Page 49 of Pretty When It Burns (When The Lights Go Down #1)

Chapter forty-six

"Still Yours (From The Doc)" - The Kid Laroi

Grayson

I’m fucking done with hospitals.

Done with the smell—bleach and whatever God-awful cafeteria food is dying a slow death in the vents.

Done with the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, making my brain itch.

Done with the waiting rooms and their cheap, uncomfortable chairs and drab, gray walls, filled with magazines no one wants to read.

But mostly, I’m done with feeling powerless.

I stand in the middle of the emergency room lobby, staring down the front desk like I could make someone appear.

Why is no one here?

Don’t they know there are people out here waiting on life-changing updates? That someone’s whole world might be collapsing just beyond the damn door?

I’m one second away from breaking down the door clearly marked “STAFF ONLY” and demanding some answers when a nurse finally comes out.

“Can I help you folks?” she asks in an overly-nice Texan drawl.

It feels like we’re about to order sweet tea and a chicken sandwich, not beg for someone’s fucking life.

I step forward and put my hands on the desk with a little more force than I mean to.

“Mia Alexander,” I say. “She was in a car accident—a rollover on the way from the airport. I need to see her. Right now.”

The nurse—Kelly, according to her nametag—blinks at me, clearly startled by my abruptness. Guess I’m not following the Southern Hospitality Handbook.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she stammers. “Who are you?”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Everywhere else in the world lately, I can’t walk ten feet without someone knowing exactly who I am. But here, when it actually matters? When it’s life or death?

“Grayson Harris,” I say like it should explain everything.

Jake steps in behind me, sliding both our IDs across the counter as if this is just another post-show errand. Johanna is on my other side, hanging on my arm, trying to keep me from detonating as Rylee paces behind us, unable to stay still.

“Okay,” Kelly says as she looks over the IDs. “These are great, but they still don’t answer the question of who you are to the patient.”

I nearly lose it right there.

“She’s my fiancée,” I say, the lie flying off my lips before I can stop myself.

It isn’t a lie though, not when I mean it.

I mean it.

The minute I know she’s going to be okay, that she’s going to make it, I’m getting out of here and buying her a damn ring.

There will be no confusion after this.

“She doesn’t have anyone listed in her file,” Kelly says gently. “We don’t—”

“Grayson Harris,” I tell her again, slower this time. “Write it down.”

She stares at all of us for a moment—me, Jake, the girls—like she’s weighing more than just a decision. Something finally softens in her eyes.

She nods, slowly.

“Alright, Mr. Harris. You all can come with me. But I don’t have any news right now, other than she’s still in surgery.”

Surgery?

The word hits me like a sledgehammer to my ribs. I can’t help but picture her on the table, surrounded by only strangers who know nothing about her, whose only job is to cut her open. I can’t go through this again—not after Mom.

We’re led into a small family waiting room with vinyl chairs and a couch that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since 1998, with the promise of an update as soon as the surgeon finishes.

I reluctantly take a seat, Johanna sitting beside me immediately, never letting go of my hand.

Rylee and Jake take the seats across from us.

No one speaks.

There’s nothing else to say.

We just sit in the deafening silence, broken only by the occasional squeak of shoes on the tile or an overhead page.

Then the door creaks open again.

I immediately leap out of my seat, thinking it’s a doctor, only to be greeted by Tony, Brandon, and Eric. They’re all still in their clothes from the show, drenched in sweat and looking like they’d sprinted here straight from the venue.

Eric makes his way to Rylee, obviously grateful that the love of his life is still breathing.

Brandon walks over to me but says nothing, putting his hand on my shoulder in solidarity like he knows words aren’t going to cut it.

Tony sits on the floor, back against the wall, pulling at the laces of his boots.

He looks like he’s in the middle of defusing a bomb.

“Do we know anything yet?” Eric asks lightly.

“Just that she’s in surgery,” Rylee tells him, voice muffled against his shirt.

“They made it basically impossible to even sit here,” Jake says, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?” Brandon asks.

“Said we weren’t family,” Johanna huffs. “Grayson wore the nurse down, but they didn’t make it easy.”

Tony scoffs from his spot on the floor. “We are her family. How could they say that?”

“Has anyone called her sisters? Her mom?” Eric asks after a beat.

Rylee untucks herself from his side and pulls out her phone, walking towards the door. “I will. They’ll take it better coming from me.”

I stare down at my hands. They’re still shaking.

Every second that we have to sit here is a new level of agonizing. Just a few hours ago, I was standing in front of twenty thousand people listening to them scream my name, and now…

Now I’m sitting in a poorly lit room, begging God not to take the most important thing in my life away from me.

Then—finally—the door opens, and this time it isn’t a nurse or one of my friends.

A man in navy blue scrubs and a decorative surgical cap steps into the room. His graying hair pokes out of the cap, and his eyes look tired. I can’t read his expression no matter how hard I try.

I stand before he ever says anything, bracing myself for whatever is about to come out of his mouth. Everyone else follows, almost as anxious as I am.

“You must be… Grayson Harris?” he asks, reading my name off his clipboard. “Miss Alexander’s fiancée?”

“What?” Tony blurts from next to me.

“Hush, Tony,” I say quickly. “Yes, that’s me. Is she—God, please—just tell me.”

The doctor nods slowly, as if we have all the time in the world. He motions for us to sit down and takes one of the seats for himself.

“I’m Dr. Hastings. I’m the attending trauma surgeon who operated on Miss Alexander.”

His refusal to use her first name makes my stomach turn.

“She sustained multiple injuries in the crash,” he continues.

“The worst of which was the internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen, which we removed. Then, there was the Grade III laceration to her liver, which we repaired. She also has two broken ribs, a major concussion, and quite a few superficial lacerations and abrasions.”

Every word feels like an attack. Feels like I did those things to her. But I don’t flinch. I need to hear the part that matters.

“Is she alive?” I ask, almost too afraid to say it aloud, but needing to hear the answer.

He finally meets my eyes and nods again.

“She is,” he says. “She’s stable and on her way to recovery. She’s not out of the woods yet—the next twenty-four hours will be critical. But she’s holding on for now.”

“She’s going to make it?” Johanna asks quietly beside me.

“We’re optimistic,” the doctor says. “She’ll be in the ICU overnight, sedated. But she will be allowed one visitor at a time once she’s settled.”

“That will be me,” I insist before anyone else can open their mouth.

No one bothers to argue with me.

“Alright, then,” he says, rising from his chair. “Give the nurses about fifteen minutes to move her and do their post-op exams. Someone will be in to get you when she’s ready.”

I nod, swallowing the pressure that’s been building in my throat.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “For saving her life. For saving mine.”

He tips his head in acknowledgement and leaves. The door clicks shut.

I sigh and let the relief wash over me, feeling as if I’ve just survived a war I’m not done fighting yet.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands locked together like a prayer I don’t know how to say.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” I whisper to myself. “You always said you weren’t going anywhere. Don’t break that promise now.”

A new nurse appears almost exactly fifteen minutes later, as if someone had warned her I might explode if they make me wait even a second longer.

“Mr. Harris?” she asks softly. “We’re ready for you.”

I’m already on my feet before she finishes the sentence. No one tries to follow. The rest of the group just watches me go, quiet, like they know I’m about to walk into the hardest moment of my life.

The walk to the ICU seems like it takes an eternity. Each step echoes louder than it should. Every room we pass holds a person looking like death personified.

Will Mia look like that?

Outside one of the doors, the nurse pauses and turns to me, her hand resting on the handle.

“You might want to prepare yourself,” she says softly.

I stiffen, nod once, and she leads me inside.

The room is dark as the curtains block the early morning glare from coming through the window. The only light comes from the monitors, the green lights pulsing steadily beside the bed. The nurse clicks on the bedside lamp, and there she is.

The girl I would’ve moved mountains to save from this.

My Mia.

Still. Pale. Bruised. Her chest rises and falls rhythmically with the help of the ventilator that’s taped to her mouth.

My knees nearly give out beneath me.

I can’t move.

I can barely breathe.

I feel like I need a ventilator.

It doesn’t feel real—that this is really her. Not until I step closer. I see the flecks of dried blood in her normally silky, chocolate hair. The bruising along her temple. The jagged line of stitches above her eyebrow.

I stumble into the chair beside the bed as the nurse quietly backs out of the room to let me have a moment alone with her.

She doesn’t look like herself, but I know it’s her. When she opens her eyes, they’ll still be that brilliant, beautiful green. When the ventilator comes out, I’ll hear the only voice that keeps me sane. She’s still here. I can still see the girl I love underneath all the damage.

I reach for her hand—gently, as if she might break if I touch her. I lace my fingers through hers and rub soft circles into her palm, the way I always do when I’m trying to keep her calm.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “It’s Gray, baby. You made it. I’m right here.”

Her hand doesn’t move. She doesn’t even flinch. Nothing changes.

But I keep holding on like my life depends on it.

Because it does.

I hate hospitals. But I’ll sit in this one forever if it means I get to see her wake up.

“I’ve got you,” I promise her, my thumb brushing her bruised knuckles. “Just like I said baby, I’ve always got you.”