Chapter 44 #3
Her gaze flicks to my hands. Blood stains. Band of red around my wrist where I was holding his.
She goes pale.
“Is it—?” she asks, voice breaking.
“It’s his,” I say quickly. “Just… just a cut. Not—” My stomach lurches. “Not the main thing.”
She sucks in a breath like someone punched her.
Ashton looks like a man who’s been gut-shot and is trying very hard to pretend it’s a paper cut. His face is bloodless, his eyes too bright. “Is he—” he starts, then stops, swallows. “Have they said—”
“No,” I say. “They… they just took him back. The paramedics said his vitals were… okay-ish. Low, but there. They… he was breathing.”
“Okay,” he says, like he’s pinning that word to the wall with a nail. “Okay.”
Mom lets go of my face only to pull me into a hug so fierce it knocks the air out of me. “No te vayas,” she whispers into my hair, words she used to say when I was little and had nightmares. “Don’t you go anywhere. You stay right here.”
“I’m not the one—” The protest dies in my throat because I get it. She’s counting heads. She’s doing her own version of a roll call.
We sit.
There’s only a single open chair next to me, Dad ends up standing, hands on the back of mine so tight his knuckles go white. Every few seconds, he adjusts his grip, like he can rearrange reality by moving his fingers.
“I got the call,” he says after a long, thick silence. “From the DA about the son of a bitch dying. I should’ve… I thought… I thought telling him would—” His voice cracks down the middle.
“Help him move on,” I finish, bitterness poisoning the words before I can stop it.
He flinches like I slapped him.
Mom’s hand tightens on my arm. “Miguel,” she says sharply, in that tone that’s half warning, half plea.
I shut my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the apology scraping. “I’m just—I’m tired.”
“We all are,” Ashton says quietly. When I look up, his eyes are shining. “But you have the right to be angry with me. I—” He swallows. “I keep underestimating how deep the wounds go. That’s on me.”
I don’t have the bandwidth to unpack that. My entire being is pointed at the double doors, willing them to open.
Eventually, one of them does.
A doctor in blue scrubs steps out, mask hanging around his neck, hair flattened like he’s been running his hands through it. He scans the waiting area and calls, “Family for Caleb Burton?”
We’re on our feet so fast the chairs skitter back.
“Yes,” Ashton says. “Yes, that’s—us.”
The doctor glances at the three of us, processes something in half a second, and nods. “I’m Dr. Miller,” he says. “I’ve been taking care of Caleb.”
“How is he?” I ask, voice too sharp. My hands are shaking again. “Is he—did he—?”
“He’s alive,” Dr. Miller says immediately, and my knees nearly buckle with the sheer relief of hearing it from someone with a stethoscope.
“We’ve stabilized him for now. His blood pressure was low on arrival, and his heart rate was depressed from the overdose, but his airway remained intact, and we were able to support his breathing with oxygen and medication. ”
The words wash over me in a blur of medicalese. Only a few stick.
Alive.
Stabilized.
For now.
“There were superficial cuts on his wrist that we’ve cleaned and bandaged,” he continues, and Mom makes a choked sound.
“They did not cause significant blood loss. The primary concern is the ingestion. We’ve started treatment to help his body process and eliminate the medication.
He’s being admitted for monitoring and a psychiatric evaluation once he’s medically cleared. ”
“Will he—” Ashton’s voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Is there any permanent damage?”
“That’s the good news,” Dr. Miller says, and some of the ice in my chest cracks.
“Based on the estimated time frame and his current labs, we caught this early. We’ll be watching his heart and his liver closely, but so far, there are no signs of organ failure.
The next twenty-four hours are important.
If he remains stable, his prognosis is good. ”
Good.
“Can we see him?” I ask.
Dr. Miller hesitates. “He’s very sedated,” he says. “We gave him medication to counteract some of the overdose effects, and his body is doing a lot of work. One person can go in at a time for a few minutes. He may not respond, but he might be able to hear you.”
Mom looks at me immediately, her eyes are red and fierce. “You go,” she says. “He lives with you. You found him. Ve, mijo.”
My whole body wants to argue. To put her first, to let an actual parent go in there and assess the damage.
Dad shakes his head. “She’s right,” he says hoarsely. “Go. Tell him we’re here.”
I nod, unable to speak, and follow Dr. Miller down the hall.
The room is small and too bright. Machines beep in a rhythm that’s half comfort, half threat. An IV pole stands by the bed, a bag dripping clear fluid into his arm. There’s a monitor with little green mountains tracking his heartbeats.
My pretty boy.
The reason my heart beats.
He looks swallowed by the white sheets and the hospital gown, the color leached from his face, the tan he works so hard on looks washed out.
There’s tape on the back of his hand and another line at the crook of his elbow.
His left wrist is wrapped in fresh gauze, a little spot of red seeping through like a bad secret.
There’s an oxygen cannula under his nose, with tubing looping over his ears.
I stand in the doorway for a second because I can’t seem to make my feet cross the gap.
“Talk to him,” Dr. Miller says softly. “You don’t have to say anything profound. Just let him know he’s not alone.”
I step forward and I stop by the side of the bed and wrap my fingers around his unbandaged hand.
It’s warm.
So warm.
“Hey, baby,” I say. My voice comes out raw and weird. “You picked a shitty way to skip your stats review.”
His eyelids flicker, maybe. Or maybe it’s just my desperate brain making patterns out of nothing.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I whisper, leaning closer. “You know that? I walked in and you—” My throat closes. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to lock the door and check out. We had a couch day planned, remember?”
The monitor keeps beeping.
“I’m not mad,” I say, and realize that’s only half true.
I’m furious and I’m not mad at him, exactly.
I’m mad at his history. At his brain chemistry.
At every adult who didn’t yank him out of hell sooner.
“I’m just… so fucking sad, Caleb. You’ve been carrying this for so long.
I wish I could carry it for you. All of it. Just for a while. So you can rest.”
A tear falls onto the sheet. I hadn’t realized I was crying until I saw the wet spot.
“I love you,” I tell him, because if this is the last time, those are the only words that matter.
“More than anything. More than my own stupid life. I need you to fight a little longer, okay? Just… a little more. Let the meds do their thing. Let your body catch up. We’ll figure everything else out later. One day at a time, remember?”
His fingers twitch around mine. It could be a reflex. It could be nothing.
I choose to believe it’s something.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise. “You’re stuck with me. We’re not done yet.”
I stay until a nurse gently taps my shoulder and reminds me of the time limit. Leaving feels like pulling out my own organs with my hands, but I force my fingers to let go. His hand falls back onto the sheet with a soft thump.
Outside, Mom and Ashton are waiting, eyes devouring my face for clues.
“He’s… he’s out,” I say. “But he’s there. He’s warm.”
Mom whispers a prayer and makes the cross and presses her thumb and first finger to her lips, eyes squeezed shut. Ashton nods once, like someone who has delivered a verdict he didn’t dare hope for.
They take their turns going in. I sit back down in the stupid plastic chair.
The adrenaline has burned off. What’s left is… nothing.
Hollow.
My hands are still shaking. I stare at them. Blood in the creases of my knuckles, pale half-moons where my nails dug into my palms. I flex my fingers. They don’t feel like mine.
Luis’s words come back, distorted.
You’re allowed to go live your life even when he’s having a bad day.
Yeah, sure.
Except when his bad day almost ends his life.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and let my head drop into my hands. The hospital sounds swirl around me—paging calls, cart wheels, murmurs, and the steady, distant beep of monitors.
Sitting there in that hard ER chair, my hands stained with his blood, watching the door to his room like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, I realize I had no idea how much it would hurt to watch him almost disappear.