A smile tugs on his lips when he glances down at the massive congregation of Rise Up fans still swelling in size. If they continue growing at the rate they are, authorities will need to close the road to ensure safety is maintained.
“It’s great to see so many fans supporting him. There are even more at the entrance of the hospital.”
Smiling, I close the curtain on the window. “They love him nearly as much as I do.”
When I pace away from the windowsill, my steps not as rattled as the ones I took earlier, Cormack follows me to Noah’s bedside. “Can I ask you something, Emily?”
Nodding, I sit on the edge of Noah's bed before carefully grasping his hand in mine. Bile creeps up my esophagus when I spot the forlorn look on Cormack's face. He’s quick to replace it with a smile, but he’s not quite quick enough.
His throat works hard to swallow before he says, "I want your permission to release the acoustic version of 'Surrender Me' as a limited exclusive release single." His eyes drop to Noah, who's face is sterner than it was moments ago. "Fifty percent of the profits will be donated to a Brain Injury Research Center in Noah's name."
Air snags halfway to my lungs as tears burn my eyes.The first tests on Noah’s brain were unable to determine if he’ll have side effects from his brain swelling. He had additional tests done earlier this week, but we've not yet been given the preliminary findings.
While stepping closer to me, Cormack removes his iPhone from his pocket. His fingers tap the screen before he hands his phone to me. I squeeze Noah’s hand, drag mine down my pants, then accept Cormack’s phone. With how sweaty my hands were, I didn’t want to run the risk of dropping his expensive phone.
As I watch the video playing on the screen, moisture pools in my eyes. Noah is in a recording booth, standing in front of a microphone. He has black headphones on, and the guitar I brought him for his birthday is in his hands. It's the fight of my life not to let my tears flow when he begins performing the acoustic version of 'Surrender Me.' His rendition matches the performance he completed on MTV to perfection.
When the song finishes, Noah’s eyes pop open. He smiles a panty-dropping grin when he realizes he has a camera pointed at him. With a wink, he mutters, “I love you, beautiful,” while peering down the camera lens.
The deep chuckle of Slater barrels out of the speakers before he turns the camera to face himself. “I love you too, Noah,” he declares cheekily, his brows waggling.
Once the recording ends, I hesitate in handing Cormack back his phone. Noah was so carefree and happy back then. That was only weeks ago. How did everything change so quickly?
I freeze when reality dawns.
It all changed because ofme.
My stomach churns in protest to the sudden change in my heart rate. I try to swallow down the bile surging up my throat, but it’s too strong for me to contain. Pushing off my feet, I bolt to the bathroom, where the dinner I ate last night reenters the world in the most ghastly way. My heaves are so violent, it takes several gut-wrenching minutes for my swirling stomach to settle.
After sitting on the balls of my feet, I pull off a square of toilet paper to soak up the vomit from the corner of my mouth. Confident I don't have any mess on my face, I stand from my hunched position, then pace to the vanity, badly needing to brush my teeth.
Forgetting I have company, I jump in fright when I spot Cormack leaning against the bathroom door. His pupils are wide, and his eyes are brimming with silent interrogations. Fear my secret is about to be exposed increases when his eyes dart down to my stomach. My bump is tiny but noticeable.
When Cormack’s panicked gaze returns to me, his brows scrunch. “Emily?” The confusion in his tone ask more questions than his words ever could.
Hoping to change the course of our conversation, I blubber out, “I give you permission to release the song.”
Cormack’s pupils widen; his excitement unmissable.
“But can you do me a favor?”
My question dampens his gleeful response, but not enough for him not to nod.
“Noah would want all the proceeds to go to the brain institute. Can you do that for him?”
A broad smile morphs on Cormack’s face before he once again nods.
15
Acouple of hours later, a smile curves on my lips as my eyes rake Noah’s face and body. Since his muscles atrophied, he’s lost a few pounds, his olive complexion is lighter than usual, and he’s grown a full, scruffy beard, but the Noah I love is still lying in that hospital bed.
Appearances can be deceiving, but nothing can quell a fighting spirit. Noah's spirit is one of the things I love about him the most.
I stop placing a kiss on Noah's warm cheek when a clicking sound comes from outside of his room. When I hold up my arm to protect my eyes from the bright, artificial light illuminating the room, I see a member of the paparazzi in the corridor, snapping photos of Noah in his unconscious state.
“What are you doing? Get out of here.” I use my body to block his view of Noah. “Security,” I shout at the top of my lungs when the cameraman continues taking photos. “Security!” I yell again, louder this time.
The paparazzi digs his elbow into my stomach in an attempt to barge past me. It rockets pain through my stomach, but I maintain my firm stance, refusing to let him use my fiancé as a meal ticket.
