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I barely noticed Katherine’s announcement that she’ll be back in a short while to check on us. I pull out the chair across from the woman and take a seat. She still hasn’t lifted her head or acknowledged my presence.
“Athena.”
It’s not until I softly call her name that she lifts her head. A moment passes before recognition dawns. Slowly, her dull, despondent expression gives way to a charming smile.
“Hunter,” she breathes, a brilliant light shining in her eyes.
Reaching across the table, I gently take one of her cold hands. Her hands are always icy cold, no matter how warm it is. “How are you this morning, honey?”
Her eyes drop to our clasped hands as she lifts a slender shoulder. “I’m okay, I guess.” Her voice is soft and lyrical.
“You want to tell me what you were thinking about just now?” I ask, slowly rubbing my thumb on the back of her hand just as she likes. “You seemed pretty deep in thought.”
“It was nothing.” She raises her eyes to me. “Just thinking about what’s for dinner tonight.”
Deflection. That’s what Athena does. If she doesn’t want to answer a question, there’s no forcing her to. I learned the hard way not to repeat questions she doesn’t want to answer. The one time I did, it ended with Athena being restrained and injected with a sedative. I never want to see that hysterical look on her face again. The pain of it brought me to my knees as I helplessly watched the staff try to calm her.
“What did you have for breakfast?” I ask, trying to maintain a calm voice despite the turmoil raging inside of me.
“Eggs and bacon with blueberry pancakes.”
“That sounds good,” I remark.
I stop stroking the back of her hand for a split second, and her expression tightens. I immediately restart the soft movement and her features once again relax.
Athena loves it when I touch her hand. I’m not sure why, but any time I visit her, she wants me to hold her hand. I’ve spoken with her doctor about it, and he believes the gentle way I touch her is comforting. It doesn’t bother me. Anything to bring her peace, I’m willing to do.
Keeping her gaze steady on me, she props her chin in her palm with her elbow on the table. Again, my eyes are drawn to the stark-white bandage before returning to hers. I want to ask her about the bandages, but again, that’s a no-go subject.
“How long can you stay?” she asks out of the blue.
I give her an easy smile. “For as long as you want me here.”
“Would you stay forever if I asked you to?”
Unconsciously, my smile slips a bit. “Is that what you want? Do you want to stay here forever?”
I’ve been coming here to see Athena for years. My first encounter with her was by accident. I was here to see Dr. Armani when I spotted Athena being led into one of the patient rooms. Before she and the nurse could step through the doorway, her head lifted and our eyes met. A strange connection formed between us that day. She became agitated when the nurse tried to get her to enter the room, so I approached the pair. I sat with her for an hour that day, and I’ve been visiting her ever since. Other than me, she doesn’t have any other visitors.
“I don’t know.” Sadness creeps across Athena’s face, and her eyes drift from me to stare blankly across the room. “I think I deserve to stay here forever.”
I squeeze her fingers to bring her eyes back to me. They look desolate when they do.
“Why do you think you deserve to be here, Athena?” I ask, keeping my voice low and even despite my growing disquiet.
Her tongue comes out to run across her lips. “Because I did something horrible,” she whispers, as if she’s ashamed.
It takes everything in me to not yank the woman into my arms and demand she wipe those thoughts from her head. It’s only the reaction I know I would get that keeps me in my seat. While she loves it when I hold her hand and gently rub the back with my thumb, that’s the only touch she’ll allow. Anything more, she’ll turn distraught. Not because she abhors my touch, but because she feels like she doesn’t deserve it.
“What happened was not your fault,” I tell her sternly.
Angry heat flashes in her eyes, and for a moment, I think she’s about to pull her hand away, but she doesn’t. Instead, her fingers wrap tighter around my palm, as if my touch is the only thing keeping her sane and grounded. Like if the connection was broken, she would fall to so many pieces there would be no hope of putting her back together.
“Itwasmy fault,” she replies vehemently.
“Athena—”
“No!” she yells, jumping to her feet, this time dislodging our connection. She bends at the waist, her hands gripping her wild hair, tugging the strands, and her expression contorts into pain. “It was my fault!” She hits her chest with a closed fist. “Mine!”
