Round 22
ROUND TWENTY-TWO
OLLIE
I tiptoe into the hall at a little after five the next morning, my shoes in my hands so the rubber soles don’t squeak on the floor and wake Rose. But I slow in front of her closed door.
I can’t stop. Can’t knock. Can’t say goodbye, even though leaving her for the next twelve hours feels like torture. Not only would it be wildly inappropriate to do any of that, but it would scare the shit out of her, too.
I don’t dare disturb her sleep.
But that doesn’t stop my hands from itching. My fingers from tingling. Knowing her rest is more important than my desire to lay eyes on her doesn’t stop me from wishing otherwise.
But such is life… according to something someone famous once said. Releasing a quiet sigh, I continue along the hall in silence, my shoulders and knees high, my head and hands low.
If I’m lucky, things might be slow at the hospital today.
Doctor Dawes might’ve experienced a complete change in personality and not left me with a mountain of paperwork in addition to my own work.
Better yet, he might’ve decided to come back to work on a full-time basis, allowing me the freedom to take a week or two off.
Time to spend at home while Rose is at her most vulnerable.
But that’s about as likely as finding gold at the end of a rainbow, so I move to the living room entryway and set my shoes on the floor, then, turning to the kitchen, I feel for the light switch and flip it, drowning the room in light, only to jump three fucking feet into the air.
“Jesus! Rose!” I slam my hand to my heart and cling to the wall for a beat, studying the woman hunched over at the counter with a penlight—my penlight, the one I use to check a patient’s pupillary light reflex—poised in her left hand, and a pencil in the right.
She stares back at me, wide-eyed and pale-cheeked.
“What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark?” My fright turns to curiosity.
Humor. Embarrassment, because I was this close to pissing my pants.
Shaking my head, I cross the room and peek down at the sketchpad laid on the stone counter in front of her.
At a pair of eyes. Wireframe glasses. “Drawing in the dark is terrible for your eyesight, just so you know.”
She sets the penlight down and hunches into her cotton pyjamas, folding her legs and defying gravity in the way she’s perched atop the stool without falling. “I was trying not to wake you.”
“Yeah? Pretty sure you woke my ancestors. Fuck.” I circle the counter and head to the coffeepot, filling the tank with water and dropping a filter and beans into the front.
Tapping the buttons to get the whole contraption gurgling, I turn and lean against the cabinets.
If I pretend I wasn’t scared, maybe we’ll both believe it. “I didn’t know you could draw.”
“Me neither.” She nibbles on her plump bottom lip and searches my eyes. “He keeps coming to me in my sleep, and every time I wake, I forget most of the details. So I thought, this time, if I’m quick enough, I could put them on paper and see what we end up with.”
“Ended up discovering a hidden talent, I’d say.” I study her long raven hair pulled back into a braid, with loose tendrils falling forward and framing her face. Her lips are darker this morning, perhaps from the cold, and a line marks her cheek from the way she slept.
Which means she hasn’t been out here for long.
“Who is he?”
“My friend, I think.” She pulls the long sleeves of her pyjama top down to cover her hands. “I dream about him almost every single night. Usually, they’re nice dreams. He’s sweet.”
“A lover?” Why does my stomach hurt when I ask her that?
Why does it make me sick? Oh, I know. Because I lost my objectivity a long fucking time ago.
“Your subconscious is trying really hard to help you remember him, and if most of your dreams portray him in a positive light, then it’s entirely possible he’s your boyfriend or something. ”
“Not a very good boyfriend, evidently, since I’ve been in Plainview for almost three weeks now and he hasn’t come for me.” She swallows, her cheeks warming to a beautiful, fascinating pink. “I don’t get romantic vibes from him in my dreams.”
“Vibes?”
“You know what I mean.” She snickers. “He’s only ever used that word: friends. Not lovers. Not romance. Not cohabitation. He’s protective, even now that he…” She loses her smile, her expression darkening. “Even when the dreams changed.”
“You mean, even after he flipped and became a crazed murderer, poking holes in my back with a sharp knife?” I turn my nose to the ceiling and inhale the delicious scent of caffeine.
It’s my second-favorite smell in the world.
“I probably should have a chat with him when he does eventually come for you. Dude’s out here casting terrible juju my way when I never did anything to mess with him. ”
“You’re making a joke of all this.”
“No, I’m really not.” I bring my gaze down again, meeting hers.
“Just taking away some of the sting, I suppose, so you can talk about it without hyperventilating, and I can think about it without internalizing the grudge this possible figment of your imagination has with me. I’m just the dude sharing pudding cups and juice boxes with the nice lady on my ward, and he’s ready to wipe me out for it.
Sounds like jealousy to me.” I turn and grab a coffee mug down from the cupboard, then a second, since I know damn well she won’t go back to bed after I leave.
“He’s jealous of our jelly cup dates. And since he’s jealous, that implies romance.
Loving you is why he’s protective of you.
And that—” I glance over my shoulder and meet her eyes with a smirk, “Is why you dream of him. It makes complete sense to me.”
“Guess you got it all figured,” she drawls. “It’s a workday, which means Ollie is gone, and Doctor Douchebag is back with all his wonderful, infallible genius. I missed him.”
Chuckling, I pull the pot from under the spout and fill both mugs.
“Mornings are when you shine, huh?” I place the pot back on the warmer and head to the fridge.
“At nighttime, you’re soft and shy. Too scared to make a peep, and anxious as hell the closer bedtime comes.
Turns out it’s not the dark that bothers you.
Not really. ‘Cos you can sit in my kitchen at five in the morning, huddled and freezing in the shadows, and when a man is still trying to recover from the fright of his life, you have nothing to offer but sass and vibes.” I snag the creamer and drop a little into each mug. “I’ll remember that about you.”
“Mmhm.” Her perfect bow lips, thick and full, curl into a beautiful smile. “Do you normally wake a whole hour before your shift starts? It only takes three or four minutes to drive to the hospital.”
“I like to sit and enjoy my coffee. Cook something to eat. Just because I live alone doesn’t mean I live the Red Bull and drive-thru burrito bachelor life. My body is a temple and all that shit.”
She snorts, peeking at my body as though to inspect for herself. “Do you think you’ll have pudding dates with some other patient today? I won’t lie… it would hurt my feelings a little if you did.”
“Nah. I’m a taken man now. No more pudding dates for me at least until he—” I tip my chin toward her deserted drawing, “—comes back and sweeps you up. But I’ll probably swipe some pudding cups and bring them home for us.
” I put the creamer away and pick up both coffees, placing one on the counter not so far from her arm.
I circle the stool adjacent to hers and sit on the edge, my foot on the bar at the bottom so my knee juts forward. “Did drawing him help?”
She shrugs, wrapping her palms around her warm mug. But she looks at the page, to the guy’s eyes, and the soft wrinkles fanning out from the side. “Didn’t help. Didn’t seem to hurt anything, though. What time will you finish work tonight?”
“Six. But if I’m lucky, Dawes might come back early. The second he’s on site, I’m racing out of there and coming home. What are your plans for today?”
“Might stand in front of a mirror and scream for a while.” She shrugs a second time. “Who knows, if I was part of a secret agent government thing, then I probably went through basic training. If I went through basic training, then it’s entirely reasonable that I’ll respond to being shouted at.”
“Perfectly logical reasoning.” I take a slow sip of coffee before setting the mug back on the counter. “Can I offer a constructive suggestion, though?”
Her eyes flicker to mine.
“Be realistic. If after six hours of screaming nothing shakes loose, maybe try something else. Crawling through mud and climbing walls for no reason at all could be a good option.”
She rests her elbows on the counter and leans onto her arms, her long braid toppling forward to dangle over her collarbone. “I’ll be sure to try that, too. Should I cook dinner tonight?”
Surprise pushes my brows up, concern following straight after. “C-cooking? Do you know how?”
“You said procedural memory stuff sticks around, right? I can dress myself, shower, and it turns out I can even care for a plant and read an encyclopedia. This leads me to wonder if, if I simply put a pot on the stove and start mixing things, that skill will come back to me, too.”
“Sure, but…” How to say this without antagonizing her? “I really like my kitchen the way it is, and maybe you didn’t know how to cook before, either. It’s not the nineteen-fifties anymore, and being in the kitchen doesn’t come natural to all women these days.”
She gasps and smacks my arm with her open palm, the loud crack echoing throughout the room. But then she yelps and laughs, whipping her hand back and rubbing it on her shirt. “Ouch!”
“You hit me, but you want me to feel bad for you?”
“Your arm is as hard as a rock!” She giggles, her chest and shoulders bouncing with the sound. “You said you were going to the gym yesterday, but you didn’t say anything about lifting weights.”
“Aw, shucks.” Fuck the pitter-patter of my heart.
I take her hand and lay it palm-side-up on top of mine, then I stroke the reddened skin and study, in microscopic fucking detail, the way her fingers curl.
How her nails are smoother nearly three weeks out from her ordeal.
“Are you complimenting how big and strong and amazing I am?
‘Cos honestly, I work hard at the gym hoping the ladies will notice.”
“And they certainly do.” Her lips twitch.
“I spent two weeks watching everyone else’s wife make excuses to drop by and see you at the hospital.
Oh dear, Doctor Darling. I think I have a cough today.
Would you mind taking a peek?” She flutters her lashes.
“Perhaps you could listen to my chest. Make sure my lungs are not compromised.”
“You’re making that up.” Still, I release her hand and push off the stool, circling behind her and squeezing her shoulder as I pass.
Moving to the other side of the counter, I snag a pan from the cupboard and set it on the stove, then I go to the fridge for supplies.
“Bacon and eggs for breakfast. If you wanna cook dinner, why don’t you wait for me to get home? We can do it together.”
“And you can protect your precious kitchen.” She taunts. “I was planning to spend one of my lonely hours cooking, but I suppose I’ll work on my fitness instead. Or read another book.”
“Or you could take a look at the olive plant in my living room. It hasn’t grown a single inch since I brought it home. I water it and everything.”
She flattens her lips. “It’s an artificial plant, Oliver. Don’t water it. Ever.”