Page 76 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sloane

I t happened on a Sunday…

I wake up slowly with song lyrics in my head and the sound of machines beeping all around me.

When the first three notes arrived…

I look up, trying to find my bearings. Searching my memory for some clue as to where I am and what’s going on.

A major chord that thundered through…

It looks like a hospital, but that doesn’t make sense. The last thing I remember is being at the Twisters’ party with Sly. Pauline was there, and I was going to sing with her. I was excited for that.

The silence I’d survived…

I try to sit up, and something twinges in my hand. I glance down, only to realize there’s an IV in the back of it. Which means I really am in a hospital, though I don’t know why.

“Sly?” I call out, trying to find him. He doesn’t answer.

But that doesn’t seem right. I don’t remember getting here, don’t remember what happened to put me here, but I remember him. Stroking my face, holding my hand, singing a very off-tune version of… I try to capture the song, but it’s dark, nebulous. I can’t find the words.

It happened on a Sunday…

I remember hearing him crying, though. Is that right? Was Sly crying ? The thought has me sitting up in bed, heart pounding and mouth desert-dry.

I’m definitely in the hospital. Alarm bells shoot through me at the thought. What’s wrong with me? Except for a slight headache and this damn dry mouth, I feel fine. Hungry and a little weak but fine.

Those three notes in my head…

There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the table next to my bed. I reach for it, and though I only mean to take a tiny sip to wet my mouth, I end up draining it in one long gulp. I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that, but I don’t care, either. I’m so thirsty.

A wild run, a stolen kiss…

There’s strawberry lotion on the table, too, along with a tube of Aquaphor and a phone. It’s not my phone, though—the case is Twisters blue instead of black. Which means it’s Sly’s. So he is here, then.

I think about pressing the call button for the nurse, but I don’t have a clue where it is. Besides, I figure if Sly left his phone in my room, he’ll be back soon. I’d rather hear what’s going on from him than a stranger.

Long hours safe in bed…

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and try to make sense of the cacophony in my mind.

There are all these thoughts as I try to figure things out, but there are also lyrics. For the song I’ve been trying to write for months? Or something else?

Let the light in on a Sunday…

No, it’s definitely the Sunday song I’ve been working on.

I sit up a little farther, wondering where the hell the control to move my bed is. Apparently, if you’re completely out of it, they don’t worry about things like that. But what the fuck are you supposed to do when you wake up—especially since the railings are up on both sides of it?

Let the love come pouring in…

Something moves outside my room, and I lean to the right, trying to see around the privacy curtain. And that’s when I glimpse just enough of the two men standing outside my door to realize it’s Sly and Marco.

A memory from the party tries to break through: me struggling to make my legs work as I climb onstage to sing with Pauline. I try to recall what happened next— did I have a stroke? Did I fall and hit my head?— but there’s nothing there. It’s a blank space.

Which isn’t terrifying at all.

“Sly!” I call out his name again, but he still doesn’t hear me. What are he and Marco talking about so seriously that they can’t even look this way? Couldn’t they be doing that in here?

On a Sunday, on a Sunday…

Fuck it. I pull my legs up and push forward, determined to either find the call button or get the hell out of this bed.

But as I try to move to the end of the mattress, every damn thing I’m hooked up to pulls at me at the same time.

I nearly decapitate myself on the oxygen thing in my nose—which I’m pretty damn sure I don’t need anyway.

I try to shrug out of it, but I’ve gotten myself tangled enough at this point that it’s more complicated than it should be. I finally get it off, but now I’m exhausted.

What the hell? I put on a two-hour concert several days a week. An oxygen tube sure as shit shouldn’t defeat me.

Whatever. I settle back in the bed. Surely Marco and Sly will wrap up their conversation soon. Or a nurse will come check on me—this is the ICU, after all. Aren’t they supposed to be around all the freaking time on this floor?

It happened on a Sunday…

I look for something light to throw at the door to catch Sly’s attention and see my favorite guitar leaning on the wall beside me instead. Considering I left the blue Gibson Hummingbird with the tour, I’m extra surprised to see it here.

Does this mean Jace brought it?

A new spurt of alarm tears through me. How sick am I if Sly’s crying by my bedside and my tour manager flew down from where he’s supposed to be setting up for my Chicago show on Tuesday?

I reach for the guitar to make sure I’m not hallucinating, but the second I’ve got her in my hands, I know she’s mine.

The tiny scratch on the left side of the waist, the extra mother-of-pearl flourishes on the neck, the way she fits me like a glove.

All of those things, and so many more, tell me this is definitely my Roberta.

My hands remember her before my brain does. The weight, the balance, the promise of music even in chaos. I don’t want to let go—not now, not ever.

It happened on a Sunday…

I shift her and myself around a little so my IV and the wire connected to the thing on my finger don’t get in the way, then start to strum.

It’s far from ideal, considering my left index finger is useless, but I’m not exactly playing power chords. I use my middle finger instead, and it works out okay.

I play around for a few seconds, trying to figure out exactly what pitch I’m looking for. Once I’ve found it, I start playing the melody I’ve heard in my mind hundreds of times over the last few months.

“Let the light in on a Sunday,

let the love come pouring in.

Let the love in on a Sunday,

let the light come pouring in.”

I run through what I think is the chorus several times, just to get the feel for it. Then I move onto the first verse—I don’t have it perfectly structured, but the idea is there.

My voice is dry, but since I’m pretty sure I just drank the last bit of water in the room, there’s nothing I can do about that fact, so I ignore it and do the best I can. I’m just playing anyway.

“It happened on a Sunday,

when the first three notes arrived…”

My hair falls into my eyes—it’s why I never wear it down when I’m writing—and I toss my head to get it out of the way. As I do, my eyes wander to the glass door at the exact same time Sly looks up.

His eyes widen as they meet mine, his jaw going slack.

Not sure what else to do, I give him a smile and a little wave and then go back to playing the words that have been haunting me since I met him.

Words about Sly and me and everything that’s managed to blossom between us despite the odds and opposition.

“It happened on a Sunday,

when the first three notes arrived.

A major chord that thundered through

the silence I’d survived.

It happened on a Sunday,

those three notes in my head.

A wild run, a stolen kiss,

long hours safe in bed.

Let the light in on a Sunday,

let the love come pouring in.

Let the love in on a Sunday,

let the light come pouring in

on a Sunday, on a Sunday, on a Sunday.”

The door slides open before I finish the first chorus, and then Sly and Marco and a woman in a nursing uniform are all there, staring at me like I’ve suddenly grown three heads. And maybe I have—at this point, nothing would surprise me.

“You’re awake!” Sly sobs as he runs for the bed. “Oh my God, you’re awake.”

He tries to grab hold of me, to hug me, but the nurse steps between us. “Let me just check her out, and then I’ll get the doctor and you two can talk.”

“What happened to me?” I ask, looking between Sly and Marco. “Why am I here?”

“You suffered an oxycodone overdose. You fell, which led to a subdural hematoma,” the nurse tells me as she shines a light in my eyes. “I’m Lena, by the way. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Walker. Welcome back.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too?” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.

“Look to the left, please,” she says with a reassuring smile. “Now the right.”

“Oxycodone?” I repeat, feeling like I’ve somehow landed in the middle of a test where I’ve missed all the important information. “I don’t do oxy—”

“It happened at the party,” Marco tells me. “Someone spiked your drink.”

“Someone spiked my drink?” I repeat, mind racing. I almost never put my drink down when I’m somewhere, just to keep shit like this from happening, but maybe—

“Vivian,” Sly tells me, his voice completely flat. “My agent slipped you enough oxycodone to kill you.”

“The fuck? Vivian? ” Looks like something can shock me after all.

Except, honestly, I’m not sure I’m even surprised. She made it more than obvious she hated me from the second we met. Not like I hate you so much I want to murder you , but also not not like that, either. Huh. This life of mine just keeps getting weirder.

“Are you okay?” Sly asks.

“I don’t know. Am I?” I ask Lena, gesturing to the IV and all the monitors. “I mean, I feel okay.”

“Your responses are good,” Lena assures me. “But I’m going to get the doctor and let him check you out. I’m sure he’ll be able to answer your questions.”

“I’m texting the others to let them know she’s up,” Marco says as his thumbs fly over his phone. “Do you want me to text your family as well, Sly?”

“That’d be great,” Sly answers.

“Others?” I ask at the exact same time.

“Most of your team is here,” Sly tells me. “Pauline and the others go to a hotel at night, but the rest of the time they’ve set up Sloane Walker Headquarters in a conference room on the second floor. They rotate up here to check on you every couple of hours.”

It takes a second for his words to sink in. “At night? Every couple of hours? How long have I been here?”

“You came in on Thursday night. It’s early Sunday morning.” Sly reaches a hand out to stroke my hair, like he can’t quite believe I’m awake—or even alive.

“Sunday morning?” I squeak. “I’ve been out of it for three days?”

“Two and a half, but yeah.” He nods. “Close to three days.”

For the first time, I register how haggard Sly looks. His hair is sticking up, he’s got massive bags under his eyes, his clothes are wrinkled, and his beard has gone far beyond the five-o’clock shadow I know and love.

“Have you been here the whole time?” I ask, shocked.

“Where else could I be, Sloane? I wasn’t going to leave you alone. Not when there was a chance you might…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. “It was really that bad?” I ask, looking between him and Marco. “I could have died?”

“You almost died,” Sly clarifies. “From the oxy and then from the hematoma.”

“Holy shit.” Horror sweeps through me, not at the fact that I nearly died—I’m still here, after all—but I can’t believe what Sly must have gone through. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” he repeats incredulously. “My agent drugged you with enough oxycodone to stop a racehorse, and you’re telling me you’re sorry?”

“I—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t ever say those words to me again. Ever.”

“Ever?” I look at Marco, who shoots me a what are you complaining about? look. “What if we have a fight and it’s my fault? Or I write a mean song and make people bully you on TikTok?”

“I don’t care.” Sly shakes his head vehemently. “After what Vivian did, you’ve got immunity for life.”

“For life?” I’m beginning to sound like a parrot, but did my boyfriend just say he planned on being with me for life? Can oxycodone affect hearing? Reasoning? Am I hallucinating? Or are we really in this?

The fact that that doesn’t seem like the worst idea tells me just how hard I’ve fallen for Sly.

“For life,” he says again, even more adamantly.

“I’m going to get Bryan.” Marco starts for the door.

“Bryan?” Just the mention of my publicist has me sitting up straight as I try to clear the last cobwebs from my brain. “Just how many people know I’m in here?”