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She pulls away and looks at me through narrowed eyes like she isn’t sure if she should believe me.
We stand there, holding each other in that empty hallway for longer than I can keep track of. She feels good against me, like if I were anywhere but here, everything would be right in the world. But it isn’t, and I can’t focus on anything right now.
All of a sudden a code blue is announced over the loud speaker, and my world shatters. Without thinking, without breathing, I run toward Flynn’s room and see a handful of people hurrying inside, wheeling some kind of mechanism with them.
I hear the flat line tone—the one I’ve only ever heard in movies—and I fall to my knees.
Forty-Three
Isla
Temerate (v.) to break a bond
or promise.
___________
“Bordeaux!” I scream, pounding on his hotel room door.
The last few hours have been a whirlwind. I went from being tangled up with Bordeaux, to being ushered into a car after a scary phone call, to finding out Flynn had overdosed and racing to the hospital. I stood up to that bitch Carleeta. And then, just when Bordeaux and I were finally talking for the first time after everything, Flynn died.
The doctors and nurses brought him back to life after a grueling seven minutes, but he isn’t out of the woods, not by a longshot. In fact, Flynn’s mom Betty came in to talk to all of us after she was briefed by the medical staff, and she told us that the prognosis isn’t good.
And that’s when the band collectively lost it.
It felt like, before the code blue was called, the three of them were remaining at least a sliver hopeful. But after Betty came in, it’s like all the air inside the room evaporated. Betty held it together, and I have no idea how she did it. She talked quietly, calmly, and while she said the prognosis doesn’t look good, she smiled. She said she has faith and that Flynn’s a strong person.
I hope she’s right because right now, it isn’t just his life hanging in the balance. Declan, Miller, and Bordeaux all became totally unhinged. Declan ran from the room, Miller slid down the wall that was holding him up and started sobbing, and Bordeaux broke the hospital room mirror and fled. I had to track him down and finally found out from his security team that he came back to the hotel we had rented last night.
I knew he was frustrated. I knew he was distraught and sad and absolutely fucking terrified. But I did not know he was planning to shut me out.
I swallow and feel like there’s a golf ball-sized lump in my throat. Tears sting my eyes, spilling down my cheeks, because all I want to do is hold him. To have him hold me. To tell him that I’m here, and that I’m not going anywhere.
Why is he pushing me away right now?
He’s in his room with no one, doing God knows what, and hurting. And I just want to help. That’s all I want to do.
I let my tears flow, not caring what the two security guards who stand on either side of his door think of me.
“B, please! Let me in!” I beg and I hate myself. But I love him.
I love him so much. And he’s shutting me out.
I throw myself onto the floor, still pounding on his door, putting my ear up to the cold metal to try to hear if he’s moving around in there. I’m worried about him. Not worried that he’ll hurt himself—because I don’t think he would—I’m just worried about his mental state.
“Please don’t do this,” I yell again, my voice hoarse, but he doesn’t answer the door and he doesn’t speak.
* * *
I wake up hours later, falling asleep against his door, exhaustion finally hitting me. The security guards are still here, and the door is still closed.
I sigh and massage my throbbing temples. I wanted this to all be a nightmare, but here we are. Well, technically, here I am. And there he is.
I look up at one of the men, I think his name is Greg. I remember Bordeaux hugging him after his show, thanking him for everything he does. That’s the Bordeaux I need to open up the door, not this one who all of a sudden wants to ignore me and act like I don’t exist. I understand grieving. I get it. But Flynn isn’t dead. He’s alive. And it almost feels as if Bordeaux is treating the situation like Flynn’s already dead.
“Have you heard from him?” I ask, feeling pathetic. Shame ruminates in my bones. I wonder how many times they’ve had to escort screaming, crying women from his tour bus and hotel rooms. Am I just another screaming, crying, pathetic woman to them?
I look down at my phone that is now only ten percent charged and audibly gasp when I see that there’s almost one hundred missed calls and double the amount of text messages.
