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 ofwho you areto 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 ofhislife 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.
