Page 84 of Closer

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

DEAD WEIGHT

BRIELLE

I’m shaking with rageas I step out onto the street and begin walking away from Levi’s apartment. People stare as they walk by. I probably look like a crazy person with my mascara running down my face, half mad with ire, love, and lust. I think about calling Piaf, because though I left without my purse, at least I was smart enough to stow my phone in my jacket pocket, but I have no words to say right now. I have only fury, shock, bruises on my body, and an ache in my chest that I’m not sure will ever go away. I have never loved any man the way I love Levi, and I hate myself for it, because I’ve become what I despise most—a love-sick girl who would do anything to protect the man she adores, even if it comes at a great detriment to herself.

I have no idea where I’m going, and now I’m standing on the street in a foreign country, with no wallet, and no passport, freezing my arse off. I don’t want to go back there, but I have no choice. I can’t just leave all my belongings behind. Taking several deep breaths, I lean against a storefront and clutch my hand to my chest to ease the ache. The tears won’t stop, which is annoying because in this cold, snot is bubbling out of my nose and I wipe it away with my sleeve like a small child might.

I don’t know what I was thinking attacking him like that.I’ve never hit anyone. My whole life I’ve been stoic, controlled, but everything about this man turns me inside out. Everything about him drives me crazy. He makes an insane person out of me to the point where I think I should be committed, but more than that, he makes me feel. Right now, I do not want to feel. I know he didn’t mean what he said about not wanting me here. You don’t say those words with tears in your eyes if you mean them. And still, for a brief moment, I believed them. I believed him. I know all of this, the anger, the drugs, the alcohol are more than likely his grief talking.For the record, his grief is an arsehole.

Despite not wanting to go back to the apartment, my feet lead me there anyway, because I can do nothing without my wallet and passport. I don’t even know for sure what I want to do. I miss Paris. I miss Maman, Piaf, and Monsieur Chat. And I miss the woman I used to be before I ever took that stupid job at his chateau. Once inside the building, I take the lift to the top. The door at the end of the hall opens freely, and I have to wonder if he’s still lying on the floor where I left him, but he’s not. The tap in the bathroom is running though, and there’s a sound like water spilling over a waterfall. I turn the music off.

“Levi?”

No answer. I walk slowly through the lounge, taking in the debris from our scuffle, and then into the bathroom. Levi is in the tub. My brain tells me he is asleep, but my heart screams that this is wrong. His body is too fluid, his face too relaxed, his mouth not gently closed against the intrusion of water, but open, slack. A bottle of pills bobs on the surface, and he is still not moving.

“No!” I run toward the bath, slipping in my heels with the water pooling on the floor. I go down in a heap, pain radiating off my muscles, my bones clanging together. My head aches from where I struck the slick tiles. I push through the blackness of unconsciousness and come to my knees, wincing as my head swims and the edges and grooves of the uneven tile sting my flesh.

“Levi, no!” I sob. “No! No!”

I grab his shoulder and shake him. I don’t know why. Then I stand and attempt to pull him from the bath. He’s dead weight.Dead. This is my fault. I should never have left him. I slip but try again to pull him from the water. He weighs a tonne. I get an arm under his back, and my other around his chest and pull. I topple again. This time with Levi’s body on top of me. Gasping for breath and pleading with him as I push him off and get to my knees, hovering over him. I turn him on his side, opening his mouth as liquid pours out. I’ve never given CPR before. I’ve never seen it done in real life. Only on TV, but I roll him on his back again and tilt his head, covering his nose and breathing into his mouth. I can hear water sloshing in his belly, or perhaps it is his lungs. I do not know. But I place the pads of my fingers to his neck.No pulse. I splay my hands over where I think his heart should be and begin compressions. Tears stream down my face. My whole body shakes. Not trembling a little, but violent, shaking so hard I have to concentrate on where to position my hands. I don’t know how many compressions I’ve made, or if I’m doing it correctly, or if I’m supposed to breathe more for him.I don’t know what I’m doing.

I breathe for him again, but I barely have enough breath for myself. I’m winded, and my brain is not working properly. I leave him and reach for my phone in my pocket. I dial 112. It does not do anything. I remember too late that I’m not in Paris anymore, and I have no idea what the emergency number for Australia is. Instead, I pull up Ali’s number and dial.

She answers on the first ring. “Where the hell are you? You guys are late.”

“Ali, Levi is not breathing.”

“What?”

“I don’t know the emergency number. I don’t know how to help him.”

“Fuck, Coop, dial triple zero.”

I hear him in the background before Ali yells, “Dial triple zero. Now. Levi’s not breathing. Brie. Listen to me. We’re getting an ambulance, okay? You just—Fuck. Do you know CPR?”

“No. I’m trying, but I don’t know how to help him.”

“Put the phone on speaker.”

I do as she commands and pray they don’t take long as I continue pumping and breathing for him. “Fuck you. You’re not allowed to do this, you selfish bastard. You are not allowed to leave me here like this.”

I pump on his chest. My claw marks are there from before, and I have half a mind to kiss them better now.

“Breathe. Just breathe.” I don’t know if I’m saying it to myself or to him.

Before long, there is pounding on the door and I can’t leave him even for a second, so I scream for them to come in. I’m surrounded by paramedics who shout questions as they move me out of the way. I answer as best I can, but I feel crazy. In my body, and yet it’s as if I’m floating above it.

They begin compressions, only they’re not breathing into his mouth. A little plastic bladder does the job for them. As the woman by his head squeezes the bag, the man pumps on his chest several times more, but it is no use. Levi’s lips are as blue as they were when I first saw him in the tub, and my heart shatters into a million pieces as I walk away and collapse on the floor outside the bathroom, my legs shaking too violently to hold me any longer.

***

“Miss, we need to dressthe wound on your head. You need treatment,” the nurse says, sounding somewhat impatient now.

I flinch away, but I’m not really that bothered by her touch. I hold the blanket tight to my chest. I wish the trembling would stop. I wish I could lie down on one of the beds behind the curtain and sleep. I wish I was home, back in Paris, in my mother’s embrace. Is this how she felt when my father died? So shaken to the core that a strange sense of complacency overcomes you? I am tired of grief. I am tired of people dying. My father. Ash—a man I never met but felt I knew because of the love of the people around him. And now ...Please, God, do not let him die.

Not him.

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