Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
HER
Icouldn’t explain what it felt like. But maybe that was the problem…
the fact that it didn’t feel like anything.
It was just going through the motions. Smiling because it was what you were supposed to do and eating because it was what you were supposed to do.
Going to work and coming home because it was what you were supposed to do.
The worst part was thinking that if you did everything you were supposed to do, that maybe you’d finally feel how you were supposed to feel. Maybe you’d feel like everyone else. Maybe you’d… just feel. In general. At all.
But the only thing I could feel were the tears trailing down my cheeks. I wasn’t sad. These weren’t sad tears. I wish I was sad. I wish I could be sad. Being sad meant that you knew what it meant to be happy, and I didn’t know much about either.
I wiped at the snot bubbling under my nose—I couldn’t imagine what my stepmother would think if she saw me looking such a mess—only to have my hand slapped away and replaced by a piece of rolled-up paper towel.
“Will you stop fucking crying already,” he grunted, the sound muffled by the mask that didn’t make sense for him to wear anymore. Not if he really was here to kill me. And something told me that he was. That something being the man himself. More than once.
And even if he wasn’t, a mask couldn’t hide what parts of him I’d recognized. I mean, not those parts. I wasn’t looking at those parts. I was just dizzy from all the blood loss.
I meant his stature. Guys that tall with shoulders that wide didn’t exactly blend into the crowd, especially at Briarwood. The other physicians were on the opposite end of the BMI chart. More lean meat than actual muscle, except for Dr. Burke, whose physique would have made for a nice Sunday roast.
I glanced down at the job my would-be murderer had done on my arms. The odd crisscross pattern, unlike anything I’d ever seen before, was much more kindergarten art project than med-school graduate.
I guess It was safe to assume that, that lab coat was a disguise too.
Though I had to admit it looked better on him than the robe he’d yanked off the back of my bedroom door.
He rolled up each of the rose-pink sleeves over his biceps till they were busting at the seams and speared another sliver of runny egg before bringing his fork to his mouth, his jaw clicking when he chewed. I wasn’t sure if it was out of annoyance or habit.
“Sorry.” My reply was definitely out of habit.
“And stop fucking apologizing,” he barked. “Why the fuck are you always apologizing?”
Because it was the best way to avoid an argument.
It was the truth but I kept it to myself.
Like most things. People didn’t want the truth.
They didn’t want to hear that you were drowning, barely keeping your head above water.
No, they wanted you to say: I’m great! How are you?
They wanted to talk about themselves and they wanted you to listen.
But first, they had to pretend. Pretend they were actually asking.
Pretend they cared. They didn’t. Just like I didn’t care about what kid was winning what award, or who was playing soccer, or how old little such-and-such was turning this year.
I admit it. I pretended too. We all did.
But pretending was much easier when you kept things light.
Ask how much propranolol you can get away with signing out before the pharmacist starts looking at you funny, and suddenly you find yourself locked on the other side of those unit doors.
For me, death seemed much more appetizing than being trapped.
So that was why I did it. I doubted that was the answer he’d been wanting, though. Which was why I didn’t answer him at all. It seemed like the safer bet.
“I asked you a question, Jules,” he hummed while twirling the tip of a steak knife over the pad of his finger, pressing down hard enough to cause a trickle of blood to drip along the webbing of his hand.
It didn’t appear to bother him. It didn’t bother me either.
I wasn’t afraid to die. I was afraid of how long it would take for the dying to be over.
“You asked me a few questions,” I grumbled into my glass of OJ, flinching when I realized I’d said it aloud.
“I did, didn’t I? And you haven’t answered any of ?em.”
“Sor—” He cocked his head to the side. I swallowed down the rest of the word and quickly corrected myself. “What question would you like me to answer first, Mister…?”
“You want my name, Miss Keller?” He grinned—I could see the way the mask moved up on his face—and I nodded.
“Sure, why the fuck not?” He dropped the knife onto my half-empty plate, scooped them both up, and deposited them into the sink with a loud clatter.
Then he stepped over the broken pieces on the floor, scraped the leftover food into the garbage disposal, and turned on the faucet.
“It’s Cain,” he said, pausing as the grinding mechanisms rattled the lower cabinets. “Just Cain. No Mister. Got it?”
“Cain?” I repeated. “That’s very…” I tried to find the right word. Something that didn’t come off too judgy. “…biblical?”
He shrugged a single shoulder while setting the plate into the dishwasher and kicking the door closed again.
“Yeah, my ma didn’t name me after no good book, Jules.
More like her favorite thing in the whole wide world.
But calling your newborn Coke woulda been a little too up the nose.
” He tapped a finger to a nostril and made an exaggerated inhalation sound as he slid back into the chair in front of me.
“Your turn, sweetheart. Which ona your parents got you all fucked up? I know it’s gotta be one of ?em? ”