I can guess. It’s the same thing he did to Kim Archer—walk away.
I call a cab and huddle with my suitcase in the stairwell, unwilling to face the swarm of reporters lurking on the other side until the cab arrives. Where can I go? Not to Beryl at Gavin’s apartment. And not to Violet and Neil’s—I’m sure I’ve already worn out my welcome.
If that settlement money is real, it could be a fresh start for me—goodbye student loans, hello huge deposit on a small apartment, and for the first time I’d have a cushion in the bank to give me breathing room to find a new job. Beryl says her uncle is hiring more property managers.
I feel like a coward. I couldn’t even bring myself to say goodbye to Tyler. I slump as images from the last time I tried to walk away from him rush back to me.
Jet Black hovering as I leaned against the wall in the Bowery Hotel’s bar, drunk and willing to let him take me.
Tyler’s disappointed eyes watching as I hurled every last drink into the toilet. He told me, “I fought for you, Stella, and I want you to fight for me … fight to stay.”
But now Tyler’s not fighting for me at all. He’s drunk, withdrawn …
Drunk?
No.
Not Tyler. Not Mr. Light Beer. Jayce’s warnings rush into my brain.
“When something’s bugging him, he lets his blood sugar get all wacky…”
“If he gets too low it’ll look like he’s stoned or really out of it. You’ll see it before he does.”
I race back to Tyler’s loft, my heart pounding a staccato beat in my head. I throw open his door and hear a choking gurgle.
A cough, a splutter, and another gurgle.
The otherworldly noise sends a chill of dread up my spine.
I force myself upstairs toward the noise. Tyler’s eyes are wide but unseeing, his back arched, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. He coughs and chokes again, spraying a mist of blood across his naked chest and the bed.
I run to his side, awash in fear. I shove my hands under his shoulder, pushing him to his side, and he coughs and sputters again. Terror shoots through me, a million questions that scream, What do I do? What’s happening to him? Help! Help! Help!
I look around frantically for a phone. Tyler doesn’t have a landline and I have no idea where his cell is. I yank a pillow from the bed and shove it under his shoulder to keep his body rolled to the side. He’s coughing and choking, his chest expanding as he draws a gurgling breath.
I race back down the stairs, grab my purse and dump it on my bed, searching through the junk to find my phone.
Almost dead, but not quite. I punch in 911 and squelch a wave of nausea as I hear the phone ring twice. I hear more coughing and race back upstairs, where Tyler has rolled almost all the way on his back. There’s blood all around him, smeared across the sheets, his face and chest. So much blood.
“911, what is your emergency?” The too-calm voice cuts into my thoughts as I hold the phone to my ear with one hand and shove hard on Tyler’s shoulder to push him back on his side.
“He’s choking. Tyler. He’s choking on his own blood. Send an ambulance! Help me!”
I’m panicked but force my thoughts to slow to a pace at which I can answer the operator’s questions. I bang my hand on Tyler’s back when he chokes and his short, labored breaths suck in blood and send him into another coughing fit. More blood spills from his mouth.
I confirm Tyler’s address but there’s no way the paramedics can get to us unless I let them in. I beg the dispatcher to tell me how long until they get here. I can’t bear to leave Tyler like this.
The operator coaches me through it: “Can he breathe?”
“Sort of.”
I wedge another pillow behind him and one between his legs to prevent him from rolling on his back again. The operator tells me I have to go open the door now.
My hands and chest are spattered with blood, and I wipe my hands on my shirt and race down the stairs. I turn each of the three locks in the warehouse door and I hear shouting as I push it open. Four paramedics are surrounded by reporters who scream questions.
I blink against the camera flashes as I open the door wide enough for the paramedics to bring in a folding gurney. One man helps me pull the door closed against the throng and I twist the locks to keep them out.
We seem to move in slow motion as I direct the paramedics upstairs toward Tyler.
“Does this building have an elevator?” one tech asks me.
I point behind the stairs toward the freight elevator. “Fifth floor. But it takes too long.” I beg two of the paramedics who carry medical bags to follow me and we run upstairs as the other two bring up the gurney on the elevator.
I leave Tyler’s door open and lead the techs to Tyler’s bedroom loft where he’s still unconscious and panting, his skin slick with sweat. Blood is smeared around him and his face is almost white.
The paramedics assess Tyler; one man wedges a plastic brace in Tyler’s mouth to hold it open as the woman looks in his throat. My body shakes as adrenaline drains from my body, replaced by the chill of fear.
“What did he eat or drink? Did he take any drugs?” the female paramedic asks me. Her nametag says D. SWANK.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. He seemed drunk when I got home. I don’t think he does drugs.” I pinch my eyes closed, realizing just how little I know about him. I only met him a few weeks ago, and even though he’s become incredibly important to me, there are broad gaps in my knowledge about his life.
“Has this happened before? Is he epileptic? Anything about his medical history you can tell me?”
“Diabetic. He’s diabetic,” I remember, and the paramedic frowns. I grab Tyler’s small black pouch from his nightstand and shove it at her. “Here. This is his kit.”
D-whatever-that-stands-for Swank pulls a test strip from the canister and clicks the lancet pen on Tyler’s fingertip, drawing a bead of blood.
I hold my breath as the glucose meter’s screen flashes once, twice, and then lands on a number. Thirty-seven.
“Glucose,” Swank barks at her partner. The other two paramedics climb the stairs with the gurney as the first two administer something to Tyler. I hear a guttural sound and his mouth hangs open, blood seeping down his lips and chin.
The paramedics work together to hoist Tyler’s long, limp body from the bed to the gurney. They cover his lower body with a sheet and strap him down, but the blood on his face and chest looks like he’s been butchered.
“Are you family?” The female paramedic, Swank, approaches me. Her dark hair curls around her face, refusing to be tamed in her ponytail.
“No. I’m his—” I hesitate, not sure how to describe myself. “Roommate.”
“OK. Well, family only in the ambulance, but you can meet up with us at Roosevelt Hospital. You should bring him a change of clothes. Can you call his family?”
I nod, hoping I can find his phone somewhere. His mother lives in Pittsburgh and his band is also like family. If I can’t find Tyler’s phone, I’ll call Beryl.
Swank asks me a series of succinct questions that baffle me. I don’t know Tyler’s birthday, his middle name, or his mother’s name or phone number.
“What happened to Tyler?”
“Unofficially, it was probably a diabetic seizure. It happens with hypoglycemia—when blood sugar gets too low. Was he acting strangely before this happened?”
I can barely nod to confirm it because I’m so horrified I didn’t recognize the signs. My stupid brain just explained it away as being drunk because I was drunk just hours before. I was sulking about getting fired while the media systematically tore apart Tyler’s life and reputation.
I’ve never felt so low.
I follow Swank from the kitchen to the base of the loft stairs, where the male paramedics are bringing Tyler down. They pop up the wheels beneath the gurney and ensure his breathing is stable. I think I hear one of them say “coma” but Swank insists I need to go to the hospital to find out more.