Neither of us speaks. His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second, then back up. He wants to move closer, but he doesn't let himself.
"Just think about it," he says quietly.
Then he steps back, and he's walking away across the parking lot before I can find words for whatever just happened.
I stand there for a long time, watching him go.
The sun is warm on my face. The air smells like summer and hot asphalt.
The facility is behind me. Jude is in there, behind all those locked doors, and twenty minutes ago he kissed me with everything he had.
And Gage just offered me dinner and normal things.
I get in my car and I sit there for a long time with both men in my head and no idea what to do about either one.
Chapter 15
Jude
The day room smells like her coffee. Not the vending machine runoff—her brand, made the way she takes it at home.
Contraband, technically. She mentioned it once, in passing, while reviewing my medication compliance. Missed her own coffee, she said. The kind she makes at home.
I kept it. Kept everything. And when Rick's replacement proved equally susceptible to the right pressure in the right places, acquiring a proper cup was easy.
She stops in the doorway of the day room, clipboard already in hand, and stares at the ceramic mug waiting at her usual seat.
"That's not from the vending machine."
"No."
"How did you—" She catches herself. Shakes her head. "Actually, I don't want to know."
"Probably wise."
She sits and takes the mug in both hands and inhales before she drinks, and the small sound she makes, satisfaction, surprise,something she'd never let me hear on purpose, settles in my chest.
The day room is empty except for us. Mid-afternoon, most patients in their cells or shuffled to the yard for their prescribed hour of sunlight that's supposed to make us more manageable. I requested this time slot three weeks ago. Kennedy approved it without understanding why.
Gage is at his post by the door. Ten feet away, maybe twelve. From where he stands, he can see us from the chest up. Everything below the table is blind to him.
She told me last week she'd walk away if I kept acting like I owned her. I heard her.
"Okay." Hope sets down the mug and flips open her folder. "Week twelve check-in. How are you feeling?"
"Tired."
"The tremors?"
"Resolved."
She makes a note. Her handwriting is neat, precise, slanted slightly left. I've memorized the way she forms her letters. The small pause before she dots an I.
"Dr. Kennedy's notes say you've been more cooperative in sessions."
"I sit in the chair and let him talk. He counts that as cooperation."
A smile tugs at her mouth.
