He gives a bark of laughter that ends with a wet cough. “Finally got your name. Oliver Hemingway.”
I repeat his name to the operator. Her steady voice is a lifeline keeping me from panicking.
“Can you tell me more about what’s going on with Oliver? Is he breathing?”
“Yes, but it’s labored.” His chest isn’t rising up and down as it should be. I’m no doctor, but I can’t help but think this is a worst case scenario. His skin is clammy, and his eyes are glazing over.
“Keep him talking, the ambulance and the police should be there shortly. I need you to find something to seal the wound at the exit and entry points. It needs to be air tight. Then I need you to apply pressure until they arrive.”
I cradle the phone between my shoulder and cheek and thank the Lord they didn’t take my case in the insanity. Pushing it onto its side, I open it with clumsy fingers. The sight of my red-tipped fingers make me sick to my stomach.
“W-what do you mean by airtight?”
“Plastic, tape, anything that can stop air from getting into the wound.”
I grab the pink, white, and zebra duct tape I couldn’t resist buying and tear off the strip, hold it between my teeth, and apologize with my eyes before I push the flannel aside and raise his T-shirt. His body jerks and he gives a hoarse cry as I spread the tape over the dime-sized hole, oozing blood.
“I-I have one side done.”
“Excellent, now you need to do the same to the exit wound.”
I close my eyes.
“Ollie, I need you to help me. I have to bandage the wound in your back, too. On three.”He grunts. I set the cell phone aside. “One, two, three.” I roll him over as tears stream down my face. Everything I’m doing to help is hurting. The silence that follows horrifies me. I work fast, covering the quarter-sized exit wound. Done, I lay him on his back as the sirens reach my ears. His eyes are closed, and I’m praying he passed out from the pain. His body is warm, but his chest ...
I shove the thoughts away, pull down the T-shirt, and lean against the wound. Closing my eyes, I count in my head as if the sirens are a storm. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. I hit twenty when the sound is right behind me on the street. Help’s finally arrived.
OLLIE
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die. But all I remember is a jumble of actions—fighting for the gun, a struggle—the mingle of voices raised in anger and a higher pitched feminine tone full of fear, and the stink of sweat and unwashed bodies that singed my nose hairs. And then pain. A sneaky pain. It was like being hit in the stomach with a balled fist, and then realizing that hammer-like blow had caused serious damage. I was on my back, struggling to breathe in the span of distorted seconds.
The only thing I could think of was Rollo and all the time I wasted. Who would look after my boy? An avalanche of regrets damn near crushed me as I fought for every breath. I settled, fucked around, and wasted the allotted minutes I got to walk the earth, and I had to die knowing it. Only ... I didn’t die because of an angel with a sweet voice, and gentle hands that hurt like hell. Quinn Fleming’s first aid saved my life. I won’t waste that gift.
A surgeon repaired the wounds in the anterior and posterior wall of the left pulmonary artery nine days ago, but he can do nothing about the chaos in my head. I can’t pretend the world is the same for me when everything’s changed. I grip the railing and force my attention back to the petite, dark-haired woman with the pixie haircut, delicate facial features, full lips, and a bright red T-shirt that hangs off her slender shoulder. She’s always been so tiny. I liked that about Allison. She made me feel even more masculine without trying.
After a lifetime of never being taken too seriously, I subconsciously craved that. I can see the situation for what it was now. It’s no wonder it never worked out long term. We were off and on over the course of two years until Roland. We parted ways because the fighting wasn’t healthy. Three years later, we’re back on-ish. I don’t think you can call what we do dating, but it’s more than bumping uglies for pleasure.
She’s the mother of my child. A woman I once considered myself madly in love with. I think we’re both more comfortable than in love. We’re going through the motions because it’s easy and it makes Rollo happy. I never should’ve started back up with her.
Perched on the edge of the navy-blue chair, she’s holding my hand and chattering on about things I couldn’t care less about. I get out of the hospital tomorrow, and she thinks I’m going home with her. The thought of living a lie makes my blood run cold. I’ve been given another shot at this thing called life, I can’t screw it up.
I squeeze her hand. “Allie.”
She blinks. “Are you okay? Should I get the nurse? Do you need more pain meds?”
I shake my head. “No. I just ... I don’t want you to think I’m coming home with you tomorrow.”
“What?” She blinks, and her hazel eyes fill with confusion.
“I’m going to my house.”
“Of course,” she laughs. “You want to be comfortable. I can come there.”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not what I mean. My head is a mess. I need space and time to heal.”
“Oliver, you cannot do this to me ... to us. Not now.” Shoving her tiny fist into her mouth, she shakes her head from side to side. Her eyes glisten, and she sniffs.
“I’m doing what’s best for both of us, Allie. Trust me. It’s going to take me a lot of time to sort through the sewage leak that flooded into my skull. I’m not taking anyone along for that ride with me.”