Page 66 of The Absence of You
GRAYSON
Dahlia’s not in any of the bedrooms, so I race back downstairs and hope Callie’s had more luck finding her. Hopefully she hasn’t left. She was in no state to go anywhere on her own. Shoving my way from room to room, I make my way into the kitchen and pass Harry, who has a girl perched on his knee, holding a bag of ice to his cheek. He scowls at me, and I feel like shit. I have no idea why he’s not thrown out of his house already.
“I’m so sorry mate. I have some shit going on, and I lost my head. I’ll make it up to you.” He stays silent for a moment, but he must sense my sincerity as he gives me a small nod. He holds his fist out to bump, and I gratefully touch my knuckles to his knowing it’s way more than I deserve. I spin round as I feel someone touch my back but my shoulders drop when I see it’s Callie, and she’s alone.
“Grayson, I’m worried. I’ve checked the-” I don’t hear the rest of her sentence as she’s interrupted by a distant scream. My blood freezes at the sound and Callie’s eyes widen. We rush across the kitchen and through the back door. I push my way through a group of girls who are gathered on the patio. A couple of them are kneeling at the side of the pool. That’s when I see the shape under the water, and I know instantly who it is. Fuck.
Without hesitation, I kick off my shoes and dive in. It feels like forever until my hands reach Dahlia, but it can only have been seconds. I wrap my arms around her limp form and push off the bottom of the pool. We quickly break the surface, and I gulp at the air. But Dahlia doesn’t, and I try not to think about what that means.
Asher and Harry are waiting at the side of the pool, and I kick my legs until I make it to them. Time seems to completely slow down as they lift her away from me, and I climb out. Callie has tears running down her face, and she has her phone pressed to her ear. She must already be on the phone to the emergency services. I look back to my friends who have laid Dahlia out on the grass. They are both looking at me for what to do next.
I can’t lose her. She’s everything to me.
Instinctively, my years of lifesaving lessons kick in. I kneel down next to Dahlia. Blood trickles from her crown and a large purple bruise is already blooming. She must have hit her head.
“Lia. Can you hear me?” I gently shake her shoulder, but she doesn’t respond. “Lia, please. Wake up.” I say her name a little louder this time and shake her shoulder more firmly, but there’s nothing. She’s so still. More still than anyone should be.
I lean down close to her mouth, desperately hoping to feel her breath on my cheek, and I carefully watch for the telltale rising and falling of her chest but it doesn’t come.
She’s not breathing. Fuck.
My heart starts to pound. No amount of training in the world could have properly prepared me for this. Panic is about to set in, but then I feel a firm hand on my shoulder and it settles me enough to focus on what I need to do.
Call 999. Done.
Check breathing. Done.
Check circulation.
My trembling fingers search her pale throat for a pulse. It’s faint but it’s there. That’s good.
Pulse present but no breathing, begin rescue breaths.
I need to get air into her lungs as quickly as possible, but before I can begin, she arches up, coughing and spluttering. I turn her gently onto her side as water drains from the side of her mouth, and she sucks in a deep breath.
Thank fuck. She’s okay. Thank the fucking lord.
Overwhelming relief overcomes me, and I fall back onto my heels. Asher’s strong arms wrap round me as I press my palms to my eyes, I push back the prickling feeling behind my eyelids.
‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all’
Emily Dickinson 1891
Chapter Fifty-Two
GRAYSON
As I watch her sleep, her chest rhythmically and reassuringly rises and falls, as though it has no memory of what had happened just a few hours before.
She looks so fragile lying in the narrow hospital bed, hooked up to a drip, her skin so pale, translucent almost. The blood has been wiped away, but there’s a visible bump and a neat row of white butterfly stitches across her temple.
A young nurse enters the room and checks Dahlia’s vitals for what feels like the hundredth time, but this time her eyelashes start to flutter. Finally. The nurse had repeatedly told me she was fine, that she just needed rest, but I was beginning to doubt her words as she’d been asleep since the ambulance brought her in last night.
