Taming Cross

I’ve had a lot of time to think, but I still don’t understand what happened that day in the cottage after we had sex. How she kept acting like she didn’t get why I would want her and then she implied that maybe she had sex with my dad. It was like she wanted to make me say I didn’t want her. Because when I told her it didn’t matter, that didn’t make her happy. It made her leave.

When it’s late at night and I’m lying in my cot, listening to the machines around her bed, the only conclusion I can ever reach is that she just doesn’t want me, and she was using all the other shit as a means to make me not want her.

This is why, on the evening of the day that they removed her breathing tube, I’m hanging out in the cafeteria rather than the ICU, while the nurses do some X-rays on her lungs to see if she’s able to move to a room outside the ICU.

I’m on my second plate of bland potatoes and plastic chicken when a dude about my age, in a long white coat, stops at my booth.

He’s got dark skin; short, curly hair; and the most serious-looking face I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m on my feet before I swallow the chicken in my mouth, because I’m scared to shit that something’s happened to Merri.

The guy steps back, holding out both hands. “Hey, man. I mean no harm.”

“Did something?”

He frowns, then a look of realization spreads across his face and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m here about you. You are Cross Carlson?”

I feel my breath catch in my throat, and I look the guy over, wondering if he was sent here to f**k with me.

He smiles, revealing straight white teeth. “Well, are you?”

I rub my face. “Yeah. Why?”

He takes a seat across from me and extends his hand again. “My name is Dr. Marty Grantham and I know you as Case Study C from an article published last month in the journal Neurology. You injured your neck in a motorcycle accident, correct?”

I frown, glancing at the clock behind him on the wall. In just a few minutes, they’ll probably be done with Merri, and I want to be back in the ICU.

I flick my gaze to him. “Yeah, I fu— I screwed it up. You a neurosurgeon?”

“Orthopedics—and neurosurgery.”

“Okay.”

I stand up and grab my tray, and the guy follows me to the garbage cans, where I scrape the food off my plate and stack my tray atop a bunch of others. When I turn to head into the hall, he folds his arms.

“Look, Mr. Carlson, I don’t want to waste your time, but I was wondering, has anyone suggested to you that removing the metal caging around your vertebrae and using a simple chicken bone procedure instead could alleviate the pressure on your damaged nerves and alleviate some of the symptoms you’re experiencing in your arm and hand?”

I blink, then frown, then shake my head.

“Where are you going? Why don’t you let me walk you back, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

It’s not until the next day that I know there’s something wrong. Merri’s awake—they don’t have her sedated anymore—and I’m familiar enough with her pulse ox and other monitors to know when she’s sleeping… But she won’t open her eyes and talk to me.

She doesn’t want me here. I know it. But I just can’t leave.

I know I can talk now, but my throat hurts so much, I don’t even consider it until the lights are dimmed for the night and I know Cross is somewhere in the room. Before I speak, I turn my head just a little to the side so I can see him. He’s shirtless in what look like scrubs, and in the faint glow of his cell phone, I can see the beautiful contours of his chest and shoulders.

When my gaze rolls over his face, hot tears fill my eyes. That’s how much I’ve missed him, even though I know he’s probably been here the whole time.

I want to talk to him, but I’m not sure what to say, so I just lie there and watch him. I try to focus on his handsome face, but too often my mind takes me back to the night Jesus found me in the labyrinth. The way he pushed that knife into my throat and grabbed my br**sts so hard he surely left bruises.

“You’re my wife,” he hissed into my face. “Why did you think that you could leave me?”

I was so, so shocked, I didn’t even plead for my life as Jesus held a gun to my head and said it was for David. I think he was about to shoot me when he noticed the smoke in the sky. He smiled, and I remembered that devious face from before, when he was about to do something terrible; it made me shiver.

He dragged me out of the labyrinth and to the back of the mansion, where a couple of his underlings were waiting. People were pouring from the building, which was burning on the left side. I tried to scream for help, but Jesus clamped a hand over my face. There was so much panic, no one even noticed us.

Jesus pushed me up against the burning building and he tried to rip my pants off. I was still wearing Loveless’s leggings, though, and they were made of spandex, so they wouldn’t rip. I could tell by the way he breathed that he was still very much wounded. He hadn’t died, but he probably almost had.

He kept trying to get me to tell him I was sorry, but I know Jesus. I knew that if I did, he’d kill me on the spot. When someone apologizes to Jesus, he uses it to justify whatever awful thing he wants to do; they must be guilty, because they said ‘sorry’. I had my eyes shut, praying for it to end quickly, when I heard Cross’s voice. I guess I must have flinched or something, because right around then, Jesus left and some of the others pulled me into the burning building.

The weirdest thing about it was, I never felt real fear. I panicked, of course, when they started pulling me up the stairs and the smoke was so thick I couldn’t breathe, but there wasn’t that bone-deep fear of death. All I wanted was for everyone else to make it out alive. I guess, in my mind, I’ve been tied up with Jesus for so long, I always kind of knew that it would end badly.

It’s the main reason I couldn’t be with Cross—or anyone.

I lie there on the hospital bed thinking about Cross, thinking of what I can say to him to make everything okay. But there’s nothing, so on my last night in the ICU, I can’t bring myself to say a word.

Sometime in the wee hours, I hear Cross murmuring into the phone. He sounds unhappy. My nurse—the older woman with the nice blue eyes—comes in, and I think she shoos him out. He comes back a few minutes later and gets back on his cot and I can feel him moving close to me. I hold my breath then, wanting his touch as much as I know I shouldn’t, but all he does is rest his forehead on the bars of my bed and breathe.