Page 4 of A Love Song for Dreamers

I square my shoulders before heading inside. Tyler fills the bed with his broad frame, and it’s shocking to see him so still. He’s always full of life. Even when he’s contained, there’s a latent energy. Tonight—this morning—there’s nothing. And that terrifiesme.

I stop beside the bed, peering down at his pale face. They’ve taken off the mask, and there are traces of lines on his face from where it sat. A thick white bandage covers from mid-forearm to his hand. His pale fingers stick out theend.

I lean over him. “Hey, handsome. How’re youfeeling?”

His eyes open half an inch, and his mouth moves a moment before producing a raspy sound. “Good as Ilook.”

A breath whooshes out of me to hear him speak, as if I thought I might not again. “Beck and Elle and Rae are here. And Zeke. Do you need something else for thepain?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I can’t feel my hand. It won’t move. I can’t…” His eyesclose.

My gaze drags to his hand again. There’s no hint of a rusty red stain through the white gauze, but my stomach turnsanyway.

I can’t imagine what he’s going through. Not only physically, but the shock and hearing the doctor relay any part of what he toldus.

The idea of him not being able to pick up his guitar tomorrow, to do what he’s always done, washes over me in a wave ofgrief.

I want to hug him, or kiss him, or even cry. Instead, I force myself to be strong for him. Forus.

“I’m glad you’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” I amend. I start to reach for his good hand, then see a spot of blood I missed on my wrist and tug Rae’s sweater down to hideit.

“AmI?”

He says it so quietly I almost missit.

2

When my eyes crack open,the world is black andempty.

Maybe I’m not awake after all. Maybe I’mdead.

But as I turn my head, something cool and soft glides across my cheek. Satiny sheets. They’re over me and under me, and my head is cushioned by a fat, fluffypillow.

The green numbers on the digital clock next to my bed read 11:51.

I’ve woken up plenty and not known where I was, but as the hotel room comes back to me, I realize I’ve done it two mornings in a row. The blackness from the heavy curtains doesn’thelp.

My arm is numb. It’s an improvement over the first time I woke up this morning, when it felt as if each muscle was being peeled from my fingers to myelbow.

Once when I was a kid, a brick from a construction site my friends and I were screwing around at fell on my hand from a stack a few feethigh.

I couldn’t feel my fingers for a couple hours. Itsucked.

I’d give anything for that feeling now. What I have instead alternates between pain and numbness. Hell’s see-saw.

I shift out of bed, the rest of my muscles aching. I can’t shower because of the bandages, but I drag my body to the en-suite bathroom to take abath.

When the doctor told me what happened two nights ago, the mess of painkillers kept me in a dizzy state ofdenial.

Lacerations. Severed tendons. Long-termdamage.

All of it means I can’t playguitar.

The emotions blur together like the sensations. There’s panic, clawing at my throat. Disbelief, hammering in my head. And underneath it all, a grief I can’t look at too closely yet because it means something I’m not ready toaccept...

That no matter how long I sleep, in no world will I wake up and have everything beokay.

When I get out of the bath, I go to the drawer of clothes Beck brought over yesterday from our apartment. I grab boxer briefs and sweatpants and tug them on before heading out to the living room of the hotel suite. The smell of coffee is a small mercy, as is the shape of the girl in thekitchenette.

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