75. Dollie—present day #2
With them chatting between themselves, the itch in my feet continues inside the ugly slippers I’d shoved my feet into before jumping in the ambulance, and I glance over my shoulder to his room. And, this time, I can’t stop myself from walking over and pushing open the door.
Both girls call me, but I ignore them, slipping into a blue room.
Enchanting green eyes land on me as soon as he recognizes the light dragging of the huge slippers.
Whatever the psychologist was talking about stops instantly when I pull a chair to Ambrose’s side.
He forces himself up, teeth snapping shut to hide the pain in both arms.
The silence between us shatters.
“What the fuck happened to you?” His hands instantly reach for me as soon as I’m within reach. Fingers moving over my shoulders to my neck and bruised face.
“I’m okay.” I cup his gentle hands to my cheeks. “You’re lucky to be alive, though, you know that?”
He tenses, knowing I chose those words deliberately because I know the truth. Not knowing that I’ve known for a while, since a terrible nightmare brought us together.
“You’re not okay! Was this because you were in my room? Where is he?”
I hold tight like he’s my lifeline, my fingers trembling where they’re joined with his. “It was why I wanted to keep the lights off.”
“How did I not notice you were hurt?”
“Because the lights were off,” I reaffirm.
“Dollie, I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
Quick to move, I stop Ambrose from leaving the bed before the psychologist can push herself up from the chair. I only encourage him to stay when I dent the mattress by plopping myself on the edge of the bed.
“You start throwing fists, and either way, I’ll lose you. I can’t lose you.”
I can’t help but notice how the psychologist monitors his reactions, her spine straightening in my peripheral vision as his eyes roam my sad face.
“You won’t.”
“I will if you go back to prison. I can’t do it again.”
Gritting his teeth, he spares one look for each bruise, his nostrils widening for his anger to travel down.
“Please, rest, just for a little while. I mean, it’s not like you can kill him now anyway. He’s not home.” I speak before thinking, not even half serious.
It doesn’t impress the psychologist. “Not appropriate.”
“Sorry,” I say. And that leads me back to Ambrose as I guide him back down onto a pillow that practically deflates below his head. “How are you feeling?”
I kick my slippers off to pull my legs up, edging in a little closer.
“Like I hate those slippers almost as much as I hate the man they belong to, Dollie.” He avoids looking at my face and all the injuries showcased there, sad eyes pointing up at the once white ceiling.
“Well, you certainly like to moan about them. If I leave them on, at least I know you’ll talk to me.”
“I’ll talk to you anyway.”
“You went quiet last night.”
“I’m sorry. For everything.” He swallows hard.
“Don’t be, and don’t go quiet again, either.”
“Just take off anything he’s ever given you and throw it out. Don’t worry about me not talking to you, I wouldn’t allow you to be that bored when it’s just me, you, and that poodle.”
“Oh, is Bubbles still in your bad books?”
“Depends on if she still favors a dirty sock over us.”
“She doesn’t. I stole it this morning. She was trying to get me to follow her and left the room. Looking back, I actually think she knew you were in trouble. So, she gave up her sock for you.”
“Good,” he rasps. “Well, I guess for that, I like her again.”
“Still full of charm,” the doctor laughs, appearing a little more human as lines appear around her deep-set eyes. He flips her off before cracking a false side-smile. “That’s impolite, young man.”
He nods knowingly.
His hand moves back to me, knuckles kissing my cheek, touching me so tenderly I forget why he’s drawn there, only remembering when my hand covers his and grazes the wound embedded on my face.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“Don’t worry about that right now.”
“But I am worried about it.”
Leaning in close, my swollen stomach—definitely from nerves—gets in the way. But I force myself lower and tell him a secret that the eavesdropper in the room probably overhears. “And I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t change the subject, Dollie.”
Ambrose’s shaking fingers pad across my face.
“There are so many bruises.”
“I didn’t want you two to fight.”
The hate in his glare, the tightness in his jaw, couldn’t disagree more.
Leaving my face, his hand moves to mine, and I look down at where they’re connected, to all the scars melding perfectly and the desperation in his grip that’s exhausting him. “Just tell me what happened?”
“I’m okay. Really. I’m just glad you’re awake and you’re okay, too.
” I pause before sucking in a big breath and continuing.
“I think I know what hurt you, but I hope you realize it’s not worth it.
There are people who care about you too much for you to leave them that way.
Valaria and Annabelle are outside. They’ve both been so worried. ”
His eyes drop from my face, and his grip loosens from my hand because that isn’t what he wanted to hear. He’s pulling away, creating a safe distance between us that I can’t allow.
This time, I’m the one to wrap my fingers around his hand, avoiding his bandaged wrist and the hint of blood seeping through.
“I had no idea my heart could break into so many pieces until yesterday. It was so much worse than losing you before. So different. So final.”
Feeling tears fill my eyes again, I look away, glancing in the direction of the psychologist.
“He won’t need to be institutionalized again, right?”
Those words trigger something inside him, something that forces him to sit up again, his head shaking, eyes pleading. The blanket slips down his chest, revealing the most unflattering gown.
Amusement pulls at my face, all the muscles moving into a forced position. As if he senses it, his eyes move to me, the plea falling away as he stares at me with wild curiosity.
“Duck egg blue and baggy is not your style.”
His side smile strikes again, stretching the red paint I’m growing to love. “I’d tell you to fuck off, but I don’t really want you to go.”
That little freckle cluster in his eye—the heart—twinkles under the lights that make him squint.
“I’m not going anywhere. And you’re not either.” I squeeze his hand, my eyes moving back to his psychologist. “Right?”
“We’ll need to do an assessment for forty-eight hours,” she begins. “But I do feel that time in our facility?—”
I cut her off. I may not know mental health better than her—or at all, given my fraying sanity—but I know Ambrose better than anyone, and we only need each other to make it through.
“If he doesn’t have to stay there, I’m confident I can look out for him at home. I’ll be there whenever it’s hard.” I nod, praying she’ll understand how badly he needs me to survive. How much I need him. “We can go back to our buddy reads. What do you say?”
His eyes soften, ignoring the strain from the white lights. And I take that as a yes.
“As I was saying,” her words pull us from each other. “I think some time in the facility could be beneficial, but I don’t want to push him into a live-in plan, based solely on the fact that he has regrets about his actions.”
“He does. When we found him, he’d tried calling for an ambulance, but it looked like he’d dropped his phone.”
“The doctors filled me in on all you’ve said to them. We can discuss things during the assessment. I’ll give you guys a moment alone while I visit the bathroom, and I’ll be back in five minutes, and then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Disappointment encourages me to fight my case, the argument on the tip of my tongue. My mouth opens to let them all out, then closes. Submissively, I nod.
Dr. Harrison, whose name tag is much easier to read up close, struts across the room. My fingers fidget again as her small heels click and clack until she’s out the door.
“You’re stressed.”
“I am,” I reply honestly. “Can I give you a hug?” My lip trembles as I whisper. I rock, getting closer each time I move forward.
He nods, stretching an arm out in invitation. The look in his glazed eyes tells me he needs it as much as I do as I tuck myself in at his side.
His fingers don’t tighten on my body as much as usual. The injuries that cause him pain show as his usually full lips press into a thin line. The scrunched expression has to be because of his wrists and the discomfort… or because of me, and what I did with Shane.
“Why did you do this?” I have to know.
Glancing up at him, I see his eyes closed. His lashes flutter when I touch his face.
“Because I heard you with him, and it fucking hurt,” he tells me through gritted teeth.
I snuggle in harder, hating myself for hurting us both by just not screaming last night. Pressed too tightly to Ambrose’s body, another stab of pain slices through my breast.
I wince, cupping myself for a moment.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes full of concern.
Even when hurt by me—angry at me—he still cares.
I nod. “I’m fine, and what you heard wasn’t what you think.”
“I’m glad you’re fine.” He looks away again.
“Ambrose,” I guide his face back, our mouths close.
I need him to Taste the truth.
I place a small kiss just off his mouth, and he turns away from it, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable.
His hair soothes me, and as tears fall, he doesn’t stop me from touching him.
“It really wasn’t what you think.”
“It wasn’t you screwing him while I was close enough to listen to you pant out his name?” He keeps his eyes from mine, but all emotions show in his strained voice.
“No. I wouldn’t do that. I know how much it would hurt me if I had to hear you with someone else.”
“Yeah, I remember how you acted when you thought I slept with Valaria. But I didn’t. You did sleep with Shane. And it did hurt. And it did happen.”
“Yes, but he isn’t what I want. It’s always been you.”
A cold laugh echoes in the room.