Pain. Deep and searing pain shot through Trevor’s arm, made him scream. Loud noises, whirring, jostling him from side to side.
“Hey, buddy, it’s okay. That’s the IV line. You’re in a helicopter. We’re taking good care of you.” Booming male voice, like a preacher projecting from the pulpit.
Helicopter. He’d never wanted to ride one of those. Too dangerous. The pain intensified before it lessened, letting him slip back into that fuzzy black space where he felt nothing.
Voices occasionally filtered into his fluffy cloud, but he floated on.
“Buddy? Buddy?”
“Can you tell me your name?”
No, no he couldn’t. He wanted to laugh, but a steel door had walled off access to his voice box.
“Can you tell me how long you’ve been diabetic?”
Whir. Buzz. Bump. Bump. His cloud was moving, the side-to-side jostling replaced with cool air.
“Does anyone know when his last insulin dose was?” Clipped female voice with a pleasing accent. I could listen to you all day.
He giggled, the laugh smothered by the edges of his cloud.
“Do you have a current blood sugar reading?” Her accent made current sound downright tasty.
Thump. Bump. Whump.
Bright lights. Loud voices.
More pain, this time in his other arm.
“How many vials did the doctor order?”
“Man, his veins are wiggly.” Young male voice, cocky. Trevor tried to get away, but a firm pressure on his arm kept him down.
“Has anyone paged Dr. Steffens?”
Pain. Tug. Tug.
“Oww.” That voice was his own.
“Sorry, buddy, trying to get you more comfortable.” Booming voice was back, comforting and familiar.
A pat on his shoulder.
“Okay, buddy, I’m heading out. Back to the copter. The staff here’s going to take good care of you.”
“Ungh.” He didn’t want anyone taking care of him. No one except for Jalen. Jalen. The name played over and over as he drifted along on his cloud, unable to toss off the cotton covering his senses. “Jalen!”
“What’s that, sweetie? Think you could handle an ice chip?” A pleasant voice, this one attached to someone who smelled like roses, like his grandma.
“Noo. Need Jalen.” His voice sounded rough and unfamiliar.
“He’s not here, sweetie. You’re in the hospital. Do you remember what happened?”
No. No. He didn’t want to remember. “I . . . fell.”
“Did you check your blood sugar today?”
“High.” He didn’t want to talk about this. Wanted his soft fluffy cloud back.
“How about your ketones? Check those?”
“What’s those?”
A heavy sigh answered him. “You’ve been out a while now. Finally got enough blood from you, too. You were very dehydrated. We had to catheterize you to get a urine sample.”
Hell. That was the strange pain in his groin. His dick hurt. “How . . . how . . . long?”
“About four hours now.”
His eyes shot open. Bright lights. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”
“See?” The grandma voice directed him to his throbbing arm. A bunch of medical tape bracketed a large needle. He closed his eyes again. “That’s insulin coming in your IV. That’s why you’re feeling better. I’m going to let the doctor know you’re awake now.”
“No, wait! Don’t go.”
“It’s okay, dear. I’ll be back.”
“Please. I need Jalen. I need to tell him sorry. Please.” His throat felt dry and scratchy and he closed his eyes against the sting of tears.
“I’ll check the waiting area. See if anyone came for you.”
Please let him come. Please.
“Screw HIPAA.” Jalen threw his legs up on an empty waiting room chair across from him. And screw the whole concept of waiting room. Bunch of terrified strangers sitting on barely padded chairs all pretending they weren’t there for the same reason, no one daring to make eye contact and acknowledge the reflection of all their fears. This wasn’t waiting. It was hell, pure and simple.
“Jalen,” Dawn warned, her eyes zooming between his feet and his face. She frowned, a whole lecture on proper sitting in her eyes.
Nope. Jalen’s legs were staying put. It was well after midnight, and there were only half a dozen people left in the waiting area.
She sighed heavily. “Want me to go ask again?”
She’d had only marginally better luck than Jalen at getting information—Trevor was no longer in the ER, had been transferred to a critical care unit, and was stable. That was it. Four plus hours of waiting and what they knew could be summed up in less than a sentence.
Dawn’s phone buzzed in her lap. She looked down. “Oh good. Trevor’s brother will be here in the morning. He’s flying into SEATAC and renting a car.”
“Great. See. His parents can’t even be bothered to come themselves.” Jalen crossed his arms over his chest. Didn’t matter how Dawn tried to spin it, he refused to believe that Trevor’s family coming was anything other than bad news.
“They’re probably busy booking his stay at a conversion therapy place.” Carter voiced Jalen’s worst nightmare. Well, second worst nightmare. First was Trevor not waking up.
“You two are impossible. I’m getting coffee.” She stood up, the plastic chair creaking as if it, too, were weary and sick of these circular conversations.
“I’ll come, too,” Carson said. He’d been sitting next to Carter, neither touching nor talking, a strange energy swirling around the two of them. “You guys want anything?”
“Nah.” Jalen was plenty jazzed without caffeine.
“Coffee with—”
“I know how you take your coffee.” Carson’s mouth was a grim line as he addressed Carter for the first time all evening. “We’ll be back.”
“He’s never forgiving me,” Carter said as Dawn and Carson headed down the corridor, out of earshot.
“Eh. Never say never.” Jalen was fresh out of empathy.
“Jalen?” An older nurse came into the waiting room. “Is one of you Jalen?”
Jalen’s throat muscles locked up, refused to even let him nod.
“He is.” Carter elbowed him hard.
“You’re here about Trevor Daniels?” she asked, coming to stand directly in front of them. She smelled like roses and had pink cheeks and a halo of graying blond hair.
“Yeah.” Every hope and fear Jalen had lodged itself in that one word.
“He’s asking for you.”
“He’s awake?” Carter was far more equipped to ask questions than Jalen.
“Yes. He’s stable now.”
Medical people sure did love that word that said absolutely nothing. “He’s going to be okay?”
“He’s had quite the scare.” She artfully dodged the question. “And he’s quite agitated. I shouldn’t be allowing him visitors this late at night, but if it calms him down and keeps him from ripping his IV out, I think we can have a short visit.”
She motioned with her hand for Jalen to follow her. He stood, then glanced at Carter.
“Go on, man. I’ll tell the others where you are. Tell him we’re all rooting for him.”
“Will do.” Jalen’s throat burned as he followed the nurse down the corridor, away from the elevators that Dawn and Carter had disappeared down.
“So you’re the boyfriend?” she asked as they took a fast right, then a quick left. He was so preoccupied with trying to memorize the route back to the waiting area that he almost missed her question.
“Uh.” He wasn’t sure which option would get him to Trevor faster.
“I know my son’s boyfriend would be absolutely frantic in your shoes,” she said conversationally.
“Yeah. I’m the boyfriend.” It was the first time he’d ever said the words outside of the show, and they ricocheted off the barren walls of the long hallway, headed straight back for his heart. It didn�
��t matter what Trevor would call them out in public like this, didn’t matter what Dawn thought—all that mattered was the truth in his heart. I’m his.
And then they were in front of a group of rooms that were more cubicles than rooms, each with a glass front facing a central nursing station. “We’ll be moving him to a regular room as soon as the doctor signs off. Probably in the morning. And he’s going to have an MRI in a bit.”
“MRI?” That sounded scary.
“Oh he’s just getting all the tests,” she said in a breezy tone that implied she’d already said too much and wasn’t going to provide more clarity. “I just wanted to let you know that someone will be in to transport him for some tests.”
“Ah.” Translation: don’t expect privacy.
She led him into the farthest cubicle, not bothering to knock at the open door. “Dearie? You awake?”
Well, if he wasn’t, he sure is now.
“Ungh.” A white-blanketed lump in the center of a too-big bed groaned.
Jalen’s heart twisted up tighter than one of Tash’s hemp bracelets. Trevor looked so small and pale. His hair stuck up and a large bruise bloomed on his cheek. I didn’t keep him safe. Undoubtedly, Trevor had other bruises from his fall, and Jalen’s stomach churned at the thought. He was hooked up to a complicated IV stand with lights and all sorts of monitors surrounding the bed. The nurse flitted around the room, checking the monitors, clucking softly to herself.
“Go on.” As she returned to Jalen’s side, she pushed him forward.
I’m not sure I can do this. I’m not strong enough.
“Trev?” The word was a ghost on his lips, more breath than volume.
“Jalen?” Trevor shifted, then winced. “You’re really here?”
“I’m really here.” Jalen’s feet seemed to have put down deeper roots than the ginkgo in his mothers’ front yard.
“Now, remember what I said. Calming.” The nurse patted his shoulder one last time before retreating from the room.
“J?” Trevor squirmed, groaning again. “Vision’s still a bit wonky. Come closer?”
Step. Step. Step. Four steps took him to Trevor’s side, but Jalen sweated like he’d climbed one of the towering mountains they’d passed yesterday on the bus. Yesterday, which felt like a different solar system ago.
“Hey.” Unbidden, Jalen’s finger shot out to trace the bruise on Trevor’s face, skate across his swollen nose to land on Trevor’s lips. A weird little hello, but it got a weary smile out of Trevor. He kissed Jalen’s finger. His lips were dry and scratchy.
“You thirsty?” Jalen asked, fingers going lower to rest on Trevor’s jaw. He’s really here. He really didn’t die.
“Very.” Trevor’s voice was just as papery as his lips. “But nothing by mouth for a while longer, the nurse said.”
“Guess I shouldn’t kiss you, then,” Jalen cracked.
“I probably reek.” Trevor’s mouth and nose pinched up, and then Jalen was pretty much obligated to kiss him, so he leaned over the bed rail and gave Trevor the world’s fastest peck.
“You’re all right.”
“No, I’m not.” Trevor’s eyes fluttered shut again. “I’m a mess. And you probably hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” Jalen said softly, stroking the arm that didn’t have the IV.
“So you’re not mad at me?”
No, I’m furious at you for not telling me you were sick. Furious at myself for the phone screwup. So freaking mad that you didn’t trust me. Didn’t give me a chance to fix you. To keep you safe. Not all of Jalen’s thoughts were logical. Or nice. But what was he supposed to say to the guy who had almost died? The nurse had told him to be calming. All he could do was nod. “Nah. Not mad.”
Trevor’s eyes opened, held Jalen’s, and Jalen’s stomach went queasy, like Trevor could see all the way through to the candy bar he’d had an hour ago. All the way through the truth Jalen wasn’t speaking. But whatever he saw, Trevor didn’t say anything. He nodded sleepily, hand casting around until he grabbed Jalen’s.
“Don’t leave.” He squeezed Jalen’s hand, nowhere near his usual strength in his hand.
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” Jalen said even though he had no business making promises. So many things threatened to tear them apart—Trevor’s family, the hospital, the tests looming for Trevor, heck, even the show and Dawn. Not to mention the anger and fear he had simmering beneath the surface. That noxious emotional sludge would have to come out eventually. He meant his words, though, rearranging stuff so that he could perch on the edge of Trevor’s bed. “You rest now.”
“Now I can.” Trevor tugged until their linked hands were over his chest, already asleep before Jalen could say the words pressing at the back of his throat. They’d been a dull roar ever since the festival, when he’d hurled them at Dawn, become an anxious drum beat in his head on the drive here, and welled up again as soon as he saw Trevor.
Trevor let out a soft snore.
Fuck it. Jalen didn’t know how many more chances he’d get. “Love you,” he said, leaning in to kiss Trevor’s sleeping face.
Chapter Eighteen
@NextDirectionShow So grateful for all the love for
@StandOutTrevor & happy to report he’s on the mend! #Love4Trevor
@CarsonNCarter Get better @StandOutTrevor! We need you, bro! You’re the heart of our group. #Love4Trevor
@CarterNCarson Send some love to my boy
@StandOutTrevor! Pretty scary night, but he’ll be back. #BestGuyInOurGroup
@HeatLoss_Guys Scary stuff @StandOutTrevor! Get better quick! #Love4Trevor
“So who wants breakfast?” A cheerful female voice jolted Trevor awake. Faint gray light filtered in through the window in his room.
Not Jalen. His arm jerked, searching . . . “Ow.”
“Careful, you’ve still got the IV in.” That voice was Jalen’s.
Oh yeah. IV. Hospital. Big fuckup. He forced his eyes open. His vision was better after this latest round of sleep, and he could clearly see Jalen slumped in a plastic chair in the corner. He’d stayed. Trevor had been taken for several late-night stretcher rides—one for an MRI, another for some type of ultrasound of his stomach, and finally one to bring him to a regular room, one that had a chair for Jalen to doze in. A nurse had tried to force Jalen to go back to the hotel with Dawn and Carter and Carson, but he’d stuck to his promise to Trevor and refused to move.
I don’t deserve you.
The nice nurse—Wendy, she with the gay son and grandkid pics and apparent soft spot for Jalen—had intervened and pointed out how much calmer Trevor was with Jalen there.
As calm as a person could be with the constant parade of medical personnel, including the latest who wanted to talk food. Something Trevor never wanted to see again. Whatever drugs they had coursing through his IV left him with a dry mouth and a churning stomach.
“No breakfast. Nothing by mouth.” He’d heard that phrase enough over the course of the evening.
“That’s about to change. Sorry to wake you. I’m Dr. Cho. I always round early.” A woman Trevor’s height—yeah, he noticed, because he always noticed, even flat on his back in a hospital bed—in a white coat stood at the foot of the bed.
She had a clipped, businesslike tone, but she nodded at Jalen. “And this is your . . .”
“Boyfriend.” At least I hope he still is. Trevor was surprised how easily the word popped out. Almost four weeks of practice had removed his internal Muppet flail.
“And you don’t mind me talking about your health with him present?” She looked down at a tablet in her hand.
“No, go ahead.”
“And you’re both with that show? The one with the camera in the lobby? The hospital PR department is having fun with you.” Her arched eyebrows said she had a different definition of fun from Trevor.
“The what? A camera?” They’d come to film him? His brain shrieked like someone was trying to rein
sert his IV. “They can’t see me like this!”
Jalen blinked hard, then scrubbed a hand against his face. “Trev? I think I better go investigate that. I may have to kill my sister.”
“Not on the hospital grounds, please.” The doctor’s clipped consonants reminded Trevor of one of his music professors who hailed from Boston.
“It’s okay.” He waved Jalen out of the room, careful to use the arm without the IV this time. “Go. Tell them I don’t want cameras!”
The doctor waited until Jalen was gone before she spoke again.
“Oh no worries there. No way do I want the lecture I have in store for you filmed.” She grinned, then, and Trevor realized he’d vastly underestimated the doctor.
“You got rid of Jalen on purpose.”
“Perhaps.” She clicked something on her tablet. “Let me put this bluntly: You could have died last night. You didn’t have a medical alert bracelet, no one with your show knew—”
“Jalen knew—”
“And what if he wasn’t there when you collapsed? You want him to have to live with the guilt of keeping your secret?”
“No.” Trevor studied the tape surrounding his IV port. It was prickly, but not nearly as itchy as the doctor’s words.
“Look, I watch a lot of reality singing shows—”
“You do?” Trevor couldn’t hold back his shock. She dressed a lot like his mother—dressy flats, long plain skirt, and a simple blouse under her white coat, and her hair was twisted into a knot on the top of her head.
“Guilty pleasure.” Another eyebrow arch. “And I know they’re tremendously hard work. And here’s the deal: you didn’t put people around you in a position to help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
The doctor let her eyebrows convey exactly what she thought of that.
“I don’t. I take my meds. I eat as best I can. You should see how I used to eat.”
“Are you following a nutritionist’s plan?”
“Uh. Not exactly.”
“How many nutrition classes have you taken since your diagnosis? Read any books on diabetic eating?”
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