Medicine Man (Page 72)

If I’m hurting this much for him, I don’t know how he’s coping with all this. I don’t know how he can stand there, all alone, with his shoulders so broad and straight.

How is he not breaking down?

“That she was waiting for him,” I say in a small voice. “She was good at that, right? Waiting. Maybe he knew about it, but he didn’t know how to go back to her. After everything he put her through. So, he chose this place. To finally go back to her in death because he never could in his life.”

The side of my face is flaming. I’m pretty sure I’m red, scarlet. Because he hasn’t stopped watching me.

Maybe he’ll find my fanciful thoughts young and immature. Like he finds me.

“How are you?” he asks, after a few moments.

Gathering my courage and fucking maturity, I face him. The fact that I can look at him without craning my neck means that he’s too far away.

Which is good, actually. Healthy.

 Not complaining, at all.

I smile. “I’m good.”

His stare is unnerving. And strangely, it feels perpetual. Never-ending. Going on forever and ever.

And I can’t stop myself from telling him all the things. “School is good. I mean, I struggle with it sometimes but it’s great.”

“And friends?”

It makes me blush, the way he asks me about friends, with such tenderness and curiosity. Like I’m a little girl and he wants to make sure that I’m not alone.

“I do have friends, actually. Um, college is much better about it than high school. I have study partners and lab partners and yeah…” I trail off, not wanting to stop talking and hating it. “And the beach. We went to the beach a few months back. I’m not real fond of the beach and the sun but it was good.”

Something strange happens to his face. It glimmers with intensity. Dare I even say… passion?

“Did you have a good day?”

I swallow. “At the beach?”

“Yes.”

I open my mouth to answer but no words come out. Folding my hands at my back, I rub my tattoo.

Simon is watching. Waiting. I don’t understand the way that he seems to be so hung up on the answer. Whatever that might be.

Finally, I lie, “Yes. It was great.”

I hope for him to catch me in my lie but he doesn’t. He stays silent.

“Okay, well,” I say, loudly. “I have to go. I –”

“I’ll drop you off.”

“Oh, you don’t have to. I can just call a cab.”

“No.” He shakes his head, ready to walk to his car. “Come on.”

“No, seriously, it’s okay. It’s like more than an hour going back to the city. And –”

“Then it’ll be more than an hour.”

Simon is waiting for me like he really won’t move from his spot until I do.

Damn it.

I don’t want to spend upwards of an hour in the confines of his car. The car I’ve only seen on the other side of the black gates of Heartstone. One day when I didn’t have much to think about, I thought about his stupid car, the leather seats and windows fogged up by questionable activities.

It’s actually one of my dreams to make out with him in the backseat of a car like a normal, horny teenager. Or was.

Shaking my head, I start to walk. And to hide my frustration, I thrust my hands in the pockets of my jacket, like he usually does.

We drive back to the city in complete silence. Yup. Not one word.

Simon is staring at the road like if he moved his eyes even for a micro-second, we’d crash and die. His hands are in a perfect ten and two position on the wheel.

God.

He makes me so mad with his stupid rule-following and precision. And the fact that he hasn’t even looked my way once since he opened the door for me like a complete gentleman and we took off.

Whereas me? I’ve been throwing him all the glances that I can, without being obvious. But you know what? I stop there. I won’t make any conversation, not until he does first.

Damn you, Beth. Damn you for giving me hope.

The rain has started to come down heavily now, and when the car comes to a stop, I literally jump out of it, feeling all kinds of caged in and frustrated. Even the cold rain doesn’t do anything to bring down my heated agitation.

I throw the door closed, ready to walk away when I realize I never even told him my address, let alone the address of the bookstore I work at. But I’m magically standing in front of its yellow awning and the glass front.

How did he know –

“Are you happy, Willow?”

His voice makes me jump and halts all my thoughts. I dart my gaze to him and I have to tilt my neck up to look at his face.

 He’s standing much closer, rivulets of rain streaming down his thick, gorgeous hair and eyelashes. The strands are stuck to his forehead and neck and when the water sluices down his soft mouth, I want to reach up and drink it down.

Like I’m thirsty and I’ve been that way all my life.

I sweep my drenched bangs away from my forehead. “Yes.”

I wait for him to do something. Say something. Again, catch me in my lie.

His jawline turns harsh, his eyes become dark, but then it all flickers away and he steps back.

As fucking usual. Looking down at my boots, I shake my head.

God, I’m so stupid.

What did I think? That seeing me today will change him and he’ll tell me he was lying that day? That he loves me?

Sighing, I look up with a smile on my face; smiling is the key.

“Have a good life.”

I take a step back too, trying not to memorize the way he looks right now. Pounded by the rain. Tall and stoic, almost grim. And handsome. A dream come true.

Then I spin around and leave.

I charge through the glass door of the bookstore where I’m supposed to start my shift. Christian, the new guy, is standing behind the counter with his suspenders and hipster glasses. He looks a little startled at my abrupt entrance.

“You and me.” I stab my finger at him. “We’re going on a date. Tomorrow. Got it?”

His eyes are wide and confused. “I have a b-boyfriend.”

“I don’t care,” I snap. “I’m moving the fuck on. And you can’t stop me.”

“I-I’m not –"

Without listening to him, I march over to the bathroom in the back and burst into tears.

I never thought I’d be sad about my father dying.

I certainly never thought I’d shed tears. Not after refusing to talk to him more than in passing for years. Especially not after refusing to see him, while being in the same town and fixing his house. He was there all along, upstairs, being cared for by his nurse but I hardly ever stopped by his room.

My father didn’t want to live in a facility. He was too proud for it. He didn’t want people to know that a brilliant psychiatrist like him was slowly forgetting how to tie his own shoes and if his wife was dead or alive.

I hired the nurse because I didn’t want to pack up my life in Boston and move back home to take care of him myself. I thought he deserved to die alone like my mother did.

But he didn’t. I was there with him in his final moments.

I’ve been there with him for the past three months. I don’t think it’s because I’ve forgotten the things he did or the role he played in my mother’s suicide.

It’s because finally, I’ve forgiven him for my own peace of mind. I have finally decided to be better than him in the ways that count. He wasn’t there for my mom, but I could be there for him.