Authors: Jodie Becker
“Didn’t you say you needed to talk this stuff out?”
He glared at his friend. “Yeah, I did, but when I’m ready
and right now I’m not
God damn ready
.”
Bryce recoiled and nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Okay.”
He pointed in the general direction of the bathroom. “I’m just gonna…”
“Knock yourself out.”
Max fumed in silence for a few minutes but soon that wore
off and left him with bilious guilt. Rubbing his forehead, he cursed himself
for acting like a douche. Bryce was his closest friend in the industry and he’d
snapped his head off. He sighed, promising to apologize when Bryce returned.
Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. He leaned back to check the stairs. Fuck it.
He stood and lumbered up the steps. At the door he knocked softly. “Bryce, you
in there?”
When there was no answer, he knocked harder, ice forming in
his veins. “Bryce?” He checked the handle. Locked. Fear pounded in his chest.
“Bryce, open the fucking door!”
He shouldered the door until the lock gave out and stumbled
to a halt at Bryce’s limp form curled around a pool of vomit on the floor.
Everything went cold. “Oh shit, oh shit. No, no, no.”
Max dropped on his knees, ignoring the acid terror burning
in his stomach. A sheen of sweat covered Bryce’s gray-tinged skin sending a
shaft of icy fear through him. Heart racing in a hollow chest, he picked up
Bryce’s upper body and jostled his shoulders. “Wake up. Wake up, man!”
Nausea roiled in his gut when there was no response. Max
eased his friend to the floor and raced down the stairs on unsteady legs.
Dialing 9-1-1, he hurried back upstairs and waited for an answer. He felt as if
he’d run for two hours rather than two minutes. His head pounded as he knelt
over his friend, desperate for help that wasn’t getting here fast enough.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“M-my friend. I think he’s overdosed.”
“Where are you?”
“In my bathroom.”
“Okay, calm down. I need you to verify your address.”
He rattled off the information.
“Is he breathing?”
He held his hand over Bryce’s nose, his chest hurting as he
waited for that fateful breath.
Come on.
It blew softly against his
fingers. “Yes. But it’s really shallow. Hurry.”
“An ambulance is on its way. Stay on the line.”
Max swallowed the urge to rage at the operator. Panic ate
away at his muscles and he struggled to breathe.
“How old is your friend?”
“Uh, twenty…twenty-seven.”
“Why do you think this is an overdose?”
“Because he’s been struggling with addiction.”
“Do you know what he might’ve taken?”
What hadn’t Bryce taken? “I—I don’t know. He takes whatever
can get him high. Please hurry. His lips are turning blue.”
“Ambulance is on its way. Has he been showing any indication
he might be suicidal?”
Rage burned in his gut. “He isn’t suicidal.” Max jostled his
friend. “Hold on, man. Help is coming.”
Chapter Eight
Sirens woke Bridget from sleep. They sounded awfully close
and she rolled over, waiting for them to speed by. But they didn’t. Red and
blue lights flashed through her window and curiosity forced her out of bed.
Pushing aside a curtain, her heart thumped hard against her rib cage at the
sight of paramedics rushing into Max’s house. Twisting away, she hurried down
the stairs, panic making her legs feel weak. The door banged against the wall
as she raced across the lawn toward Max’s house.
She stopped at the threshold, hands on the doorframe. “Max?
Max.
”
Sound deeper in the house propelled her forward. Taking the
stairs two at a time, she skidded to a stop at the sight of paramedics in the
bathroom, crouched over a man she’d never seen before. Max sat on the toilet
seat, face pale, shoulders hunched forward. The paramedics worked on the man’s
inert form with an IV in his arm. Vomit coated one side of his face, and the medic
wiped it away and cleared the mouth before inserting a long plastic tube. A bag
clicked over it and they began CPR.
The moment it cleared the man on the floor seized. His body
jerked as if suffering from an electric shock. The smell of ammonia and feces
burned her nostrils. Max swore and reached for his friend. Her heart dropped at
the agony on his face.
“Give us room to work,” one of the medics demanded.
Max settled back, his skin now a sickly green. The
paramedics rolled the unconscious male onto his side then strapped him onto a
back board. As one they lifted the man and moved him out of the bathroom.
Bridget stepped aside and watched them carry him down the stairs with Max in
tow. He’d yet to notice her.
She walked down the stairs and watched on the porch as the
paramedics loaded the man into the ambulance. They passed quick words with Max,
jumped in the vehicle and sped away.
The ambulance disappeared around the corner, the sirens
fading into the night, and Bridget waited for Max to face her, her heart aching
for him. His shoulders slumped forward, his head dipped in a picture of pure
misery. Tears lodged in her throat, the shock of what she’d seen passing under
the sad image of Max standing alone and still. So still.
Cautiously she approached. “Max?” Her voice was whisper
soft.
He turned, his eyes glazed with disbelief. He looked at her
as though he didn’t quite recognize her, his brows drawn low. “Bridget?”
The confusion in his tone made her brush her hand over his
shoulder. “Yes.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, lips compressed so tight they
whitened.
“Do you… Are you okay?”
He opened his mouth and coughed out a sound. Eyes squeezed
shut, he sucked in a broken breath. “Shit,” he rasped.
“Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”
The look of relief almost floored her. “Yes.”
She hurried back into her house, threw on jeans and a shirt
and returned to the front door to find Max by her porch, looking like a lost
boy. Something broke off inside her at the sight. She slipped into her car and
he settled into the passenger side. As she drove, Max bounced his knee, his
features set in stone. Everything about him appeared so brittle she worried one
wrong move would make him break.
“I fucking should’ve known,” he mumbled.
Not knowing whether to speak or let him open up on his own,
Bridget tightened her hands over the steering wheel. Raking a hand through his
hair, he exhaled harshly. He faced away from her, watching the passing scenery.
He cleared his throat and pressed a fist to his forehead, mumbling a curse.
Flinging himself back in the seat, he glared at the road.
“Can’t we go any faster?”
Bridget floored it. She parked outside the hospital and Max
was out of the car before it fully stopped. Bridget hurried after him. The
glass doors to the ER slid open and the noise of conversation and crying
children filled her ears. Max skidded to a stop at the desk, slamming his hand
down on the counter. The nurse took one sweep of his body, no doubt checking
for obvious injury.
“The paramedics told me to come here. They brought a man in.
Bryce Roland.”
“Are you a relative?” she asked, looking down at a manila
folder.
Max hesitated. “Yes.”
The nurse turned her attention to another nurse, a stout
woman with tired eyes. They talked and the larger woman walked around the
counter and waved them to follow. Bridget followed, but the nurse held out a
hand. “Who are you?”
Max shifted. “She’s my wife.”
Bridget stifled the surprise and instead sidled closer to
him in a united front. Satisfied with the answer, the nurse moved along,
guiding them down a hall lined with gurneys holding patients waiting for care.
Some people were asleep while others moaned, asking for help. The nurse’s shoes
squeaked on the vinyl tiles, her steps filled with efficiency. Bridget hurried
to keep up, Max only a step ahead of her. The nurse led them to a room with
blue seats, a plastic plant and an old coffee machine.
“The doctor will see you when they’ve stabilized the
patient.”
Max nodded stiffly and stepped into the room. Bridget
followed, squinting under the fluorescent light. A window spread along one side
of the room with a view of another section of the hospital. Max sat, his heel
tapping against the cream tiles. Bridget settled beside him and dropped a hand
over the clenched fist on his knee. He startled but didn’t move away from her
touch. After a moment, his fist eased and he entwined his fingers with hers.
Silence fell between them with the ding of a bell and distant conversation
seating them firmly in their current situation.
Max’s stomach churned, his heart pounding against his rib
cage. Vinyl spread out before him, but all he could see was Bryce on the floor
convulsing. The ugly sound that choked from his friend as he seized. His heart
pumped razor blades, the pain excruciatingly sharp. He tipped his chin, pulling
desperately at his ragged control. Bridget’s hand was swallowed by his, her
lily-white skin contrasting against his tan. Misery tore at the veil of control
and he bounced his knee faster as his fingers tightened over hers.
Keep it
together.
Pain cinched around his chest and constricted the air in his
lungs. Bridget winced and he tried to release his grip, but he couldn’t. She
was his anchor in the tumultuous storm he suffered through.
“Shit,” he mumbled.
Bridget dropped her other hand over his, enveloping him in
her warm grip. The ache of failure rippled through every movement, his frame
drawn so taut he feared he’d snap. So caught up in his own issues, he didn’t
notice Bryce was reaching for him as he drowned.
“I should’ve known,” he grumbled.
“What happened?” Bridget asked, her voice whisper soft.
Dark and bitter self-recrimination filled his gut with acid.
The muscle in his jaw hurt as teeth ground together. What could he say to her?
That he signed on to something he didn’t want and it made it difficult to live
in his own skin? That Bryce taunted him of a future waiting for him and it
threatened to upset their friendship?
“He came to me wanting to sort something out and I got
pissed off at him.”
Desolate, he struggled to draw air. His chest hollowed out
to the point he felt as though his soul burned in hell. He swallowed hard.
Once. Twice. “He wanted me to talk and tell him we were cool, but I just…” What
could he say? He sneered at his friend’s attempt to “help”.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s all fucked up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I
should’ve seen this coming a mile away. I knew, God damn it, I knew and I
didn’t react soon enough. I just want him to be okay.” His voice broke on the
last word.
“He will be,” she whispered.
Pain lanced his chest at the misery shuddering through his
frame. For all the “sage” advice he could give a newbie, he couldn’t help a
veteran or save himself from making mistakes. Two months ago he was fine with
the status quo. But life upended on him in one shot. The strength he relied on
and the separation he cast between Max the porn actor and Max the average guy
cracked, ready to shatter. It’d broken him. He rubbed his forehead, scrambling
to regain the tattered pieces of his control. Unable to look her in the face, he
turned his head toward some point on the floor.
The ball lodged in his throat grew spikes and he couldn’t
speak through it. Bridget cupped his jaw, forcing his attention to her. Her
eyes were wide and earnest, wanting to see into him, but he couldn’t let her.
Tears burned, barely held back by his control.
She ran a thumb along his cheek. A caress made to comfort.
“Max. You have to know this wasn’t your fault. Whatever happened, you didn’t do
it.”
His lashes drooped and a tear seared a trail down his cheek.
She rubbed it away. “Max, look at me,” she croaked.
He heard the sadness in her voice and it lanced him in the
heart. He didn’t look at her, his breath soughed from downturned lips. “I
can’t.”
“That’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
He nodded. He needed Bridget. Needed her to hold him and
tell him he mattered. That he didn’t make a fatal mistake. He wanted to wake up
and find this was all just a horrible nightmare. Dipping his head until his
forehead touched hers, he trembled. Their breathing intermingled, hers steady,
his short and broken. He sniffled and a tear tipped off the end of his nose.
Misery swallowed him whole, chewed him up and spat what remained of him out.
The dam to his agony broke in silence. Sadness hacked at his lungs until he
drowned in his pain. Bridget’s thumb along his cheek anchored him to the
present. Kept him from spiraling out of control.
As a quiet sob shuddered through his frame, he slid his face
along the side of hers until his forehead pressed against her shoulder. She
wrapped her arms around his back and rocked slowly, much like a mother would a
distressed child. He accepted her comfort, expelling all the self-hatred and
blame. After a while, he released one long, shuddering sigh and drew his
composure together.
He settled back in his seat and kicked out his legs. He
could feel her stare on him. Searching for answers he couldn’t give her.
“Max, are you all right?”
He glanced at her, her lashes spiked with tears giving him
pause. She’d cried because of his pain. “Yeah.”
She nodded and clasped her hands in her lap. She looked worn
out and he felt like a dick for letting her take him to the hospital. She
shouldn’t be here, waiting in some sterile room for news about someone she
didn’t know. He should’ve taken a cab. “I’m sorry for forcing you to take me.”
She blinked at him in surprise. “You didn’t force me, I
offered. I couldn’t leave you to find your own way. Not now. Not like this.”
“Thanks for being here.”
“You’re welcome.”
They settled in silence, the wait stretching before them. As
Bridget finished off her third cup of coffee an African-American doctor walked
inside. “Maxwell Turner?”
Max lurched to his feet. “Yes.”
The doctor shoved his glasses into his pocket. “The
toxicology report came back on Mr. Roland and we found methamphetamine and
notably Warfarin in his system, which explains the brain bleed.”
“What?”
The doctor faced him with a sympathetic yet matter-of-fact
gaze. “He is lucky to be alive. Warfarin is generally found in rat poison and
can cause some major complications and even death.”
“So…he’s okay?”
The doctor hesitated a beat. “He slipped into a coma.”
The floor disappeared beneath him and his knees gave out.
Arms wrapped around him and pulled him toward the seat. The roaring in his ears
drowned out what the doctor was saying, but the wash of white that swept over
Bridget’s face was enough. Dots exploded across his vision and nausea hit him
in the gut. He sucked in acrid air and Bridget faced him, lines scrunching her
brow, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles whitened.
Max fought against sharp fear. “What is it?”
Bridget pursed her lips and sucked in air through her nose.
“He’s in intensive care. They said you can visit him, but not to expect
anything.”
“Can you come with me?”
“All right.”
They followed the doctor to a room where Bryce lay in a bed,
his head covered in a bandage and a tube in his mouth, a ventilator breathing
for him. Machines beeped and cords trailed off him. His wan skin gave Max
pause, features were so still for a moment he thought his friend was dead.
Bridget’s hand tightened over his and he realized at some point he’d reached
for her.
“It’s okay.”
He swallowed and stepped farther into the room. Settling in
the chair beside the bed, he glanced at the doctor. “Can he hear me?”
The doctor smiled softly. “Can’t hurt. I’ll leave you to
it.”
Helpless despair pushed against Max’s rib cage. He stared at
the amount of cords coming off Bryce and the monitor that checked the
heartbeat. His eyes stung with tears and he reached for his friend’s hand. It
lay limp in his and Max dipped his head, misery pounding on his back, trying to
get to the heart of him. A warm hand settled on his shoulder and he caught a
waft of flowers. Bridget’s scent. He cleared his throat.
Squeezing Bryce’s hand, he stared into his friend’s still
face. He looked so peaceful. But the tragedy of what put him here weighed on
Max. “I’m sorry, man. I should’ve listened to you when you came over. I was a
douche. I hope you can hear me, because you know, you’re my best friend.” He
paused to cough out the croak in his voice. Rubbing the tip of his nose, he
grappled for control. “You’re my best friend and if you left, who would I go
with to San Fran to check out the wineries later on this year?”
He turned his head and cleared his throat, the coil of agony
sitting on his chest threatened to unravel. His muscles hurt from the effort to
keep his composure. “Fight this. Wake up.”