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The confusion hasn’t cleared up by Saturday when I drive to the hospital for my usual rounds. Should I go through with Phase Three?
Or should I abandon ship? I mean, Mission Ryan?
Or men altogether?
I thought I knew what I was doing. Now I’m not so sure anymore. Not when he’s hot and cold, when he’s ignored me every single day since he kissed me.
Not good. I should call my mom, ask for advice.
I check my tiara and makeup in the rearview mirror and step outside in my blue princess shoes.
Nurse Ellen smiles as she waves me toward the children’s ward. I’ve brought a book of fairytales with me, and I read a short tale to every child. The girls love my costume. The boys always look intrigued.
“You’re a real princess?” a new patient, a blond little boy asks, touching my hair.
“Why, yes, of course.” I touch my tiara. “Don’t I look like one?”
“Your crown is plastic,” he tells me sadly, “and fairytales don’t come true.”
“Fairytales don’t have to come true,” I tell him, “because they are true. They are stories, like our lives, going from good to bad, and then back again to good. Like you.”
He looks doubtful. “I’m not a story.”
“Yes, you are. And you will have a happy ending.”
He smiles, at last, and allows me to read a tale for him.
All in all, it has been a good day. All the kids seem alert and happy to see me, which is the whole purpose of this visit.
Giving them a final wave, I saunter out of the children’s ward.
At least this is a constant, a mission I won’t ever fail, a goal I always reach, a promise to myself I can keep. The children never play games with my mind, never reject me.
I’m out of the hospital and almost at my car when I see him.
Riddick.
Like last time. He’s smoking, staring into the distance, his dark hair falling in his face, longer than I’ve ever seen it.
I hesitate, think about slinking away. It’s obvious he hasn’t seen me, and maybe, after our last meeting, it might be less awkward if I left quickly.
But then he lifts a hand to his face and wipes at his eyes, and I’m transfixed, rooted to the spot.
Oh God, what happened?
“Rid?” I start walking toward him, my legs getting tangled in my long skirt. My princess shoes weren’t made for the rough cement of the parking lot. I manage to reach him just as he frowns at me, recognition dawning on his face.
And then I step on the hem of my dress and cry out as I go down.
You know how your life flashes in front of your eyes in the face of a cement floor coming up to meet you?
All lies. All I saw was the floor—and then there were arms around me, hauling me up against a very male, very strong body with the smell of fresh tobacco and pine.
“Are you all right?” his voice rumbles through his chest, and I cling to him, afraid to draw a breath and break this spell. “Bry. Talk to me.”
His voice is a little hoarse, I think. If from crying or from the cigarettes, hard to tell. I look up into his face, and his eyes look red-rimmed.
“I’m okay,” I say, gazing into that sharp-jawed, gray-eyed face, as if in a trance.
