minutes behind him, amid ferocious barking, and Colt ran back downstairs to put up Rascal and make sure the doctor got inside okay.
In the minute and a half we were alone, I’d eased from atop Gage’s body and rocked back on my heels, clutching his hand. We locked eyes, and in that moment, I saw in him both the sweet boy I’d grown up with and the damaged adult he’d become.
Dr. Mac poked around the drug paraphernalia, dictated into his phone for a moment, and asked Gage questions about what he’d ingested that night. Then he’d set up the IV after we got him dried, decent, and into bed.
He’d left gadgets to monitor Gage’s oxygen level, an automatic blood pressure cuff, and another rescue pen kit. After talking to Gage for a bit and then me, he’d left, saying he had a surgery scheduled in a few short hours.
“I’ve got to get going too. Seth will be awake anytime now, and I’m supposed to drop him off at school.” After walking the doctor out, Colt turned to me. I was standing on the bottom stair, unsure whether to go back up or continue down. “Or do you want me to stay? I can text Seth and send him with the car service.”
“No. It’s fine. Really. I got this. I know how to change the IV. Don’t screw up things for Seth.”
Colt hesitated, as if he was reconsidering whether he should leave. And then he closed the distance between us. I fell into his hug, and when we pulled apart, he looked into my eyes. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be back around later.” He swung open the door and turned again. “Oh. Probably best not to answer his phone. Let it go to voicemail. I’ll try to handle what I can from my end. But the thing is, we have a charity gig this weekend. He needs to be ready. And this needs to be kept under wraps.”
“This weekend? He’s not going back into rehab?”
“He won’t stay in rehab. Been there, done that. This last stint was supposed to be for four weeks and he would have been out in time for this. This show is good for the band. We need this after—after some of the shit that went down last year.”
I didn’t know what ‘shit’ he was speaking of. What I did know was Gage shouldn’t be expected to jump on stage so soon after a relapse of this magnitude. When I remained silent, Colt restated his intention to call or come by later and left. I realized he had gone from saying he would come by, to he would
call
or come by.
Heading back upstairs, I entered Gage’s room. Standing over him, I watched the rise and fall of his chest and with a glance at the monitor clipped to his finger, assured myself he was sleeping peacefully with a normal oxygen count. I set my phone alarm to change his IV bag in three hours, and then after a moment of hesitation, eased onto the other edge of the bed and curled into a ball.
I wanted to cry, but no tears came. I wanted to call someone who cared, but who would that be? I had no one to lean on now that Ivy was missing. And who did Gage have? His father? Perhaps, but I wasn’t so sure he was a ‘confidant in a crises’ type of person to his son.
I wasn’t even aware my eyes had drifted closed until they opened. Disoriented, I let my gaze wander the planes of the room. The edges of a huge dresser, twice the size of the one in my apartment bedroom. A guitar, resting upright in a leather chair. The low murmur of a television. Suddenly realizing where I was and why, I flipped my position and my eyes locked with Gage’s gaze.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” He didn’t smile, but the tone of his voice felt as warm and seductive as a smile.
My head swiveled to the wall that was almost all glass windows and doors. Unlike the guest room, zero daylight filtered into this room from beyond the coverings. Yet it had to be morning. “What time is it?”
“Noon or so.”
I jackknifed to a sitting position and scowled at my phone, which was lying on the bed between us. Why hadn’t the alarm sounded? “Your IV bag! It needs
In the minute and a half we were alone, I’d eased from atop Gage’s body and rocked back on my heels, clutching his hand. We locked eyes, and in that moment, I saw in him both the sweet boy I’d grown up with and the damaged adult he’d become.
Dr. Mac poked around the drug paraphernalia, dictated into his phone for a moment, and asked Gage questions about what he’d ingested that night. Then he’d set up the IV after we got him dried, decent, and into bed.
He’d left gadgets to monitor Gage’s oxygen level, an automatic blood pressure cuff, and another rescue pen kit. After talking to Gage for a bit and then me, he’d left, saying he had a surgery scheduled in a few short hours.
“I’ve got to get going too. Seth will be awake anytime now, and I’m supposed to drop him off at school.” After walking the doctor out, Colt turned to me. I was standing on the bottom stair, unsure whether to go back up or continue down. “Or do you want me to stay? I can text Seth and send him with the car service.”
“No. It’s fine. Really. I got this. I know how to change the IV. Don’t screw up things for Seth.”
Colt hesitated, as if he was reconsidering whether he should leave. And then he closed the distance between us. I fell into his hug, and when we pulled apart, he looked into my eyes. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be back around later.” He swung open the door and turned again. “Oh. Probably best not to answer his phone. Let it go to voicemail. I’ll try to handle what I can from my end. But the thing is, we have a charity gig this weekend. He needs to be ready. And this needs to be kept under wraps.”
“This weekend? He’s not going back into rehab?”
“He won’t stay in rehab. Been there, done that. This last stint was supposed to be for four weeks and he would have been out in time for this. This show is good for the band. We need this after—after some of the shit that went down last year.”
I didn’t know what ‘shit’ he was speaking of. What I did know was Gage shouldn’t be expected to jump on stage so soon after a relapse of this magnitude. When I remained silent, Colt restated his intention to call or come by later and left. I realized he had gone from saying he would come by, to he would
call
or come by.
Heading back upstairs, I entered Gage’s room. Standing over him, I watched the rise and fall of his chest and with a glance at the monitor clipped to his finger, assured myself he was sleeping peacefully with a normal oxygen count. I set my phone alarm to change his IV bag in three hours, and then after a moment of hesitation, eased onto the other edge of the bed and curled into a ball.
I wanted to cry, but no tears came. I wanted to call someone who cared, but who would that be? I had no one to lean on now that Ivy was missing. And who did Gage have? His father? Perhaps, but I wasn’t so sure he was a ‘confidant in a crises’ type of person to his son.
I wasn’t even aware my eyes had drifted closed until they opened. Disoriented, I let my gaze wander the planes of the room. The edges of a huge dresser, twice the size of the one in my apartment bedroom. A guitar, resting upright in a leather chair. The low murmur of a television. Suddenly realizing where I was and why, I flipped my position and my eyes locked with Gage’s gaze.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” He didn’t smile, but the tone of his voice felt as warm and seductive as a smile.
My head swiveled to the wall that was almost all glass windows and doors. Unlike the guest room, zero daylight filtered into this room from beyond the coverings. Yet it had to be morning. “What time is it?”
“Noon or so.”
I jackknifed to a sitting position and scowled at my phone, which was lying on the bed between us. Why hadn’t the alarm sounded? “Your IV bag! It needs
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