Within These Walls (The Walls Duet #1)(8)

Why wouldn’t she just deliver the puddings during the day when she was on shift, rather than in the middle of the night?

The answer completely evaded me.

Who needs logic?

I decided to call Grace out on being the pudding stalker the next time she visited my room. Kindness like that couldn’t go unnoticed, and I wanted her to know that I appreciated the gesture. I also wanted to see if she could maybe bring me more—just in case the first one got lost.

That could totally happen.

I didn’t have to wait long. About thirty minutes later, I heard her familiar humming. Within seconds, she was gracing my door, her beautiful smile brightening the fluorescent-lit room like a ray of sunshine from the heavens.

“Still on a I’m-getting-married high?” I asked.

I shook my head at the comical display she was putting on as she waltzed around the room.

“Mmm…yes. In about six months, I think it will change into an I’m-married high, and eventually, an I’m-pregnant high, and—oh!” She froze mid-waltz, covering her mouth, as she realized her words.

“Grace,” I said softly, “you don’t have to hide the joy in your life around me. We all have happy moments. Mine are just different than yours.”

“I know. I just…I’m sorry. Here I am, babbling about babies.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’ve known my whole life that I couldn’t have children. It’s not a secret or a big surprise. Besides, it’s not like I have suitors lined up down the hallway, fighting for my hand,” I scoffed.

Her mouth quirked as she joined me and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her silky black hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and her sapphire blue eyes met mine. She wasn’t just my nurse. She was a friend, my only friend.

“That’s just because they haven’t seen you. You’re like Rapunzel, stuck away in that high stone tower just waiting for your handsome prince to come and steal your heart away.”

I smiled as she went about checking vitals, and I listened as she carried on about some celebrity scandal I’d heard about on the news. My thoughts wandered back to what she’d said about me being locked away, waiting for someone to steal my heart. Usually so hopeful about my condition, I didn’t know why, but my first thought had been that whoever the prince might be, he’d better hurry. I wasn’t sure how long this heart of mine would last.





Grace had surprisingly turned out to be a dead-end as well, and as the week had gone by, my list of suspects had dwindled. My mother definitely wasn’t the culprit since I would see her leave every night at eight o’clock. That only left Abigail, the little girl from down the hall.

She actually wasn’t a patient of the hospital, but I didn’t know how else to describe her, so I always referred to her as the girl from down the hall. I thought she was a granddaughter of one of the patients, and she would sometimes wander into my room when she got bored of listening to her grandfather.

Abigail bounced into my room right around the time I was snuggling into the third chapter of my new favorite book. The book I was currently reading would always be my favorite, and the one I was about to read would always be my next favorite. I loved reading. I’d spent the majority of my life with my nose stuck in a book. I’d inherited my love for the written word from my scholarly mother, and I had managed to teach myself a world’s worth of knowledge within the dusty pages. I’d read everything from Chaucer to Shakespeare to even Anne Rice.

“Whatcha reading?” Abigail asked, her springy chocolate brown curls bouncing behind her as she flopped on my bed.

“It’s actually a book about a girl right around your age, maybe a few years older.”

“You’re reading a kids book?” She ducked down to try to inspect the cover of the worn paperback in my hand.

I’d read this particular book several times throughout my youth, and my copy of it had been well used.

“Anne Frank. The Diary of a Young Girl. Who’s she?” she asked.

“She was a girl who lived during World War II, and this is the diary she kept.”

Inspecting the cover a bit longer, she stared into the black-and-white face of the young Jewish girl looking back at her. “I keep a diary,” she replied.

“You do? So do I.”

“Really? Aren’t you a little too old?” Her noise scrunched up as she looked up at me.

I could see the tiny freckles dotting her rosy cheeks.

“Absolutely not!” I pretended to be offended, but then I added, “But I do call mine a journal just to be safe.”

I tickled her ribs, and she let out a little giggle.

“What do you write about?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Papa gave it to me for my birthday. He told me to write what’s in my soul, but I don’t know what a soul is exactly, so I usually just write what I did at school and stuff I like.”

That’s right.

I now remembered Grace telling me about Abigail’s grandfather. He was a writer and quite the talker. Grace had said she couldn’t make it out of his room without getting hit on or hearing one of the colorful stories of his past.

“Your soul is kind of like your heart. So, I guess your papa was telling you to write what you feel here,” I said, pointing to the place where her perfect tiny heart beat inside her chest. “Here, why don’t you borrow this?” I suggested, handing her the book from my hands.