It takes days, many of them, in fact, before he can even think about going out into the world again. Because, honestly, what's the point?
Lizzie knows. And Lizzie ran.
He hasn't heard from her. He doesn't really expect to, of course, but he can't seem to successfully murder that small, traitorous part of him that dares to hope.
(It's odd. He's usually so good at killing.)
At first, he just sits and cries. He has never been a particularly weepy man but every time he remembers Lizzie's horrorstruck face, her desperate, jerky movements as she ran from the room, leaving him, something inside him snaps in half and starts to keen. He's not sure what it is – probably that stupid hopeful thing – but he knows he can rule out his heart.
(He's lost that forever.)
He spends a few days wallowing in misery and tears and the same rumpled suit, avoiding sunlight and people and anything that might remind him of Lizzie. He even steers clear of Dembe, who only got two civil words out of him when he came to investigate the deafening silence Lizzie left behind in their hotel suite.
"She's gone."
His hoarse, cracked words had rung with a finality that left Dembe with no question of what had occurred. Red retreated to his room then and has since ignored Dembe's knocks and questions and urges to "at least eat something, please, Raymond."
It's only after his eyes are almost swollen shut and his face is gritty with dried tears and he is sure he cannot possibly cry anymore without simply drying up that he recalls the existence of alcohol.
(Thank god.)
It gets even worse after that, as he dedicates himself to drinking the entire contents of the wet bar in as little time as possible, which turns out to be a true challenge. But he takes to it with a kind of morbid joy, happy to have found something to dull the ache in his chest that Lizzie has left behind. Of course, it won't go away completely, no matter how much he rubs stupidly at his chest, which is probably why he just keeps drinking. It has to go away sometime, doesn't it?
(He hopes so, he can't stand it much longer.)
He gets through eight and a half bottles of hard liquor before Dembe finds him sprawled on the floor of his room, amazingly not dead from alcohol poisoning but nearly there.
Dembe doesn't panic – this has happened too many times before for him to make that mistake – but if Red wasn't completely and utterly out of his mind with booze and grief, he would see the hurried movements and tense line of Dembe's shoulders and jaw.
He is worried.
(It has never been this bad before. Not even when Red received the news that Lizzie was to be married to Tom. But then, that didn't involve the love of Red's life running from the room with tears streaming down her face after he confessed his love for her. So yes, this is worse.)
Dembe manages to get him cleaned up and mostly sober, pushing him into bed with more force than is usually necessary. But, then again, Red doesn't usually threaten Dembe with bodily harm because he refuses to bring him a bottle of whiskey.
Red, at the insistence of Dembe and mostly because of a lack of alcohol to drink, falls into an exhausted and fitful sleep. He hasn't actually slept in days, just stared blankly at nothing while Lizzie's cries echoed endlessly around his skull. He should sleep like a baby after all the emotional turmoil and physical abuse he's put himself through over the last few days but he only manages to toss and turn for a few hours total, during which Dembe keeps an eye on him through the door of the bathroom as he empties the hotel medicine cabinet of anything complimentary that could be harmful. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be the first time Red has self-medicated.
(That was the wedding too.)
Once Red wakes, Dembe tries to persuade him to eat something substantial, tempting him by ordering room service for breakfast, but Red opts only for black coffee, the thought of anything else turning his stomach, the mug in his hand managing to quiet Dembe and hopefully weaken his pounding headache.
It is a few more blessedly alcohol-free days of moping in which Red continues to stare, dead-eyed, at anything in the suite that is stationary while Dembe watches him warily, concerned.
A total of two weeks has passed since his heart left when, one day, with no warning, Red suddenly showers, puts on a suit, and asks Dembe to pull the car around. Dembe simply blinks at him in shock before quickly standing and doing as he asks. He's clean and dressed and up and moving, which has to be good right?
Once in the car, Red asks Dembe to take him to Lizzie's apartment.
Wrong.
Lizzie hasn't contacted him and he surely has no right to reach out to her himself – the look on her face sent a clear enough message – but if he has to go one more second without clapping his eyes on her beautiful form, just seeing her, he thinks he may just give up on life altogether.
(He passed the point of "unhealthy" long ago.)
So, he asks Dembe to park outside her apartment building away from any street lamps, the dull light of dusk providing a certain amount of cover for them, as he stares fixedly at her windows. He waits for almost an hour before he finally sees her cross her living room, passing briefly in front of the window, and just that split-second glimpse of her after this long is enough to send his heart racing in his chest.
But the familiar burst of happiness and excitement at the sight of her, almost forgotten completely in the painful, two-week interim, only lasts for a single, shining moment before it all comes crashing back down on him. He recalls with awful accuracy the sight of her pressed against the wall, blue eyes red-rimmed and pleading with him, and then tears are gathering in his eyes again.
(What a lecherous old man he is, leering at her, peering through her windows in the dark of night. He has never been more disgusted with himself.)
"Drive," he says harshly to Dembe, who was dozing lightly in the front seat. He jerks awake in a panic, Red's tone startling him.
"Wha –"
"Drive!"
Dembe quickly turns the car on and throws it into gear, pulling out of their spot and tearing down the street, not entirely awake yet, acting completely by instinct, leaving only disturbed dust and bitter regret behind.
Red feels bad about yelling at Dembe but he had to leave. The guilt and grief was filling his lungs, choking him, and he thought maybe he could breathe again if he just left, got away from it all, away from her.
(He knows in his heart that that's not the solution. How can it be when the only place he wants to be is with her? But he can't have that and he's desperate. Running will have to do.)
Red despises himself all the way back to their hotel, wallowing and craving the bite and sting of alcohol, drugs, something to take the edge off. But he can't do that again, not with Dembe watching him like a hawk. He is grateful for his friend, of course, but sometimes he just doesn't understand his dedication to keeping Red alive.
(He's so far beyond hope.)
They ride the elevator up to the penthouse suite in heavy silence, Red staring at the floor and Dembe staring at Red. The second they're through the door, Red is heading to his room, unable to bear another human's company for a second longer, even if it's Dembe.
(He only wants Lizzie.)
It's that half-hearted, dejected thought that has him wheeling around to face Dembe when he's almost to his room.
"Stop all surveillance. Pull back all protective forces. No more reports. I don't want to know anything."
He whirls back around without waiting for an answer from Dembe, who is gaping at him, completely stunned. After all, Red has had tabs on Lizzie since she graduated college. It's been so long. But Dembe pulls himself together quickly enough to call after him.
"But Raymond, why –"
"Just do it, Dembe."
His mouth snaps shut.
Red gives a tired sigh. He thinks he can feel exhaustion in his bones.
"She doesn't want me around anymore and, after everything, the least I can do is respect her privacy. Besides, the only thing she needs protection from is me."
Red turns away and continues on to his room.
"And how much longer will I be here anyway…"
The last sentence spills out of him on the tail end of his self-deprecating rant, cumulatively the most he has spoken in days. He doesn't really mean to say it out loud but by the time he hears it coming out of his own mouth, he's already about six words in so he just trails off and lets the sentence shrivel up and die in the air around him. That's probably not the kind of talk Dembe would like to hear from him but he finds himself struggling to care.
What does it matter, anyway?
She's gone.
(And his heart is never coming back.)
It's another two, bland, depressed, agonizing weeks before something changes.
He's slumped across the couch in the suite's living room, carelessly taking up two cushions, locked in a staring contest with the wet bar, thinking that maybe if he just glares at it long enough, a bottle of something bitter and strong will appear to save him, when the door to Dembe's room is thrown open and he comes bursting out.
Red can't help but blink in surprise. It's the most noise he's made in weeks, tiptoeing around the suite as he has been, careful of Red's volatile mood.
"Raymond," he wastes no time in addressing him and Red can see immediately that something is very wrong. He is clutching a cell phone tightly in his one hand, his eyes wide and panicked.
This can't be good.
"What?" he mutters, his voice hoarse from sheer disuse. "What's wrong?" he pushes himself up into a sitting position onto the couch, an action which takes far too much effort to be considered healthy.
(He's let himself get very weak. Thin and gaunt. Lifeless.)
Dembe stares at him for a moment, seemingly struggling with himself. Finally, Red sees his jaw clench in a familiar sign of determination. His eyes turn hard and flinty.
"It's Elizabeth."
Red's world tilts on its axis.
A confusing sequence of emotions then hits him in quick succession. First, a thrill at the sound of her name, not uttered in their hotel suite for almost a month. Then, disgust with himself for still loving her, despite her clear signs that his affections will never be welcome. And then, finally, anger. At Dembe.
"I told you to –"
"I know," Dembe interrupts impatiently. "I did not listen. But you must now. Elizabeth has been in a car accident."
The anger drains out of Red in an instant, quickly replaced with fear. Cold, freezing fear.
No.
"How bad is it?"
Dembe simply stares.
Red feels himself go pale.
Oh, no. Oh, please, god, no. Not now, not after everything. Not after they –
Red is up off the couch in seconds, adrenaline taking the place of the nourishment and rest he has been denying himself out of sheer spite, and Dembe is throwing his coat at him and beating him to the door in a strange show of urgency.
(Something prickles at the back of Red's mind. He pushes it away impatiently.)
It's all very scary and harried after that. Dembe drives them to the hospital with growling engines and ignored red lights and they pull up with squealing brakes and muttered curses. The car is barely in park before they are leaping out with slamming doors and flapping coats, running pell-mell through the automatic doors, barely waiting to clear them before they barrel in.
After that, it's all yelling at hospital staff and hurrying up the stairs and down the halls to find Lizzie's room.
(It's not the first time he's rushed to see her in a hospital, afraid for her life, but somehow this time is the worst. Something about the memory of how they last parted. They can't leave it there. They just can't.)
By the time they get to her room, they are forcing their way in while her doctor is trying to come out. Red doesn't stop to talk to him, knowing Dembe will obtain the details of Lizzie's condition from him, and he simply tries to push past him.
To the doctor's credit, he does make one attempt to stop him, placing a bony, delicate, surgeon's hand on his arm, but Red simply turns and stares. Something about the dark, dead look in his eyes must make his message clear and the doctor quickly removes his hand and steps aside.
Red hears Dembe pull him aside and start questioning him as Red lets her hospital room door fall shut behind him.
And, all of a sudden, there she is. A little beaten and bruised and bandaged but still beautiful.
(His eyes seem to ache at the sight of her. Almost as much as his empty chest. He wonders where she's keeping his heart.)
She has some stiches on a cut on her cheek, a bruised forehead, her left arm in a sling, and her left leg looks a little bulkier under the scratchy hospital blankets than her right. No cast but probably some bandages. And the fact that she wasn't immediately rushed into surgery bodes well. She seems to have been patched up before he even got here but he'll check with Dembe once he's done with the doctor.
For now, he just wants to look at her. The sight of her, still and asleep and pale, is a strange but welcome one, so unlike the torrent of violent energy she had been when he last saw her.
(He's wants to press his lips to her beautiful face.)
But he's glad she's asleep. Standing here now, suddenly in her presence again, he realizes that he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to her if she was awake when he burst in.
And what if she wakes up?
He feels the beginnings of panic starting to unfurl within him at the thought but quickly calms himself. She's asleep for now so he can sit quietly by her side and be thankful that she's alive. When she wakes up…well, he'll deal with that later.
He moves forward slowly now, as if in a dream, feeling a little blinded by the brightness of her pale skin against the dimmed hospital lights. She looks positively ethereal.
(God, he's lost his mind. Somewhere between the tears and the alcohol poisoning, it must have finally abandoned him. Honestly, he's surprised it stayed this long.)
He pulls the single padded armchair forward from by the window towards her bedside as quietly as he can, truly terrified of waking her, and settles in it, not taking his eyes off her.
He reaches out instinctively toward her hand lying there on top of the covers, aching to touch her, as he has always done without hesitation at her bedside but, when his fingers are within an inch of hers, he stops abruptly.
The vivid memory of Lizzie backing away from him, scared, flashes before his eyes. He squeezes them shut.
No, he will not touch Lizzie. She does not want that. He is sure of it.
So, he sits, hands clasped tightly together in his lap, his eyes glued to Lizzie's face. He'll sit here and wait for Dembe to find him or Lizzie to stir, whichever comes first. If the former, he'll be pleased and, if the latter…he doesn't know what he'll do.
For now, he's content to just sit here and gaze lovingly at her, while her eyes are closed and can't stare back at him in disgust and horror. Just for a while. That must be okay, after all, she doesn't know, does she?
(And, here with her again, that ache in his empty chest feels so much better. His heart is near again.)
Yes, he'll stay. For a while.