Page 23 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

After two days, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had counted on Nash showing up to play by the coffeehouse like he usually did, but his absence bothered me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Maybe it was stupid, but I listened to that gut feeling.

Of course, he could’ve been avoiding me too. I wouldn’t put that in the column of infeasible responses to what had happened between us. There was a lot to unpack there, and I was trying my best not to think too heavily on it—a fucking feat for me.

When he wasn’t in the spots he frequented, I called Bellingham because I had no clue how else to find him. What came next was the most eye-opening breakdown of where to find unhoused people in the city. My city. I’d been here for years and knew nothing. It was catastrophic.

I tried a few of the smaller places, asking questions as I wandered. I ended up finding an ATM to withdraw money and gave cash to those I spoke with. I felt bad. I felt guilty for my circumstances compared to theirs.

Most people didn’t have a clue who Nash was, which didn’t surprise me. I’d been hopeful but realistic about that notion. However, when I made my way to an unhoused camp—yeah, those were a thing I’d never heard of—a handful of people were able to point me in the right direction.

In the farthest corner of the camp area, Nash was on the beaten-down grass and practically covered by the darkness.

His backpack was tucked under his knees, probably as a method of protection, and his jacket was balled up over his face.

I frowned. It didn’t look comfortable, and it didn’t look safe.

Not with so many people around. He had to know that.

“Hey,” I began as I approached him. What was the right thing to say here? I stalked you across town because I haven’t seen you playing your guitar in your usual spots? And I’ve stalked you enough to know what your usual spots were?

Yeah, I was succeeding at not being creepy as fuck.

Still, I crouched down next to him and tried again.

“Nash,” I said. He groaned and pushed the jacket down harder on his face. “Nash?”

“No,” he muttered, the word drawn out and full of pain. When I touched him, he recoiled. His body twisted, and he rolled over, batting away his jacket. Before I could say anything, he keeled over, retching and dry heaving.

He didn’t move, just folded over himself as his stomach tried to empty itself. The sounds he made—fuck, I hadn’t heard pain like that ever. It scared the crap out of me. I didn’t know what to do.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I called 9-1-1.

They called it a migraine, and that was it. No additional tests, no attempt to find out why. Hell, I had to damn near argue with someone just to get medication for him—good medication.

I understood why. He looked every bit the homeless man he was, and that meant he had no insurance. No money coming in for them to make off tests and everything else. That didn’t stop me from getting pissed off. The lack of care was borderline inhumane.

He was in obvious pain, but they dismissed it.

Because it was an ER, they were required to care for him, but the scope of that care was up to them.

Negotiating shouldn’t have been a thing, but it was.

After registering my information to pay for everything out of pocket, they offered a migraine cocktail.

The medication was strong enough to make him a little loopy and take away the pain.

It wasn’t a permanent solution, but the ease of tension and misery in his face was enough.

For now.

I shifted uncomfortably in the crappy chair that I’d dragged next to the hospital bed.

The lights were dimmed down to only what was necessary.

The shades were drawn, and the door was shut, leaving us in the quiet alone.

He was in and out of it with the IV in his arm, giving him the fluids he needed along with medication.

He kept his face buried in the crook of his arm, hiding from everyone.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Nash mumbled for the umpteenth time.

“I know,” I whispered. For the first time, he dropped his arm to stare at me. Well, glare. There was definite malice in those exhausted eyes.

“I can’t afford this shit,” he said.

“I didn’t know what else to do, Nash,” I told him. “I didn’t know how to help you. Or what was—”

“I don’t need your fucking help,” he interjected. “I can handle a goddamn migraine.”

“It didn’t look like it.”

“You don’t know a fucking thing—”

“You needed help!” I cut him off. “What was I supposed to do? Let you die?”

“Yes!” Nash exclaimed. “Let me fucking die. Jesus fucking Christ. Stop inserting yourself where you don’t belong!”

His words stunned me to silence. He didn’t mean that… did he? I frowned, taking a moment to analyze the situation. I worked to make sense of it.

The cost of it all had to be a big factor. Unfortunately, I knew I wouldn’t make headway in that department with him. Why should I? He and I didn’t know each other enough for that.

“Do you get migraines often?” I asked to change the topic. The fact that the ER staff here seemed to know him wasn’t lost on me. No one exactly explained why to me, HIPAA and all that. Still, it had my interest piqued.

“I’ve been getting them for a fucking decade,” he muttered and buried his face in his elbow once more.

“Why haven’t you seen a doctor?” I asked. “Besides the obvious.”

“Please,” Nash scoffed. “The VA is a fucking joke. If I wanted to jump through hoops, I’d join the circus.”

“It can’t be—”

“Leave it alone,” he said over me. “I don’t need you to save me.”

I fell silent, listening to the way his words sounded heavier. Without a doubt, he’d pass out again on me.

“I’m so fucking tired, Linc,” he admitted softly. “So fucking tired of it all…”

I said nothing. I really wasn’t sure how to respond. Something about how the words had come out of him set me on edge. Instead, I just kept to myself as I remained in my spot, determined to be there, even if he didn’t want me to.