Chapter 38 – Alise #2
Beau’s gaze drags back to me, heavy and slow, like it takes effort just to find my face. There’s something in it that slices clean through the panic and makes my chest burn hotter. It’s the look that says he knows exactly what this is doing to me and can’t stop it.
“What’s going on?” I ask, barely above a whisper, the words trembling out before I can think, but he doesn’t answer.
His mouth stays parted like he wants to tell me, but no sound comes.
“Stay with me!” My voice cracks on the last word, the desperation making it sound almost foreign in my own ears.
Beau’s lashes twitch at the sound, fluttering open halfway, his pupils slow to find me.
“Come on, brother. You’re not doing this today.” Cole’s hand is on his shoulder, steady and shaking all at once, like he’s trying to anchor him through sheer force of will.
And then his eyes roll back, the connection snapping like a rope gone slack, and his body follows, going limp in our hands.
“No—no, no, no.” The words scrape out of me in a rush, too thin to hold the weight pressing down on me.
Michele’s moving again, rattling off instructions sharp and precise, but they’re muffled, like I’m underwater.
The syllables come too fast, and I can’t grab on to any of them.
All I can do is keep my hands on him, willing warmth into his skin, like I could drag him back with nothing but touch and stubbornness, refusing to believe that anything else is possible.
His skin is damp, slick with a cold sweat that beads at his temples and seeps into my palms. Every shallow breath feels like it has to fight its way out, and the space between each one stretches just a second too long.
My pulse thrums in my ears, drowning out everything but that fragile rise and fall.
I can’t let go. If I let go, he’ll slip further away.
Michele’s voice cuts back in for half a second—irregular pulse, shallow breathing—but the words slide right off me.
They’re too clinical, too far removed from the way his lashes are barely twitching against his cheek or how his lips have lost the pink I know.
The weight in my chest swells, pressing up into my throat until my vision blurs at the edges.
I blink hard, refusing to let it spill over. Not now. Not when he needs me steady.
“Stay with me,” I murmur, barely more than a breath, my thumb brushing along the back of his hand like it’s the only tether keeping him here. “You’re not leaving me. Not now. Not like this.”
Somewhere beyond my tunnel vision, Ramona’s voice pierces through. “911 is on its way. They said five minutes.”
Five minutes. I can’t even process what that means.
It’s too far, too slow, but then the sirens start.
They’re faint at first, then swelling, high and unrelenting, coiling through my ribs like they’re trying to crush the air out of me.
The sound ricochets inside my skull, sharp enough to make my teeth ache.
It should mean help, but all it does is remind me how fragile the seconds between now and then are.
My knees throb against the unforgiving ground, sharp pain radiating up my thighs, but I don’t shift.
Every muscle feels cramped and screaming for movement.
My palms ache from pressing so hard against Beau’s chest, my fingers tingling and numb, but I keep pushing down like I can anchor him here by force alone.
His heartbeat stutters beneath my hand. First, it’s too fast, then too slow, then a skip so long my breath catches in my throat until the next weak thump breaks through. My pulse tries to match it, stumbling and tripping over itself until my whole body feels out of rhythm.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, though my voice fractures halfway through. “You’re here. You’re fine. You’ve been fine all day. You’re fine.” The words tumble out too quickly, desperation dragging them along.
Red strobes wash over the siding of the house, sliding across Beau’s face and painting him in colors that make him look almost unrecognizable.
Sweat slicks his temple, catching in the strands of his hair, the salty scent of it faint in the cooling night air.
The grass scratches against my bare knees, dirt pressing into skin gone tender from the chill.
The cold has crept up through me, a steady ache that makes my legs prickle, but I barely register it beyond the fact that I can’t move away from him.
Boots pound against pavement, getting louder. Two EMTs appear, their footsteps syncing with the pulse in my head. The metallic clatter of gear follows them, loud enough to jar against the eerie stillness that’s settled over everything but the sirens.
“Ma’am, we need you to give us space,” one says, crouching low, voice careful like I’m a wild thing they don’t want to scare off.
“No.” The refusal rips out of me, raw and immediate. My knuckles burn from how tightly I’ve curled them into Beau’s shirt. “I’m not leaving him.”
The EMT glances at Michele, who’s already rattling off his history and the events surrounding the collapse, every detail. Cole steps back just enough to clear the way, but his hand stays hooked around Beau’s ankle, his grip so tight the tendons in his wrist stand out.
They move in quickly, practiced and precise. One EMT crouches low, pushing up Beau’s shirt and snapping open a packet of sealed gauze and wiping Beau’s chest down with brisk strokes to clear the sweat.
“We need that skin dry or the pads won’t hold,” he mutters, more to his partner than to me.
Adhesive patches are slapped into place a second later, wires hooking into the patches that are attached to a large white machine, which hums faintly as it boots up.
Beau’s ribs are visible under the porch light, each shallow rise of his chest barely moving against the shadows.
The antiseptic sting hits my nose, chemical and clean, and it takes a beat before I realize it’s from the alcohol swab they’ve cracked open as they prep his arm for an IV.
The scent makes my stomach pitch, but I force myself not to move, not to break my grip on him.
“Sinus tachy, irregular rhythm but no cardioversion currently required,” one EMT says, eyes on the screen. “Possible hypoperfusion. Check distal pulses and O? non-rebreather at fifteen liters. Let’s get a line in.”
“Copy,” the other answers, his hands already steady as he threads the IV catheter.
The antiseptic bite still hangs in the air as he slides the needle home, followed by the faint plastic snap of a saline flush.
A cuff inflates around Beau’s arm, the hiss and click loud in the chaos.
“BP ninety over fifty-eight, sats eighty-nine, heart rate one-fifty.”
The monitor gives a steady, mechanical beep that sounds too fragile to be trusted.
I reach for Beau’s hand, threading my fingers through his.
His skin is warm, but there’s no give in his grip.
My breath shudders out of me, chest tight, and my throat raw.
I lean in until my cheek brushes his, my hair sticking against his damp skin.
“I’m right here,” I say, voice low but unyielding. “You don’t get to check out on me, Beau Hendrix.”
Something flickers across his face—a twitch or a faint furrow between his brows—but it could be nothing, or it could be everything. Either way, it’s enough to keep my spine rigid when they lift him onto the stretcher, my legs tingling with the threat of collapse.
“Ma’am—”
“I’m riding with him.”
The EMT doesn’t hesitate and just nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”
The second they wheel him toward the ambulance, I’m right there, my hand welded to his. The world blurs into two sounds. The squeak and rattle of the gurney wheels over the driveway and the faint rise and fall of his chest under the oxygen mask. Everything else is static.
Once we are inside, the doors slam with a metallic boom that reverberates through my ribs.
The sirens pick up again, and the space shrinks to the size of my fear.
I wedge my knees against the side rail, one hand gripping the cold metal so hard my knuckles ache, the other still tangled in his limp fingers.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, quieter now, like I’m afraid to wake him or maybe even more afraid he won’t. “We’re gonna get you through this. We’re gonna get you home.”
The ambulance lurches forward, jolting me hard against the railing.
I tighten my hold until the tendons in my hand scream.
We hit a sharp corner, and the sirens howl so loud they buzz in my teeth, the pitch threading through my skull until it’s all I can hear.
One EMT leans over Beau, reading the monitor.
“BP’s dropping. Heart rate is still unstable.”
My throat closes, but I push closer, blocking out the rest of the world.
“You hear that?” My voice shakes, the words tripping over my breath. “They’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine. You were teasing me ten minutes ago. You were fine. You’re still fine.”
The ambulance hits another bump hard enough that my stomach pitches and my teeth click together.
Beau’s lashes twitch slightly, but his eyes don’t open.
The oxygen mask covers his nose and mouth, fogging with each shallow breath.
I count them in my head—one, two, three—like if I keep the number steady, I can keep him breathing.
My vision tunnels until there’s nothing but that faint misting of plastic.
And then the crash hits. Not against metal, but inside me.
It’s like free-falling with no bottom. My adrenaline burns out so fast it leaves a hollow ache in my chest. My limbs turn heavy, my pulse slows to a sluggish thud, and my thoughts splinter into jagged edges.
The tremor starts in my fingers, barely there at first, then spreads until it’s everywhere.
My grip on the rail loosens for a second too long, panic spiking before I force my fingers to lock again.
My jaw aches from clenching, and my tongue tastes like copper.