Book 3: Chapter 41 - A Love Song For Dreamers

He said I taught him how to dream. Maybe he taught me, too. When fate brings the strongest man I know to his knees, dreams aren’t enough to save us. But Timothy and I have one last chance, and the power to decide how this ends. A tragedy for the ages. Or the perfect ending to the most beautiful song ever written... Ours. ///////////////////////////////////////////// I’ve never watched a ballet with blood before. But that’s what this is. The two EMTs move around Timothy in a dance they’ve rehearsed, one I’ve never seen and have no part in. He’s strapped to a stretcher and lifted into the back of an ambulance. One of the techs, a woman, asks me questions about what happened. I try to answer, but I can’t take my eyes from Timothy—not when they put a mask over his face that hides his shallow breathing or when the lights inside the vehicle make his pale face look yellow. After the stretcher is locked in place in the ambulance, the vehicle takes off. I want to hold him, but there’s so much blood. It covers his dark dress shirt, making it stick to his torso and his arm… My stomach lurches. They’ve got his shirtsleeve up and his arm lifted in the air. I perch on a stool near Timothy’s face, but his eyes are closed. I clutch my necklace hard enough my knuckles go numb, as if I can rewind time, can bring us back to the restaurant or the theater before a man I’ve never met ripped my reality in half. “Hey, you,” I murmur, brushing Timothy’s damp hair away from his forehead. “It’s going to be okay.” My heart’s in my throat. I used to hate how it raced for him. Now I’d give it to him if it would bring color back to his pale face. They hook him up to something, and a monitor beeps in slow intervals in the corner. The vehicle bumps every now and again, and every time, the gurney jumps with it. I want to tell them this should be easier on him, but they’re working away, one on each side, and the monitor continues to beep, and I can’t even watch them. In minutes or hours, the vehicle stops. The back doors swing wide, and a serious-looking man in scrubs eyes the scene inside the ambulance, his gaze finding me. “Miss, you need to move out of the way.” I stumble out of the ambulance and watch them lower Timothy to the ground, adjust the bed, and wheel him inside. I follow until they swing through a set of double doors, where I’m stopped by the same man from outside. “I need to stay with him,” I insist. “Are you family?” “He doesn’t have anyone else.” His eyes soften. “Can you help with medical history?” I follow him to chairs in the waiting room around the corner, answer his questions as best I can. Still, I don’t know if Timothy’s parents or grandparents had heart disease. If he’s ever had a reaction to medication. What I do know is that he’s strong and resilient and brave. That his smile fixes every problem I’ve ever known. I know I love him and if he’s not okay, I’m going to stop breathing. Finally, the man sets down the clipboard. “Thank you. We’ll let you know when we have more. If you need to leave, please see the administration desk first.” He nods toward a window on one side of the room. I pace the hallway. There are people in beds outside of rooms. Is that what’s going to happen to Timothy? I find my way to the desk. “I’m here with Timothy Adams. He’s in the emergency room.” “I don’t have any updates on Mr. Adams at this time.” “I know, but… he needs the best care available.” She pulls up a file on her computer. “Of course. All of our patients receive the best care our hospital can provide. Does he have insurance?” My throat works. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter what it costs.” This shouldn’t be happening. Everything was working out—with me, Timothy, our lives… “Miss, are you feeling light-headed? You look pale.” “I’m fine.” I force a smile and turn back down the hall, ignoring the people passing me. I want to call my dad. He’d know what to do. More than that, I’d give anything to see him and Haley and Sophia brush through those doors. A tear escapes down my cheek. I open the contacts on my phone and hit his number. Each ring has my stomach twisting tighter, ready for the next second when he’ll answer. I’ll tell him I’m sorry for everything, that I’ll make it up to him if only he’ll help me with this one thing. But there’s nothing. After four rings, I get his voicemail. I try to formulate words to leave on a message. Someone attacked Timothy with a knife. He’s bleeding like crazy. We’re at the hospital. I don’t know what the fuck to do. It’s all my fault. A girl younger than me walks down the hall with a cast on her arm. Her parents are with her, but when she gets closer, I notice the scratches along her face, the bruises. She meets my gaze, and her face is composed. Pull it together. For Timothy’s sake. The beep jerks me back, and I hang up without saying a word. I swipe at my cheeks before making another call. “Is he okay?” Jacob demands as he stalks inside, Andie and Rica in tow. The clock on the wall says it’s two in the morning. I tell them what happened. As I’m finishing, a man in a suit enters the ER doors, searching the waiting room. I rise to meet Zeke, the record exec who signed Timothy less than two weeks ago. “I told them to spare no expense, but…” He understands immediately. “You don’t think they’ll take you seriously.” Zeke nods and goes to the desk, starts talking with the woman there. “You called him?” Jacob demands, coming up behind me. “I need to know he’s going to be taken care of. Zeke’s interests and Timothy’s are aligned. At least right now.” Rae strips off her sweatshirt and holds it out to me. I stare at her, confused as to why she’s offering me clothes when I have my own. But when she keeps holding out the shirt, I look down at my dress and jacket, caked in blood. When I start shaking instead of reaching for Rica’s sweatshirt, Andie takes my hand and walks me to the bathroom. Rica’s close on our heels. Inside the clean six-stall ladies’ room, I strip off my jacket and shove it in the garbage, revulsion taking over. Then I wash the blood off my hands, from under my fingernails. The liquid soap doesn’t do the best job, and I wish I had one of those bar soaps or an old toothbrush or something. “It’ll come out later.” Rica’s voice is calm, and it takes the edge off as I meet her steady gaze in the mirror. I pull the sweatshirt over my dress, grateful it’s at least hiding the blood. Andie leans against one wall, looking paler than usual. “You okay?” I ask her. She lifts a shoulder. “My dad died in a hospital. It took a long time.” I hug her, for both of us, and she hugs me back. Rica watches, and even though she’s not part of this impromptu group hug, it feels like it. She’s part of the moment, and their presence gives me strength. When we get back outside, the waiting room includes Jacob, a handful of strangers, and Zeke. The ER doctor comes into the waiting room. “Miss Carlton?” But we’re all on our feet as one while I say, “How is he?” “He lost a significant amount of blood through a deep laceration in his forearm and hand. We’ve cleaned them, stitched them up. Not life-threatening. Your quick thinking helped keep it from getting there.” If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have been there. We wouldn’t have been walking home. If I hadn’t worn his ring around my neck, hadn’t made him fight for it, we would be back at his place right now. “Miss Carlton.” “What?” I blurt, shaking myself. “Is Timothy right hand dominant?” I nod. “That should make recovery easier. He won’t be doing anything with his left hand for some time.” A noise makes me realize I’ve dropped my bag on the floor. Zeke answers for me. “The kid’s a guitarist. He’s going on tour in two weeks. He needs to play.” The doctor stares down the executive. “We’ve moved him to a private room. In time, he’ll be able to look at options for reconstructive surgery. But playing guitar in two weeks is out of the question.” The reality of it settles around us, leaving the air heavy and cloying. “Aside from pain,” the doctor goes on, “there may be numbness in the arm and hand, limited to no mobility.” My stomach sinks further. “But you can see him now, if you like.” “Yes.” I look around at our friends, and they nod. “You go,” Jacob says. I follow the doctor down the hall and pause outside the room. I listen through the door. There’s the beeping of a machine. His heart rate. No other sounds. No raging or groaning. Just silence. I square my shoulders before heading inside. Timothy fills the bed with his broad frame, and it’s shocking to see him so still. He’s always full of life. Even when he’s contained, there’s a latent energy. Tonight—this morning—there’s nothing. And that terrifies me. I stop beside the bed, peering down at his pale face. They’ve taken off the mask, and there are traces of lines on his face from where it sat. A thick white bandage covers from mid-forearm to his hand. His pale fingers stick out the end. I lean over him. “Hey, handsome. How’re you feeling?” His eyes open half an inch, and his mouth moves a moment before producing a raspy sound. “Good as I look.” A breath whooshes out of me to hear him speak, as if I thought I might not again. “Jacob and Andie and Rica are here. And Zeke. Do you need something else for the pain?” Timothy shakes his head. “I can’t feel my hand. It won’t move. I can’t…” His eyes close. My gaze drags to his hand again. There’s no hint of a rusty red stain through the white gauze, but my stomach turns anyway. I can’t imagine what he’s going through. Not only physically, but the shock and hearing the doctor relay any part of what he told us. The idea of him not being able to pick up his guitar tomorrow, to do what he’s always done, washes over me in a wave of grief. I want to hug him, or kiss him, or even cry. Instead, I force myself to be strong for him. For us. “I’m glad you’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” I amend. I start to reach for his good hand, then see a spot of blood I missed on my wrist and tug Rica’s sweater down to hide it. “Am I?” He says it so quietly I almost miss it.