Collared(19)

I’m just pressing the call button when a nurse slips through my door. I haven’t met this one yet. She probably works the night shift. Just from the scrubs she has on, I know I’m going to like her better than the day-shift Nurse Ratcheds I’ve dealt with.

“You awake, honey?” the nurse asks, lowering her glasses down her nose.

I nod, almost smiling when I notice the teddy bears on her scrubs are holding balloon bouquets.

“You up for a visitor? Or would you rather rest? I know it’s late.”

She doesn’t talk so loud that it feels like a scream or so soft that I can’t hear her. Her voice is just right. I suddenly feel like Goldilocks finding just the right chair.

I’m about to answer that I’d rather rest when she adds, “If you’re going to see any visitors, this would be the one to see.” Her dark brows bounce a couple of times. “Trust me.”

My head lifts from the pillow “Who is it?” It’s been a long time, but I still recognize the sound of hope in my voice. The tone of anticipation.

“I’d be just fine calling him Tall, Dark, and Handsome, but I suppose he’s got a name.” The nurse looks out the door like he’s standing right there.

It’s been years, but even back then, he fit that criteria. My heart climbs into my throat. “What’s his name?”

Her shoulders wag. “Don’t know. Didn’t ask.” She cranes her head out the door again. “Want me to ask him, honey?”

“That’s okay. You can let him in.” I find myself trying to get a good look out the door, but other than a stream of yellow light, I can’t see anything.

“Good choice.” She winks before turning to leave. She stops when she gets halfway out the door. “You need anything?”

I might have needed something, but I’m too nervous to think about it. “No, thank you.”

He’s here. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

Torrin’s here.

Thinking his name makes my heart convulse. I don’t know what saying it will do. I can’t imagine what seeing him will do to me. Hopefully I won’t pass out like I did with my family.

The room’s quiet for a minute after the nurse leaves. I should use the time to adjust my hospital gown or comb my fingers through my hair or pinch a little color into my cheeks because I know how pale I am. Lack of sunshine will do that to a person.

Instead, I sit here, feeling like my heart’s both swelling and shrinking at the same time.

I lift the head of my bed a little more, and just when I’m wishing I’d asked the nurse for a water refill, I notice the shadow in the doorway. It is him.

My breath stops.

He stays there for a moment, hovering in the doorway, staring at the shadow his body casts on the gleaming tile. I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes, but I can’t make out anything else. My gaze automatically lowers to his left hand, but I can’t see his fingers with the way he’s standing.

A minute later, he steps inside my room. His shoes echo on the tile, making me wonder if he’s exchanged his soccer flats for a pair of dress shoes, which makes me wonder what else has changed.

If he’s changed anything like I have, I probably won’t even know the person he is now.

He closes the door, snuffing out the bright light from the hall. After blinking a few times, I can see him. Better at least. I would have thought spending as much time as I have in the dark would make it easier for me to see in it, but the opposite seems to be true.

Every few blinks, my eyesight adjusts a little more, until I can make out what he’s wearing: a pair of dark slacks, what look like matching dress shoes, and a dark green raincoat still zipped up. It wasn’t raining earlier. It doesn’t look like it’s raining now.

His face I look at last, mainly because I know it’s going to feel like a wrecking ball’s driving through me.

I’m right.

He looks the same. At least other than the decade that’s touched him. He’s taller, wider in the shoulders, and the boyish softness of his face has been ironed out into square angles and straight lines. He still wears his hair the same—looking like it’s a few weeks past needing a haircut—and it’s as dark and inky as I remember.

And then there are his eyes. How many times have I pictured them since that last night we were together? How many times have I tried to draw them to find I could never get them right? How many times have I concentrated on his light eyes, finding a warmth in them that touched me even on my darkest days?

They practically glow in the dark. When he blinks, it’s like all of the light has been siphoned out of the world.

He makes his way farther into my room, stopping when he’s in front of my bed, but he keeps his distance. He stays closer to the wall than my bed.

My heart feels like it’s pulsing against my tonsils now, and even if I knew what to say, I’m sure I couldn’t get it out.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He tries again, but the same thing happens. Clamping his mouth closed, he rubs the back of his head like he used to when he was trying to figure something out. The familiarity of it makes my body ache.

“I thought I knew what I was going to say.” His voice is a little deeper but the same. The ache boils into a throb. “I’ve been planning it for the past ten years, but now that I’m standing here in front of you, nothing I planned to say sounds right.” He continues to rub the back of his head, focusing on the floor in front of him, his brows pinched together like something’s hurting him.