignores me as she holds his head in place.

More nurses enter, pulling me out of the way, and soon, I’m standing at the end of his bed, watching helplessly.

“What’s goin’ on?” Dad asks as he and Mom walk in. My siblings are close behind.

“I-I dunno. We were talkin’ and he was fine, but then suddenly, he?—”

“He’s seizing,” one of the nurses responds. “I need everyone out, please. I’ll come get you when he’s stabilized.”

Another nurse pushes us out into the hallway. My chest feels like it’s going to explode and there’s nothing I can do about it because my twin brother—my other half who shares similar feelings and physical pain with me—is in there, fighting for his life.

And mine.

Because my life will be over if he doesn’t survive this.