Page 11 of The Ballad of Us
The stranger examines me as concern creases his brow. "Looks like someone beat the hell out of him and left him for dead."
I laugh, because what else can you do when your life has become a country song cliché? "I feel this way most mornings when I wake up. I'm a hangover professional."
Andrew starts throwing money around, trying to buy his way out of another mess I've created. He puts out the exorbitant amount of twenty thousand dollars to the stranger to babysit me, his fuckup brother.
"That's Gray Garrison. Look him up on the Internet, call an ambulance, and please don't tip off the media,” Andrew tells him.
The stranger holds up a photo from his phone, comparing it to my face.
What does he think is the difference between the man on his screen and the broken thing bleeding on the pavement in front of him? Does he see the moment everything went wrong? Can he pinpoint exactly when I lost her?
The world starts to fade around the edges, noise around me becoming distant echoes. My name is being shouted in the background, but it's not the voice I want to hear. It's not Rhea whispering that she’ll come back.
"Mr. Garrison? Can you hear me?"
Bright lights stab through my eyelids. Harried, worried voices are asking questions I don't have answers to.
"Mr. Garrison, can you tell us what you took?"
What did I take? I took her coffee mug, favorite sweater, and the book she was reading with the bookmark still on chapter three.
What did I take?
Not enough to make it stop hurting.
"I don't—" The words are cut off by another wave of nausea.
"Rhea," I call out, because even here, even now, she's the only name that matters. She's the only one who can save me from myself.
The steady beep of a monitor pulls me back to consciousness, each sound a reminder that I'm still here, still breathing, and still existing in a world without her.
"Fucking turn it off!"
"Can't. It's how they know your dumb ass is still alive.” Andrew's voice cuts through the haze. He's sitting beside my hospital bed like a guard dog, full of anger and disappointment, wrapped in concern he doesn't want to show.
"Where am I?"
"Emory Hospital in Atlanta." His jaw ticks with barely controlled rage. "You've been missing for three days, Gray. How the hell did you end up five hours from home?"
Three days of my life are gone, erased by whatever cocktail of poison I used to try to forget her. Three days passed, and she probably didn't even notice I was missing.
"Did we play a show?" Maybe there's a reason I'm here that doesn't involve the fact that I'm falling apart without her.
"No, we haven't played a live show in six months. You've been missing for three days, Gray." His exasperation is palpable.
I scan the room, looking for the only face that could make any of this bearable. "Where's Rhea?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke, toxic and choking.
"What do you mean? Rhea's gone." Andrew's expression shifts from anger to pity, and I hate him for it.
Gone.
I try to sit up, but my ribs scream in protest, and the machines tethering me to this bed remind me that I'm trapped in this room, in my broken body, and in a world where my girl doesn't want me anymore.
"Where is she?" Surely, I’m not the only one lost without her.
"Don't know. She disappeared and won't answer our calls or messages." He’s clearly not happy about being locked out by Rhea, too.
