Before I leave for the day, I check on Shane in the infirmary.
The infirmary is relatively empty today. There were two patients there as of this morning, but they were both well enough to go back to their cells by the afternoon, so right now, Shane is the only occupant of one of the six beds. The other hospital beds lined up against the wall all sit empty.
There’s a nurse who comes in the evening, but she hasn’t shown up for her shift yet, so the only person around is a guard I vaguely recognize, who sits outside the door, reading a thick paperback novel. The guard nods at me when I walk inside but then goes right back to his book. I look at the title— Moby Dick.
The lights are lowered in the infirmary, and since the sun has gone down, the room is dim. From the doorway, I can just barely make out Shane lying on the second bed from the end of the row. When I get closer, I can see all the features of his handsome face—in the dim light, he looks so damn much like the old Shane. The guy I fell in love with all those years ago.
His eyes are closed, and for a moment, a flutter of fear goes through my chest. I haven’t checked on him for over two hours—what if he has a hematoma growing in his brain and lost consciousness while he’s been lying here? He seemed neurologically stable when I left him, but a lot can happen in two hours. And since I was the last practitioner who saw him, it would all be on my shoulders. After all, it was my decision to watch him instead of sending him out for a scan of his head. If he died, it would be on me.
I take quick strides over to his bed. He doesn’t stir when I’m standing over him. “Shane,” I say.
Did his eyelids flutter? I can’t tell. Oh God, please let him just be sleeping and not unconscious.
“Shane,” I say again, and this time I shake his shoulder.
My knees almost buckle with relief when his eyelids crack open. He’s okay. “Oh,” he says. “Hey, Brooke.”
He’s awake and he recognizes me. “Hey,” I say. “I… I was afraid you were unconscious or something.”
“No, just sleeping.” He presses a button on the side of the bed that elevates his head to a sitting position. “Were you worried about me?”
“No,” I say too quickly. “I mean, yes, I was worried you might need a CAT scan.”
But as I say the words, I realize it’s not entirely true. Yes, I was worried that I had screwed up and made the wrong judgment call. I was worried about him in the way that I worry about all of my patients. But that’s not the only reason I was freaking out. He’s right—I was worried about him.
And I don’t entirely understand why.
For a long time, I felt only one emotion for this man. Hatred. I hated him for what he tried to do to me. I hated him for what he did to my friends. I hated him for knocking me up and leaving me to deal with the consequences all by myself. I hated him for not even having the guts to admit what he did and for making me get on the stand during a grueling trial to relive every moment.
But looking at him now, lying in this hospital bed, a bruise blooming on his forehead from the fall he took, his brown eyes staring up at me…
I…
I don’t…
“I need to do a neuro exam.” I clear my throat. “I need to make sure you’re okay.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I run through the exam, making sure his pupils are equal, that he hasn’t become weak on one side of his body, and I make him answer some basic questions to make sure his cognition is intact. It occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve interacted with him without any shackles on. If he wanted, he could reach out and wrap his fingers around my neck and squeeze as hard as he could—well, at least until the guard heard us and came running. But somehow, I’m not worried he’s going to do that. Not even a little.
“Did I pass?” he asks me when I back away from him.
“You passed,” I confirm.
“Great.” He nods up at the clock on the wall. “I wanted to get out of here before dinner. It’s taco night.”
I can’t help myself from cracking a smile. “Taco Tuesday?”
“You got it.” He adjusts his position in the bed. “I don’t want to miss taco night. I lope tacos.”
My breath catches in my throat. I lope tacos. When is the last time Shane and I joked around about loping each other? That used to be our thing. I remember the last time I said the words to him: I lope you. Against my will, I feel a sudden rush of affection.
Yes, Shane Nelson did unspeakable things. But before he did those things, I had loped him.
No, I had loved him.
I look away before he can read the expression on my face. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they bring you a tray of food.”
“Great. Thanks so much, Brooke. Really.” “Yeah…”
He reaches behind his head for the pillow he’s leaning against, which is almost flat as a pancake. He’s trying to adjust it to make himself more comfortable on this hard hospital bed mattress. I watch him struggle for a moment, then I lean in and fix the pillow for him.
My face moves close to Shane’s as I adjust the pillow—closer than I was when I stitched up his head. I brace myself for the scent of sandalwood, but all I can smell is soap and shaving cream. The last time I was so incredibly close to him was over a decade ago. The night I lost my virginity to him. And he lost his to me.
When it was over, I felt so good. I had been so happy that this was the boy I gave myself to. I was so in love with him.
For a split second, our eyes lock together. And it occurs to me that we’re the only two people in this room. There’s a guard, and if they were a problem, he would be here in an instant, but he wouldn’t hear something quiet.
Like if Shane leaned in and kissed me.
I jerk my head back, shocked by the thoughts going through my head. What’s wrong with me? Shane Nelson tried to kill me. He’s a monster. He’s
spending his life in prison for murder. Even if I could ever forgive him for what he’s done, I could never…
I cough loudly—the sound echoes through the empty, dark infirmary. “I think we’re done here.”
“Great. Thanks so much.”
“I’ll make sure you get your dinner,” I tell him in a squeaky voice that barely sounds like my own.
A smile plays on his lips. “My tacos.” “Right. Tacos.”
“Thanks, Brooke.” His eyes stay trained on mine. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“No problem.”
I somehow manage to rip my gaze away from his. But as I walk out of the room, my sensible flats clacking against the linoleum floor, I can feel him watching me.
