Chapter 11 – Jennie
My heart jumps into my throat, and my ears are ringing. Chris loves me? I know it’s the sedative talking. It has to be! He doesn’t know what he’s saying. “Chris—”
“I’ve loved you for so long I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you. But you always turned me down, so I stopped asking. I didn’t want to be one of those jerks who pester girls, ya know? And I understood why you didn’t want me back. I mean, what girl would?”
It shocks me to hear Chris speak of himself like this. No, it breaks my heart, and I’m ashamed I played a part in how he saw himself.
“I was a nobody back then,” he continues, his mind wandering.
“Still am, to be honest. I’m still just the bastard son of the town whore.
A drug addict’s kid.” He turns to face me, his eyes bleak.
“I don’t even know who my dad is. My mom didn’t know either.
It could be anyone—the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. ” He laughs at his own lame joke.
But then, just as suddenly, his mood changes again, and he frowns.
“God, I hope it’s not David Braggart, Sr. That would fucking suck if Dave turned out to be my half-brother.
When I was young, David Braggart, Sr. came by our place a lot, so I know he was doin’ my mom.
He probably had been for years. That’s why you could never love me back, Jennie.
I am literally a bastard, and you deserve better. ”
I try to decide how best to respond. I’m so tempted to tell him how I feel about him, but now is definitely not the time. He probably won’t even remember this conversation tomorrow. “Chris—”
But his eyes are closed now, and he’s softly snoring.
My mind is reeling after the things he said, and I need time to process it all.
He loves me? He always has?
But how do I know he’s telling the truth? He’s under the influence of a drug. He’s loopy right now.
* * *
Sometime later, Dr. Talbott returns to assess Chris’s shoulder.
He applies a sling to help immobilize the arm while the shoulder joint is recovering.
“You’ll be sore for a few days, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.
I advise you to take a few days off work and rest.” Then to me, the doctor says, “Just keep an eye on him tonight. Would you like me to prescribe something for the pain?”
Chris shakes his head adamantly. “No!” he replies, way too quickly. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
“Well, if you get too uncomfortable, you can take something over the counter.”
Chris nods, but doesn’t say anything. I’m not surprised. He has an aversion to taking any medication because of his mother’s drug addiction. He’s afraid it could happen to him.
When the doctor leaves, I begin the arduous process of helping Chris change into the clothes Micah brought. I help him sit up, being as gentle as I can, and still he grimaces throughout the process.
He chooses to forgo the underwear. “It’ll be easier if I go commando.”
Blushing, I avert my gaze as I help him slip his bare legs into a pair of gray sweatpants.
He stands on shaky legs, gripping my shoulder with his good hand as I work the sweats up to his waist. Once he’s seated again, I help put on his socks and sneakers.
Getting his T-shirt on is just as difficult because of his sling and his immobilized right arm.
Fortunately, the nurse comes in at that moment—bringing a wheelchair—and she helps me.
He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, so I know he’s in pain, and yet he never says a word. He never complains.
After the doctor officially releases Chris, I wheel him out to my car and help him get settled into the front passenger seat of my Honda Civic. “Sorry,” I mutter as I lean across him to buckle his seat belt.
“S’okay,” he mumbles.
I catch him observing me a couple of times, but each time he quickly looks away. Obviously, something is bothering him. On the drive back to Bryce, he stares out the passenger window at the passing scenery, saying nothing.
I feel the need to break the silence. “In case you’re wondering, I’m taking you back to my house to stay the night.”
He winces as he rotates his right shoulder. “That’s all right.” He can barely meet my gaze. “You can drop me off at my house. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“Humor me, please. Stay with me for at least one night. Your doctor said the sedative won’t wear off fully until the morning.” I can’t help wondering if he remembers any of what he said to me earlier. Does he remember spilling his guts, and now he regrets it? “Chris, please. It’s just one night.”
“All right,” he says reluctantly.
“Thank you.”
* * *
It’s evening when we arrive back at my house. I unlock and open the door for him so he can step through.
Dawn, who’s putting dirty dinner dishes into the dishwasher, scans him from head to toe. “How’re you doing, Sheriff? I’m glad to see you’re all in one piece. I heard what happened.”
“I’m still standing,” he says.
Right now, he’s acting a bit hung over. I assume it’s because of the sedative.
“Granny and I had pot roast for dinner this evening,” she says. “There’s plenty of leftovers in the fridge. Enough for the both of you. There are some dinner rolls, too. Help yourselves.”
As I watch Chris drop down heavily onto one of the kitchen chairs, I suspect he’s hurting more than he’s letting on. I pat his good shoulder. “How about something cold to drink?”
Wordlessly, he nods.
“Is Granny in bed?” I ask Dawn as I hand Chris a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade. It’s eight now. Granny’s usually in bed by seven.
She nods. “Sound asleep. She asked for you at dinner. I told her you were working late tonight.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Dawn.” I give her a hug as I walk her to the door.
“Oh, I forgot! There’s blueberry cobbler on the counter.”
I lock the door after Dawn leaves, and then I turn back to face the patient. “I’ll get you some dinner.”
Chris sits at the table nursing his lemonade while I heat up the leftover pot roast in the microwave.
As that’s warming, I set a basket of dinner rolls and the butter dish on the table.
I keep myself busy until the microwave beeps, indicating our food is ready.
I dish it out and set the plates on the table, along with silverware and a glass of lemonade for myself.
“Dig in,” I say. “You must be hungry. You probably haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
He scoops a forkful of food in his mouth and grunts as he chews. “It’s good,” he says after he swallows.
“Would you like something for the pain?”
“I’m fine. Just sore.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” I hate pestering him, but it bothers me that he’s hurting and I can’t do anything about it.
He manages a few more bites and half a roll, but he mostly pokes at his food. Usually, he’s a good eater, but I’m afraid he’s preoccupied with something.
Of course I can’t help thinking he must remember what he said to me at the hospital. He’s probably embarrassed, or maybe he regrets saying anything at all.
My phone chimes with an incoming message. I glance at the screen. “It’s Micah.”
Micah: Checking to see you two got home okay
Micah: Send proof of life
“He’s checking to make sure you made it here all right.” I take a picture of a sullen-looking Chris spooning some of the pot roast into his mouth and send it to Micah. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”
Micah: He looks like shit. Tell him I’ll bring more clothes in the morning
I bite back a chuckle as I pass along the message.
“You guys don’t need to fuss over me,” Chris says, frowning.
“No, but you’re our friend, and we care about you.”
Chris reaches for his glass and downs the rest of his lemonade. “Thanks for dinner. It’s been a long day, and I think I’ll turn in.”
“Dawn made a blueberry cobbler. Would you like some?” This guy loves cobbler.
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m good.”
I’ve never known Chris to turn down cobbler, so something is definitely wrong. But I don’t want to push him because I’m pretty sure I already know what it is. He remembers what he said, or at least some of it, and he regrets it. And that makes me sad.
Chris carries his plate and silverware to the sink, rinses them off, and puts them in the dishwasher. Then he turns to face me. “Thanks for having me over tonight, Jennie. I’m pretty wiped out, so I’ll say goodnight. I think I remember where the guest room is.”
He takes a couple of steps toward the arched doorway, stops, and turns back to me. “Did I say anything earlier to you, at the hospital? I mean, anything inappropriate? I was kind of out of it.”
My chest tightens. I’m right. He does remember at least bits and pieces. I honestly don’t know how to respond to that. It’s getting late, and he’s exhausted and in pain. Now is not the time for me to pile more worries on his conscience. “No,” I say easily, lying through my teeth. “You didn’t.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “If I said anything I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”
“No worries.” I do my best to give him a reassuring smile, when deep down inside, I’m hurting. He might have said those things, but I doubt he meant them.
He nods. “If you’re sure. Goodnight then. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The house is eerily quiet after Chris goes to bed. I’m tired, and it’s been a long day, and I should be sleepy, but I’m not. I keep replaying our conversation at the hospital over and over again.
How can I take him at his word when he was under the influence of a sedative? He couldn’t have been serious, could he? I’m thinking no, especially not when he clearly acts like he regrets it.