Page 97 of Life After You

A new voice. I turn. A doctor stands in the doorway, long blonde hair, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Dale?” he repeats.

“What is it, doc? Is she awake?”

The doctor scowls slightly, checking his sheet. “Not yet. We need her intracranial pressure to ease before we wake her. However, she’s stable enough for visitors.”

The air in my lungs finally moves. “I can see her?”

“If you’d like to follow me, we can take two at a time.”

Chace and Trey exchange looks, then nod. “Sam, Logan, you two go first.”

My feet feel like lead as I follow the doctor. The second I step into Mac’s room, my breath catches. Machine’s beep softly. Tubes run across her fragile body. Her chest rises and falls, but it’s not her own breath—it’s the ventilator’s. Bandages cover her head. Bruises mar her beautiful face.

My angel.

I stumble forward. “Thank you, doc.”

He nods and steps back as Sam stays near the door, murmuring quietly. I can’t listen. I can’t do anything but stare at Mac, so still, so small beneath the wire and IV drips.

I reach for her hand. It’s cold, the IV taped in place. The tears spill, hot and unstoppable. My throat burns. I press my forehead to her pillow, whispering, “I’m here, angel. I’m here.”

Epilogue

Logan

It’s been almost six weeks.

Six weeks without her voice. Without her eyes finding mine like they always do. Without her laughter—the kind that used to make my chest feel too damn full, like my heart couldn’t contain it all.

Six weeks of silence.

I drag in a breath, leaning forward in the stiff hospital chair I’ve barely left, my forearms resting on the edge of her bed. Mac lies still, her face too pale against the white sheets, her body small beneath the weight of wires and machines. I hate them. Hate the steady beeping, the way they breathe for her, the way they keep her here but can’t bring her back to me.

I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers, needing the contact even if she doesn’t feel it. Even if she doesn’t squeeze back.

I don’t know how to do this without her.

I don’t know how to breathe when she’s not breathing with me.

I stroke my thumb over the back of her hand, my throat burning as I force myself to speak. “You’re missing everything, angel,” I murmur, my voice raw. “The tour’s a fucking messwithout you. Sam’s health-freak bullshit is out of control. Trey’s on a rampage. Chace has been writing the most depressing songs I’ve ever heard. And me?” I swallow hard, lifting her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m just trying to hold on.”

I close my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly, grounding myself in the feel of her skin, the familiar softness of it.

“I’ve been here every day. Every damn day,” I whisper. “Singing to you. Talking to you. About us, about the future, about all the things we still have to do.” My voice cracks, but I don’t stop. “I promised you forever, and I meant it. But forever feels pretty fucking far away when you’re like this.”

I open my eyes, staring at the slow rise and fall of her chest, at the way the bruises on her skin have faded but the damage is still there, hidden deep where I can’t reach it.

“I need you to wake up, baby,” I rasp. “I need you to come back to me. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Silence.

Just the soft hum of the machines, the steady beep of her heart, the reminder that she’s still here. Barely.

My fingers tighten around hers. “I love you,” I whisper. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. So, whenever you’re ready, angel… I’ll be right here.”

I drop my head against our joined hands, closing my eyes, breathing her in.

“I got you a gift,” I murmur, my voice hoarse from hours—days—of talking to her, even when she couldn’t answer.

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