Chapter 3
When Ava sees Dean again, he looks worse than before, if that’s even possible. It shouldn’t be. Dark circles ring his eyes and hollow his features, the limp from his broken toe more pronounced and pained.
It’s a stark contrast to the half-smile he’d given her at the end of his previous visit. One corner of his mouth turned up just a bit like he didn’t know how to use those muscles anymore, and she felt accomplished for having prompted that tiny effort.
It was easy to forgive his many mistakes, especially when he became just as flustered by them as she was.
Now, he sits on the bed in front of her, spine hunched and his sore foot hovering over the concrete. She grabs the extra strength pain meds first, and he downs them dry, not bothering to wait for the water she offers.
“How are you today? You look tired.” She already knows the answer but prompts him anyway, pointing at his flip-flop-clad foot and bandage-covered toe, second from the pinkie.
Dean nods his permission for her to slide the shoe off and check the splint, a yawn leaving his mouth at the same time. “Look tired ‘cause I am. Hard to sleep in here. There’s always something going on.”
He stops abruptly, maybe embarrassed that he’s a millisecond away from complaining. Living here isn’t easy, but then again, it isn’t supposed to be. The way he looks at the wall instead of her makes her wonder if he’s leaving something out.
“This place never sleeps, or so I’ve heard. It’s gotta be hard to get used to,” she says with a wince, inspecting the black and blue skin of his injured toe peeking out from the wrapping. Part of the bandage covering the splint is wet and she assumes he stepped in a puddle of backed up water, either in the bathrooms or halls. Plenty of options to pick from. “Have to change this. I bet it’s a petri dish by now, judging by how nasty these floors can get.”
She goes slow, peeling away the wrap and revealing an even deeper shade of splotchy purple than the previous day. All the while, he watches her with silent wariness, as if she might hack the toe clean off.
His reflexive jerk catches her by surprise when her thumb brushes a sensitive spot and he pulls his foot back like she burned him. It’s happened before, these small flinches, and she ignored them, but this time, before she can school her own body and resist, a similar one ripples through her from head to toe in a chain reaction to his. Some days, it feels like she’s made monumental progress in shedding all these moments that label her as traumatized and broken, and then something as innocuous as this will remind her that it’s all lurking beneath the surface.
They stare at each other for a beat, two deer ready to bolt over something so minor, and then he edges his foot toward her by way of apology before she can speak, no doubt about to tell her he’s sorry.
The warmth of his ankle heats her palm where she rests her hand in a comforting touch. “Easy. You’re okay.”
Dean’s uncomfortable with physical contact of any sort. She noticed that before and it’s still evident today. She should pull her hand away and give him some breathing room, stop hovering, stop touching, but she waits to see if he might move past the uncertainty stamped so clearly on his face. A little comfort isn’t a bad thing, and she’s offering the only chance he’ll get in here to soak up the smallest bit of it.
Then again, maybe she’s crossed a line. He’s the last person she should be touching unless it’s required…but he settles before she can abort her mission, exhaling hard in a way that sounds like relief, fingers uncurling from the bed rail he’d been squeezing.
Plenty of injuries have come through these doors and she’s rarely seen anyone as skittish, especially not one who looks like him. Not for the first time, his behavior has her more than a little curious.
“I won’t do any more damage, I promise. New wrap and you’re done.” She lets her hand fall away from his ankle, her thumb giving the skin a quick flutter, barely there at all, but she wishes she could take it back the moment it happens because that sort of thing is inappropriate at best.
He remains still and pliable for her to re-wrap his toe, a model patient in every respect, even nodding promptly when she tells him to avoid puddles, though they both know that’s impossible.
Dean’s far less willing to speak to her today. She wonders if he’s having flashbacks of all the wrong shit that came out of his mouth the last time, convinced he’ll make it worse if he tries again and that doesn’t sit well with her. They have quite a few visits left ahead of them and it won’t do anyone any favors if they’re both uncomfortable, so she tries to lighten the mood.
“You know I’m convinced Nick uses my time with the patients to do random things like write thank-you notes or file his taxes, maybe contemplate his life choices in the break room,” she says.
Dean grunts an agreeable sound, the stress lines in his brows evening out now that she’s finished fiddling with all his sore spots. “Should he be leaving you alone like this?”
She shrugs and leans back against the counter behind her. “It’s a small town. Small prison. The things people should do tend to be vastly different from what they actually do.” She wants to fill the void, chat with him like they’re two people passing the time instead of an inmate and a nurse, separated by cuffs and guards. “What do you do, Dean? For work on the outside.”
“Fix cars. I used to anyway.”
Her pleased smile is instant, eyebrows edging up in surprise. “I wish I could beg you to look at mine. It’s been—”
“—making a noise?” He cuts her off with a half grin like he’s heard that explanation from a hundred other car owners.
She almost blushes, both because of her oh-so-common complaint and because he’s so damn handsome when he isn’t scowling. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it is making a noise. Sort of like a whooshing, or a clattering?”
He ponders her answer, clearly befuddled by the description. “Those are very different noises. Where’s it comin’ from? Front? Back? Under?”
“Front, for sure. That’s not all though, there’s so many things wrong with it.” She pauses, watching him squint at her. “It’s a long story. Anyway, I’ll take it in next week I guess. Somewhere.”
“If you take a picture of what’s under the hood, I’ll take a look, tell you if anything jumps out. Only if you want. You probably can’t though. I bet it’s breaking the rules. Shouldn’t have asked.”
He started confident and ended even shyer than before, his words low, like he’d forgotten that he’s got no business doing anything for her, but her heart twitches just the same. It’s a kind offer and harmless enough. He’s not asking her to show him some nudes, only the inside of her car, so she nods before she can talk herself out of it. “Okay. Any special area I need to get a close-up of?”
“Depends, what do ya got?”
“That’s part of the long story, but the cliff’s notes version is that it’s a sixty-nine Spider.” It feels like she’s telling him a secret, and maybe she is. Hopes he won’t dig further, though. She isn’t ready to share with Dean or anyone else why she has this car, or why she refuses to sell it and spends enough money repairing it to pay for a fancy vacation.
“No shit? Nice, real nice. Get way in there. Close-ups at all angles. Pay attention to anything that looks like a belt or a strap. Easier to spot in yours. All this new crap has fucking plastic covering all the parts but yours, what you see is what you get.”
He’s focused on what he’s talking about, a slip of excitement filtering through his tired face and she can’t help but smile, her expression likely as soft as they come these days. “Okay, I’ll take some photos tomorrow. It’s nice of you to do this.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Truth is, what else I got to do in here? Might not even see nothin’, but on the off chance I do, maybe I can save you a few dollars from someone that might tack on a bunch of bogus charges.”
“I should sell it is what I should do, but…well, maybe someday. Pills starting to kick in?”
“Yeah, lot better than the Advil. Might get a nap when I get back.” The duck of his head proves he’d forgotten for a moment, during their conversations about cars and repairs, that he won’t be going home. He’ll be going back to the pod. Today and every day following for the next six months.
“Are you sure everything’s okay back there? I mean, I know nothing is okay, not really, but if something else happened—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. You ain’t gotta worry about me.”
She is worried. A tingle at the back of her brain tells her he’s leaving something out when he says it’s hard to sleep, and that there’s ‘always something going on’, but he isn’t offering details and she can’t make him tell her.
When Nick finally shows up, it’s with the telltale sign of donut powder still on his lips, whisking Dean away and back down the hall again.
Ava’s already thinking about their next visit while scolding herself for looking forward to it.
* * *
When she gets home later that night, she exits the mundane Ford Escape she drives to and from work and takes two steps to the left in her driveway, putting herself directly behind the cherry-red Spider. Sleek lines and curved edges stare back at her. The front hood is a slightly darker shade of red, a replacement part for the one crushed like a tin can, but the rest looks brand new. Shiny and proud, a ball and chain fixed to her ankle.
She is flooded with equal parts disdain and affection for the hunk of metal she can’t seem to part with. Everything in her screams to sell it. She’ll never be able to move on if she can’t rid herself of tangible memories like this. Easier said than done, though. She’s stuck in a weird limbo that keeps her tending to this thing, repairing and restoring it, and emptying her bank account in the process. Keeping the car they died in is a form of spite toward her late husband John and reverence for her late daughter Charlotte.
Her obsession with it is completely fucked up and she’s well aware that what she actually needs is years worth of therapy, not this pretty red car filled with ghosts.
That doesn’t stop her from pulling out her phone, popping open the hood, and snapping a few pictures of the inner workings. She’s breaking a dozen rules that could get her fired just by talking to Dean about this car, let alone taking photos that she’ll show him later. It’s harmless though. She’s not showing him her license plate, not snapping pictures of anything scandalous, only a cluster of metal innards and that hardly feels like a big deal at all. It’s something she can rationalize away easily enough.
She still doesn’t know what landed Dean in jail, but she would be surprised if it were a serious crime. Wouldn’t be entertaining this otherwise, wouldn’t feel that slight tug toward him if he were a murderer or rapist. A self-deprecating huff leaves her as she walks into her house and locks the door behind her. She’s the worst judge of character, always has been. She married John, after all. Thought he was a good man when they first met. Thought he loved her. Thought he was gentle.
Still, no matter how she tries, she can’t picture Dean hurting anyone. Even knowing as little as she does about him, that image doesn’t compute. She almost asked him today what crime he committed, but that felt too heavy a thing considering how down he was, like he could collapse onto the bed and sleep for a week.
He’d perked up when they talked about the car and his excitement, however subdued, had prompted the smallest hint of the same in her. It’s a foreign emotion by now, one she isn’t sure she likes or deserves, but there it is anyway, festering in her gut without her permission. Excitement. Not about the car. Her view of that thing is far too complicated to allow something so positive to blossom, but she felt it for him. Felt it for the possibility of having something they can talk about during their visits that doesn’t involve sewer water or broken toes.
In the end, she is glad to offer him a distraction, even if only for a little while, and grateful to have one herself.
Her friend Lori’s voice already whispers disapprovingly in the background of her mind, telling her that she’s a few steps away from being that woman in a Lifetime movie who digs a hole through the prison basement to help an inmate escape. Ridiculous, of course. But she’d never hear the end of it, so she won’t be sharing anything about Dean with Lori when she has dinner with her and her husband Greg tomorrow.
She’s not doing anything wrong. Not in the grand scheme of things and a lecture from the people who helped her get this job in the first place, when she had so few options and nothing but desperation, is the last thing she feels like sitting through. Without them, she might still be a jobless widow, out of the workforce for well over a decade at age thirty seven. She won’t risk them regretting the leg up they’ve given her.
None of this means anything, anyway. Ava tells herself that at least three times as she grabs a frozen dinner from the fridge and heats it in the microwave.
It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything. It absolutely does not mean anything.
She has never been less convincing.