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As if.
I’m not an attacker. Well, except for that teeny-tiny urge to throw the paperweight at Dr. Blackwood during our meeting. But I didn’t do it, did I? Granted, he took the object away but still.
Anyway, I hate thinking about my time at the state hospital and the first week at Heartstone so I try not to.
But the incident with Angry Annie – actually, let’s call her Annie; she’s angry for the right reasons because clearly, there’s a story about her dad – I’ve spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about it and feeling a pinch on my hip.
A phantom pinch from the needle two weeks ago.
I’ve also spent the rest of the afternoon looking for him.
The man with healing hands. Dr. Blackwood.
After his heroic save, I haven’t seen him all day. Even when he kept his promise and we did a Skype call with Dr. Martin. He wasn’t there. Beth handled it all in the TV room, saying Dr. Blackwood was otherwise occupied.
I mean, I know he’s busy. I know that. But I can’t ignore this growing… something just under my ribcage. Something like longing but with a sharper edge. More like restlessness.
For some reason, before this day is out, I need to see him.
Irony isn’t lost on me. The man I should be running away from is the exact man I’m chasing after.
Twice. In one day.
It’s the end of the afternoon and I’m outside, with my book on my lap, alternately feeding the pigeons and watching the sky for the impending storm. Renn and Penny are sprawled on the ground, and Vi is right by me, feeding the birds as well.
I’m contemplating whether to just track him down somehow. The only reason I haven’t done it yet is because I shouldn’t be doing it. I should be more cautious around him.
But he saved her.
That’s the only thing I’m thinking about, in a loop, no less.
My dilemma ends when he strides out the front door himself.
Well, there you have it. I can’t ignore it now. He practically fell in my lap, so to speak. I spring up from my seat, startling the girls.
Without taking my eyes off him where he stands on the stone steps, I say, “I’ll be just a sec.”
I don’t wait to see their reactions as I walk across the lawn filled with patients and techs. I feel their eyes on me, but I don’t care. A staff member might have said something to me too. Maybe asked me a question about how I am and what am I doing. Do I need something?
But I don’t answer them. I do need something, but I don’t think they can give it to me.
I’m focused on Dr. Blackwood. He looks at someone beyond me – one of the techs – and dips his chin, probably to say that he’s got me.
My lips part at his gesture. So confident and reassuring. So… heroic.
Then his gaze falls on me. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing on the top of the steps, tracking my movements with slightly hooded eyes.
Something about his utter stillness and the way he’s looking at me brings back the tingling from this morning. It’s not obvious, his stare, but I feel it. Like the heated sun. The thing that I hate, but I’m not hating it right now.
When I come to a stop at the bottom step, he shoves his hands inside his pockets and begins climbing down.
“You should really fix your book,” he murmurs.
I realize I have my book clutched to my chest, and a few loose pages are hanging off the bottom. I shove them back in but the level of irritation I should be feeling at the word fix isn’t there anymore.
Yet some part of me still wants to cling onto my old ways. “My book is fine. And you guys should really do something about your library. There isn’t one Harry Potter book in there.”
There’s no heat in my words. I know it; he knows it.
But he says, “Noted.”
Then I blurt out, “You did a good thing today.”
“A good thing.”
I nod. “This afternoon.”
“You mean that Skype call with Dr. Martin? That was pretty easy to do.”
His voice is casual but everything else is curious, alert – his expression, his body. It’s not like it was in our meeting the other day. This feels more… personal. Like his gaze back in the dining room right when he was leaving.
“Yeah. That too. But I meant something else.”
“What did you mean?”
Now’s the moment of truth. Do I tell him about my fear of needles? About that day in the hospital? Am I really willing to volunteer information about myself?
He can do a thousand things with it. He can bring it up in our next meeting. He can use it to ask other questions, questions I don’t want to answer.
