Chapter 8
Kittie
N o question about it. I’m a delusional idiot.
But even if that is the case, I can’t deny the blatant evidence right in front of me, can I? And yet, as I run my hands over my scab-covered face, I cringe at the memory of Dorian touching it. I didn’t even know that men like him existed, let alone that they could descend from their castles and look sympathetically upon the lepers.
Okay, maybe referring to myself as a leper is a step too far, but it aligns with my horror. I wasn’t pretty before the accident, and right after, my face could clear a room. And I should be excited that the scabs are getting smaller all the time, but it all has to be some elaborate joke, right?
I can only stomach a few seconds in front of the mirror in the attached bathroom before stomping back toward my hospital bed. I’m thankful that it’s the last night of observation, and in less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be in my own bed. Also, I’ll get to wear something that doesn’t have a slit in the back, exposing my granny panties.
I bury my face into the thin, stiff pillow and let out a disheartened, muffled cry of frustration. I’m so hopelessly attracted to this man that it’s pathetic. Not to mention shallow.
But every time I pick up More Than Human , I can’t help but read over the words and wonder what he felt when he read the same sentences. Did the same pictures play out in his head that they do mine?
Gray daylight pours through the window, but I know it’s morning because of the increased traffic outside the room. Nurses and patients wander throughout the ward, and the low whispering of the night shift has been replaced with reasonable volumes of conversation.
I realize the night’s passed, and I don’t remember falling asleep or waking up, yet a considerable chunk of time is missing. Because my entire sleep cycle is trashed from my stay, I chalk it up to exhaustion-induced disorientation and push myself up from the mattress.
I rake my fingers through my hair and throw it into a ponytail; it’s my best effort to put myself together. My heart quickens for a second when I think about Dorian stopping in to see me before my discharge, but I push it out of my mind.
Pity. That’s where he’s landed. Pity and feeling indebted.
The second we pull out of the parking lot, I’ll never see that man again. Those silly little conversations I’ve begun looking forward to every morning will be a thing of the past. Those promises of taking care of the medical bills were just words, and who could blame him? I told him he didn’t owe me a thing, and I meant it.
Dorian’s alive. That’s the only outcome that matters.
I spend the morning watching daytime soaps and crime television until my mom arrives with a takeaway container of pancakes.
“Good morning, honey!” she greets me, placing the Styrofoam on the bedside table. When she leans in to plant a kiss on the top of my head, she stops short and wrinkles her face in disgust. “Oh, Kittie, I can’t wait until you come home and shower properly.”
I’m horrified at the idea that I smell bad, so I grab a lock of my hair and give it a cursory sniff. The head injury meant that I had to have supervised showers to ensure I didn’t fall, but I still seized the chance to take them. Their off-brand soaps weren’t necessarily the best smelling, but I thought I did a decent job cleaning up.
“You just smell like a hospital,” she explains when I frown at her in confusion. “Honestly, I bet I do, too. I can’t wait to leave this place and never come back.”
I manage a smile. “You better knock on wood, or you’ll jinx it.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” she snaps and folds her arms. I know I’ve stumbled into sensitive territory when she drops her eyes to the floor. When she lifts them to me again, her gaze is sharp. “Don’t you ever do this to me again, Kittie. Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through?”
I duck my shoulders. This isn’t the first time my mom’s brought it up, but no amount of apologies is going to ease the grief she felt when I was under. I really can’t imagine. “Sorry, Mom.”
“What am I supposed to do without you?” Her mouth trembles. “This past month has been so miserable. I’ve barely managed.”
My mom’s question is the type that doesn’t really want an answer, nor is there one to give. So I sink into silence, waiting for her mood to warp into something more manageable.Like it or not, until my ribs are completely healed, I’ll need her.
She makes her way toward the other side of the room, glancing out through the raindrop-speckled window into the gray morning.
When I feel her annoyance wane, I mutter, “The doctor says I only need to rest for four more weeks. After that, things can go back to normal.”
My mom heaves a heavy sigh. “I guess I’ll get by in the meantime. Maybe Dorian wouldn’t mind helping?”
She doesn’t mean mowing the grass or putting the air conditioning unit in the window. “I don’t think we should ask him for financial help, Mom.”
When she turns away from the window, she’s frowning in disapproval. “Why not? He seems more than willing to help. He’s fond of you if you haven’t noticed.”
“No, he isn’t,” I respond quickly. I don’t even want to believe something so sad and delusional. Dorian’s only around because of guilt or pity and nothing more.
My mom scoffs at my flat denial, and the noise turns my cheeks a frustrated shade of red.
“We talked about you, you know,” she says, glancing through the rain. Her tone is soft. “He seems worried about you. Honestly, I am, too. I mean, none of your friends have shown up since your hospital stay.”
That fact stings, and I drop my head to stare at my lap to hide my expression. I wonder if it’s more or less pathetic to tell her I don’t have any friends who would have shown up in the first place.
“You didn’t tell him that, did you?” I grumble and wince. My head’s starting to throb. “That I don’t have friends?”
My mom hesitates. “Not in so many words.”
“Ugh.”
“Kittie, just don’t push him away.” When she turns, her face wrinkles with sadness, but her voice is hard. “Anytime anyone comes around, you pull away so hard. This man has sat by your bedside every day since your admission. He cares. If you can’t accept him , then I’m so afraid I’ll watch you end up all alone.”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t accept the words, and my heart shrivels. I shrug, staring down at the crumpled hospital blanket in my fists.
Mercifully, she lets the line of thought die. “I’m going to get your discharge papers. I think your doctor also said he’ll give you some follow-up instructions. You’ll follow them to the letter, won’t you? I need you, you know, so you have to heal as fast as you can.”
“I know,” I mutter, but I think my words are too soft for her to hear.
I know she’s right. I don’t have to look up at her when she leaves the room to see the disappointment on her face. I can feel it. I’ve tried so hard all my life not to be a burden to her, but here I am, heaping a load of trouble onto her shoulders.
I want to curl up on myself the second I’m alone and cry again, but I hang onto her words. Dorian’s worried about me. While that doesn’t feel true or real, it still sparks my desire. As if I’m in the dark, catching the hint of a dim light that I want to stagger through the darkness toward.
Slowly, I get out of bed. The movements send a burning ache through my abdomen, but I grit my teeth through it. I slide on the jeans and yellow blouse my mother brought with her. Luckily, she’s brought my pair of Toms that I can step into. I’m not sure I can bend over to tie a pair of laces.
Dorian’s face flickers in my mind. The graze of his fingers across my jaw. His pensive, curious stare.
“I just feel like I’m always stepping on people’s toes.”
“You can step on my toes as much and as often as you want, Kittie.”
The snippet of a memory comes to me, even if it doesn’t feel familiar. It’s a splice of an exchange that I can’t fully recall. A chain of events beneath the surface of murky water. I reach further, rifle through my mind, yet nothing follows.
When did we have that conversation?
How long have I been in this hospital? A week, right? Two?
So why does it feel like I’m missing something?
I press my fingers to my temples, willing with all my might to summon everything that’s transpired since waking up after the accident. Everything before is intact. Yet, only flashes and sections of my memory since are clear, while some feel fuzzy, others…I dread to think that I might be missing something. A couple somethings.
That want in my heart reemerges. I want to see Dorian. Surely, he’ll order the timeline for me, shed light on what I’m missing, and make everything right.
He has to, doesn’t he? He’s the only thing that’s felt even fractionally right in my entire life, and I hardly know him. Is that enough? I want to see him, but more than anything, I want to be right.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m walking out of my hospital room, leaving everything else behind.
The first sensation that comes to me is the breeze. The sounds have faded out and come back in a crescendo of children’s laughter and car engines. My eyes fly open, and I realize that I’m sitting on a damp bench in the middle of a park, nowhere near the hospital.
Paralyzed in confusion, I stare out over the poured rubber playground and watch children scale over the multi-colored jungle gyms while their parents supervise at the edge.
My hair feels slightly frizzy and wet. My clothes stick uncomfortably against my skin. The sun’s in a different position than it was only moments before.
Shaking, I take in the scenery without even knowing how I ended up here.