My knees gave way and I fell to the ground, staring at the TV.
Medics surrounded Dylan’s limp body, blocking him from sight.
Mason ran across the dirt, screaming his name.
A camera panned in on Tricia and the rest of her family. All of their faces wore the same look of shock and fear.
“Please don’t be dead,” I cried. “Please don’t be dead.” I looked upwards and clasped my hands together. “God, please, please make him be okay. I’ll do anything.”
The thought of never seeing him again, of losing him was so painful and so forceful that I couldn’t catch my breath and doubled over as pain pierced my body.
One second he was on the bull. The next second he was unconscious on the dirt.
The bull had thrown his head back and caught Dylan’s chest. After that, he spun around with a sharp speed before throwing Dylan over his head, shaking him off like he was an irritating barn fly. Their skulls collided. Luckily, the bull hadn’t gone after him when he’d landed in the dirt. Satan’s Little Helper got out of the way, seemingly wanting nothing more to do with the fallen cowboy.
Two seconds into the ride, Dylan’s hat had flown off. His head had zero protection when he fell, not that his hat would have been much help anyway.
I grabbed my phone and called Tricia. When she picked up, I couldn’t get any words out, only sobs. I finally managed to ask, “Is he dead?”
“I don’t know,” she said matter of factly. “They’re taking him to the general hospital. Meet us there. My truck is in the garage. The keys are in the glove box.” She hung up without saying goodbye. There was zero doubt in my mind about driving to Nashville to be with him. I had to be there when he regained consciousness—if he regained consciousness. I ran the entire way from my cabin to the garage in record time.
I jumped into the truck and typed the hospital address into Waze. The drive would take three hours.
If he died, part of me would die too. I would never forgive myself. I should have been there to support him. Should never have sent him away. Should never have blamed him for how fucked-up things got.
My career and life were in tatters, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine. Dylan had only wanted to take me to dinner to show how much he cared. He wasn’t to know someone would tip off the press, and he wasn’t to know they would trespass on the property.
The love I felt for him was nothing like I’d ever experienced in my life. Sure, I’d had crushes and affairs, but being with him was something completely different. It was raw and real, tender and terrifying.
And I’d sent him away.
My heartbreak was my own making, too. And now... now if he died, I’d never get to say sorry or let him know I was getting help.
While I wasn’t ready to move out of the cabin, I’d made some progress. Last week, I’d gone into town to see Dylan’s friend Dr. Mason.
I needed to talk to a professional about how messed-up I was. Not just about my drinking, but about my parents’ failures and my addictive personality. About my incessant need to continually read hate comments about myself and self-sabotage.
Mason referred me to someone local who specialized in addictions. I’d only had one session, but I was hopeful. Nora was calm and nonjudgmental, and I felt better after talking to her, but I had a long way to go.
She suggested writing what I was going through in song form. Part of me felt like saying, “No shit, Sherlock. You think I haven’t already tried that?” but I took her advice and had been pouring my heart out onto paper every day. She also had me download an app that locked all other apps after a certain amount of use each day. I’d cut down my scrolling to one hour a day.
I pressed the phone icon on the steering wheel, but when I said, “Call Tricia,” the car informed me it couldn’t connect. Dammit. I was too high up and in a dense area.
I let out a frustrated growl and smacked the heel of my hand against the steering wheel.
My thoughts went down the rabbit hole of worry. Fear and anxiety churned my insides, and tears trickled over, spilling down my cheeks and dripping off my chin.
I tried calling Tricia again and again and again, but every time there was either no signal, or it went straight to voice mail.
At the hospital, I parked the truck illegally and didn’t bat an eyelid when flashes went off in my face or when the gathered reporters shouted questions. Getting to Dylan was the only thing on my mind.
By the time I reached the front desk, I could barely say his name without sobbing. The receptionist’s jaw dropped open when she saw how much of a hot mess I was, but without asking any questions, she gave me the room number.
The elevator ride to the fifth floor was endless. Finally, the doors opened. I strode through the ICU doors. Once through, I grabbed the nearest nurse. “Dylan Willows?”
Her face took on an expression of deep sympathy, and she pointed toward the end of the hall. “Last on the right.”
I entered the quiet, darkened room and bit my lower lip hard to stop it from crying out when I saw him on the narrow bed hooked up to a monitor and an IV.
At least he was alive. I breathed a long, body-shaking sigh of relief, but seeing him so helpless and so lifeless broke my heart.
On either side of him, stroking the back of his hands, sat Tricia and a woman I guessed was his mom. She
