It’s been over ten years since the last time I’d had a catatonic episode, but I’ll never forget this feeling. The way people look at me when I come out of it. I thought I had been cured of it forever. After going so long without the experience, I believed I wouldn’t have to face it ever again. Maybe that’s not the case. Perhaps a brain, once broken, always remains broken.
“Did it happen again?” I ask softly, turning to look at Marcus with a frown. My throat feels dry and scratchy like I’ve been screaming.
Marcus confirms it with a slight nod and a sad smile. He remembers what it was like dealing with these episodes before—that’s probably why he’s not freaked out about it now. I’m a little more freaked out. Maybe he can see that because he says warmly, “We’ll keep an eye on it, but I think it’s okay. This was a pretty traumatic experience for everyone.”
“Why is everyone here?” I’m still disoriented. I can tell I’m missing something in the significance.
“They’re here for you, baby.” Tiff smiles, taking my overturned hand and wrapping her fingers around it tightly. “They came as soon as we called.”
I stare at her blankly, my face reflecting my confusion. And then it clicks.They’re here for me.To support me or prop meup as needed. They heard I was in trouble and came out in my greatest hour of need, even though it’s so late.
I don’t know why it touches me so profoundly. Maybe it’s because I got so used to feeling like every other day was an emergency after my dad died, so the continuous support started to feel cloying. My constant mental health crises and emotional baggage began to feel burdensome, especially when they all moved on to different stages of their lives with their own families. I stopped asking them to show up—kept more of my issues to myself to avoid worrying them.
Even though I haven’t had anything significant happen in the last few years that needed their support, the mindset stuck.You’re a burden. Don’t bother them with your nonsense. They’re tired of your bullshit.But here they are now, disproving that faulty logic. Just like Luke’s tight unit out in New York, my friends—myfamily—will stick by me no matter what. It’s a comforting thought.
Like a flash, I realize the one thing I haven’t asked—the one thing I don’t know. “Luke?” I gasp, my heart rate spiking.
“Luke’s still in surgery,” Tiff replies quickly, seeing the panic in my eyes. Her voice is calm. “He’s been in there for a few hours already. He’s lost a lot of blood and went into cardiac arrest at least once on the table, but he’s fighting. He’s fighting with everything he has.”
Hearing those words, my heart feels lighter. The sliver of hope I was so afraid to grasp suddenly takes more purchase in my soul, gripping me in a vise.Luke’s fighting.And yet, even hearing that, my anxiety rears its head to challenge it in typical doom and gloom fashion.But what if he loses the fight? What if something else goes wrong? What happens if he doesn’t pull through?
Tiff squeezes my hand again as if she can read the worries on my face. Her smile is warm, radiating like a beacon of sunpeeking through a dark and stormy sky, reminding me there is warmth beyond the clouds. I can’t seem to look away from her shining optimism. “He’s made it this far. Don’t lose hope.”
The waiting is excruciating—waiting for answers, waiting for bad news. It’s all tied up in a bubble of uncertainty while we’re stuck in this room.
It’s nearly 6 a.m. now, and there haven’t been any updates. The waiting room has gotten more crowded with people we don’t know who are here for their loved ones, too. The room's atmosphere is somber, sharply contrasted by the televisions blasting good-morning talk shows with their chipper hosts.
Everyone isexhausted, sleeping awkwardly or dozing off in their chairs, but I’m too wired to even consider closing my eyes. My brain won’t stop contemplating all the what-if scenarios circulating like a cosmic duststorm of confusion: what if Luke doesn’t make it through this? What if there’s irreparable damage? What if the bullet’s ruined his lungs so bad he’ll never be able to sing again? Will we have a chance to resolve our issues? What could I have done differently?
My restlessness gets so bad that I get up and start pacing. It’s like my brain is zapping my body with a barrage of electrical currents, and if I don’t dispel the energy, the static will build until I self-combust. I can feel it all the way to my toes.
Marcus snaps awake when I accidentally trip over his outstretched leg, only to see me pacing like a frazzled mess. He yawns and stretches, gesturing for me to sit down beside him. At first, I don’t want to, but then Marcus grabs my arm and gently pulls me down.
“You’re spiraling,” he says, giving me a stern once-over.
“I can’t help it,” I whine. My leg starts bouncing in place of the pacing, and I run my hand back and forth over my jeans. “I keep thinking about what would have happened if we’d gotten there sooner. Or maybe if I’d rushed Pete before he could get off that shot.”
“There wasn’t a better opportunity for you to do it except for when you did. Not in a way that wouldn’t have caused more bloodshed. He was deranged—erratic. You hit him at the right moment.”
“But Luke—"
“Ethan, yousavedLuke’s life,” Marcus says emphatically. “I saw where Pete was aiming before your tackle changed the trajectory. If you had been a millisecond too late, Luke would have been shot in the head.”
I gape at him, shocked.
“I’m serious,” he stresses. “You distracted that asshole and threw off his aim. I watched it happen. If you hadn’t done that, Luke would have died right there. You saved him.”
Hearing those words sends a complicated feeling through my gut. Relief mixed with nauseating dread to think I had that kind of effect. Except, now all I can think about is what would have happened if Ihadn’tjumped in when I did. Curse my overactive imagination.
Still, the long wait eventually comes to an end.
A doctor appears, calling out for the family of Luke Shaw, and I jump up so quickly that it would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying. The man’s face is stoic, so it’s impossible to tell what kind of news he’s bringing. Everyone wakes up and gathers around to listen. Tiff puts her hand in mine again, squeezing it hard. I can feel how hard my heart is beating in my chest.
“The surgery went well,” the doctor says first, washing away the suspense. “We were able to extract the bullets from the chest and left arm, as well as the shrapnel from the surroundingtissues. He’sincrediblylucky. The left arm was the most severe of the two injuries. The bullet fractured the humerus, causing the bone to splinter, but we were able to set and reconstruct it. We won’t know the extent of any nerve damage until he’s recovered, but it looks promising. Thankfully, the bullet in the chest cavity missed several significant arteries, and his lung, so it was a clean extraction. If it had been an inch lower, this would be a different conversation.”
Marcus grips my shoulder, giving me a ‘What did I tell you?’look. I can hardly believe it.
“He’s in critical but stable condition,” the doctor continues. “He’ll be recovering in the ICU for a few days until we can ensure his vital signs strengthen. He lost a lot of blood from the two injuries, and we want to make sure his heart doesn’t give out from the strain while he’s healing.”
