“Where are they?” I glance over at Elias, the sound of my hoarse voice foreign to my ears. “Elias, he can’t fucking die. Hecan’t!”
It’s then I notice it… the storm raging on outside. It was overcast when I was driving here, but the sky must’ve opened up since then. The rain splatters against the side of the house, the window to his room open as always. Thunder roars and rolls furiously moments before lightning zaps across the night sky.
As I hold Bodhi close to my chest, I can’t help but remember the first time I came over here. The way that night mirrored this one so eerily similar with the darkness and the rain, the drugs—even if a different kind—and the way he spoke of his love for storms.
I remember lying in his bed with him after we had sex, his head on my chest as we listened to the storm rage on outside. I remember his exact words:The chaos of the storm reflects the chaos in my own mind.
It feels like hours pass before anybody shows up to help, although it’s probably more like five or ten minutes. At some point during all of this, Elias came and sat beside me. With puffy eyes and a runny nose, he wraps his arm in mine, resting his head on my shoulder. The medics swoop in, taking Bodhi from my lap, while I’m left to watch helplessly as they try to revive him. They ask question after question—most of which I don’t know the answer to.
I’ve never felt more powerless than I do right in this moment.
******
Over the last year and a half, I’ve spent entirely too much time waiting around cold, bleak hospitals. Drinking their sludgy, room temperature coffee. Sleeping on their lumpy pull-out beds. If I left here and never saw the inside of another hospital room for as long as I lived, it still wouldn’t be long enough.
Elias left a moment ago to go home and shower. We’ve been here for about eight hours at this point, the sun barely rising. Camden has called no less than ten times in that timeframe. He was able to book a flight, but it couldn’t leave until earlier this morning. He should be here soon.
Bodhi is alive. Barely stable, but alive.
The doctors won’t tell me anything for obvious reasons, but when I was coming back from getting coffee earlier, I overheard them doing rounds in his room. One of the nurses mentioned how malnourished he is, and how his BMI is dangerously low. It confirms everything I was worried about. Everything I was trying to help but didn’t know how.
I should’ve done more.
I failed Bodhi.
He needed my help, and I couldn’t do it.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Bodhi King
My eyes peel open, the lights above blinding. It stings my eyes and when I wince, pain radiates from a spot just below my left eye. Everything rushes back all at once; Charles, the secret, the gun, what he forced me to do. It’s suffocating, nauseating. The shame that fills me is dark and deep, like treacherous waters.
I knowwhyI ended up here, but thehowis a blur. Machines beep, my arm is covered in cords, the blankets are scratchy, and my mouth is so dry. I don’t think there’s ever been a time I’ve been this thirsty. Glancing around the room, looking for some water, I see him.
Jules.
He’s sleeping in a recliner style chair next to the hospital bed, his jacket balled up and propped like a pillow as he lies slightly on his side. I can’t help but silently watch him for a while. Even in his sleep, with his mouth slightly agape and drool pooling against the jacket, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
As if he can feel my gaze on him, Jules blinks hard, peeling his eyes open. They immediately go to me, a knot forming in my throat as my stomach somersaults.
He clears his throat, wiping his mouth, and sitting up. “When did you wake up?”
“Just—” My throat is scratchy, and it aches when I try to talk. Swallowing in an attempt at moisturizing the sandpaper that is my throat, I try again. “Just a few minutes ago.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I reply honestly, attempting to laugh, but it comes out more of a cough, which only further irritates my throat.
Jules looks like he has so much to say, but every time his lips part like he may say something, he snaps them shut just as quickly. I want to comfort him, but I don’t know where to start.
My eyes well up with tears, and I don’t even know why. I drop my head back on the pillow, eyes facing the ceiling in an effort to stop them from falling. It’s then that he speaks.
“What happened to your face?” It’s about as timid as I’ve ever heard Jules sound. I don’t like it.
It’s right there on the tip of my tongue to lie, but it’s caught in my throat. Letting out a deep breath, I decide to try my hand at the truth. I owe Jules at least that much. “My brother.”
“How? Why?”
