Page 173 of Finding Delaware

“Come on, Tay, open those pretty eyes. I need to see that you’re okay.”

Glancing at the bottle on the floor, I notice it’s empty, and my breath leaves my lungs. God, please don’t tell me that bottle was full when he took it. The keys dangle in the ignition, and I grab them, stuffing them into my pocket with his phone. Greg appears next to me again as I throw one of Taylor’s arms over my shoulder and lift him out of the truck. His dead weight almost takes me down, but Greg presses into his other side, helping me lift.

“I think I need to get him to the hospital,” I grit out as we drag him to my car, managing to slide him into the backseat. When Greg jumps into the passenger side, I glance at him in surprise. “You don’t need to come with.”

He flicks his hand at me, buckling his belt. “I don’t mind. Just drive.”

So I do. Within ten minutes, I’m pulling into the emergency lane of the nearest medical center, and we both heft Taylor through the automatic doors. We barely make it past the entrance when my boyfriend turns his head, and projectile vomits all over himself and Greg, whose face turns green as he begins to gag.

Shit.

“I am so fucking sorry.”

A nurse behind the counter glances up in surprise as we approach, wrinkling her nose when she takes in our appearance. “Can I help you?”

“I think he has alcohol poisoning. He won’t wake up,” I babble desperately, my arms tightening around Taylor. She stands quickly, coming around the counter with a wheelchair, and we get his limp body into it. When he slumps forward, she holds his shoulder, instructing us to stay where we are as she wheels him away behind a set of double doors. Greg spots a trashcan and makes a beeline for it, unloading his stomach while I wince. Feeling bad, I rub his back as he pukes.

What a hell of a first impression for Taylor.

The nurse returns with a clean sweater folded in her arms and offers it to Greg, who wipes his mouth and takes it with trembling fingers. Then she’s behind the counter again, handing me a clipboard with papers attached. “Your friend is being checked out now. In the meantime, please take a seat and fill out these forms for him.”

I sit in the packed waiting room and answer what I can, listing myself as his stepbrother. Greg opts to take an Uber home instead of sitting here with me, and I don’t blame him one bit. I owe him lunch or something for helping me with this.

With nothing left to do but stare at the clock, anxiety begins to settle in. I clasp my hands behind my neck and lower my head between my knees, willing myself to breathe. What the hell just happened? I am so damn confused. Did something happen at home to set him off?

Pulling his phone out of my pocket, I search for some kind of clue. Normally, I don’t condone going through a partner’s personal shit, but seeing how he almost fucking died, I think an exception can be made. His texts give me nothing, but his call history makes me pause. Jesus. He literally called everyone onhis contact list, including my dad, which is worrisome all on its own. Why was he calling my dad?

Ringing him up on my own phone, I realize too late that it’s after midnight by the time he answers.

“Son? Is everything okay?” He sounds groggy, and I mentally kick myself for waking him up so late.

“Yeah, sorry pops. I just, uh...had a question. Did Taylor call you today?”

“He did earlier this afternoon. Why? What’s going on?”

Swallowing hard, I try to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Nothing, I’m just curious. Did-did he sound alright?”

There’s a brief pause. “Yes, he seemed like himself, though I admit the call was out of the blue. He wouldn’t talk to his mother. Are you sure nothing is wrong, Huckslee?”

“Yeah. Yep, all good. Thanks, Dad. I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”

I hang up before he can answer, leg bouncing erratically, and send texts to all Taylor’s friends, asking if anything happened that made him drive out here. They all respond the same, Christian saying he’s been down since I left and wanted to surprise me for graduation. So what the fuck is going on?

“Huckslee Davis?”

Glancing up, I see the doctor gesture for me, and I stand quickly to follow her back.

“How is he?”

“Luckily, he’s fine. The alcohol in his system didn’t warrant a stomach pump, but he is very dehydrated. We’re giving him fluids now, you should be fine to take him home in a few hours.”

My shoulders sag with relief as she leads me to a large room with several beds, all divided by curtains. She slides one out of the way to reveal Taylor, still passed out, lying on his back with tubes in his arms. I freeze for a moment, blinking away memories of my mom in her hospital bed.

Not now, Huckslee. We can freak out later.

The doctor continues, checking his vitals. “You’re free to sit with him until he wakes up. When he does, alert one of the nurses so they can give him a once over before discharge.”

Sitting down next to the bed, I take in his still form as the doctor shuts the curtain and leaves us alone. They’ve exchanged his soiled shirt for a light blue smock, the color making his sallow cheeks look even paler than usual. His hair is a greasy mess, hanging in strings around his face, with dried vomit on his chin. Fuck, he looks nothing like he did when I last saw him at the airport a week ago when he dropped me off.

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