Page 55 of Three Months Yesterday

“No.” The word leaves my mouth before I think. “I need to stay with her.”

Need. I don’t know how true that word is until it’s past my lips. If I can’t stay with her…if I can’t see with my own two eyes that she’s taken care of…I don’t know what I’ll do, but I think I might break.

I know it doesn’t make sense, but there’s a part of me that truly believes if I lose sight of her, she won’t survive. I can’t be the reason someone else dies.

The medic studies me for half a second before looking to Aiden again.

Aiden doesn’t hesitate. “He stays.”

The rear doors swing open and Madison is loaded inside, monitors already being connected. The blood pressure cuff inflates around her arm while adhesive leads are placed across her chest. The rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor fills the small space, and some of the tension lifts from my chest at the sound.

I climb in after them and take the narrow seat along the wall, trying to stay out of their way.

The doors slam shut behind me and one of the paramedics settles onto the bench across from me. I don’t know if he says anything or even pays me any attention, all my focus is on Madison, my eyes never leaving her.

For one terrifying second nothing changes. Then a tiny crease forms between her eyebrows and her fingers twitch at her side.

“Madison?” I lean forward before I can stop myself.

Another small movement as her eyelashes flutter.

“Madison,” I say again, my voice shaking now. “Hey…you’re okay.”

A soft groan escapes her lips and pain washes across her face as she fights to open her eyes.

“There you go,” the paramedic encourages. “Don’t try to move. You’ve had a fall.”

Her eyelids lift only halfway before squinting against the bright lights overhead. She looks disoriented, struggling to focus as her gaze drifts across the ceiling before slowly landing on me.

For a heartbeat, she simply stares.

“Beckett?” The sound of my name has never meant so much.

“I’m here,” I force out through the emotion swelling in my throat.

She blinks slowly, her brow furrowing. “What happened?”

I feel the burn in my nose and have to swallow before I can speak. “You took a fall,” I answer softly, reaching for her hand, finally giving in to the urge to touch her. “We’re in an ambulance on our way to the hospital.”

Her eyes begin to close again, and I squeeze her hand, silently begging her to keep them open. She answers with another quiet groan before opening her eyes once more, this time they immediately land on me.

A multitude of emotions flash through her eyes—fear, confusion, panic—and I force a smile despite the knot tightening in my chest. “You’re gonna be fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

The ambulance bumps along, sirens wailing as it speeds away from the cottage, and I stay exactly where I promise—right beside her.

The fluorescent lights of the ER buzz with an irritating frequency, casting everything in a harsh white glow that makes the antiseptic smell even more pronounced, burning the back of my throat. It’s like a punch to the gut, a constant reminder of the pain I’ve caused someone else I care about.

The waiting room moves in and out of focus. A nurse asks me for Madison’s full name, another asks if I’m family. When I tell them no, I’m told I have to wait until the doctors see her before I can be with her.

The television mounted in the corner plays some show on HGTV. A vending machine whirs as someone buys a snack. Hushed voices of other loved ones crowded in the busy waiting room.

I notice all of it and none of it.

I’ve been here before—the waiting, the helplessness, the not knowing—but the circumstances were different.

Last time I was lying in a hospital bed dealing with my own injuries. I experienced it all before, but I barely had time to let any of it settle before something else pulled my attention. This time, all I have is the worry and anxiety.

All of my focus is on the woman behind the doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The doors that silently mock me. The ones that swallowed Madison whole while I was forced to stay here—waiting.