The Inmate (29)

“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.





Chapter 19




I can’t seem to stop shaking after my encounter with Shane in the infirmary.

I have spent over a decade now hating him. Glad that he was rotting away in prison because it was what he deserved. And even when I saw him last week and confirmed that he didn’t have horns sprouting from his head or a devil's tail, I still thought of him as the man who tried to kill me.

Today was the first time since that night when I thought of him as the boy I used to love.

By the time I walk out to my car in the parking lot of the penitentiary, I want nothing more than to go home, eat one of Margie’s delicious dinners, and crawl into bed. Ooh, and maybe take a hot bath. When Josh was little, taking a bath was impossible because I couldn’t leave him alone for that long and there was no backup parent to watch him. But now that he’s more independent, I’ve become addicted.