The Paper Swan(63)

“And what? Make up a story about what happened?”

“Do what you have to, but get it checked out. Go. I’ll wait for you out here.”

“It’s fine.” I started walking away. “The last thing I need is for someone to go poking at it when it’s finally healing over.”

“Suit yourself.” Damian wouldn’t budge. “If you’re not going in, I will. I need to get my stitches removed.”

I wavered for a second. I just wanted to get back to the boat, but he was right. His stitches were ready to come out.

“Wait for me in the supermarket,” said Damian. He motioned to the store across the street. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Okay.” I started crossing the road, but he pulled me back.

“Here.” He handed me some bills. “In case they have chocolate peanut butter ice cream.”

“That’s way too much for ice cream!” I laughed, but he was already walking into the clinic.

After the jostling crowds from earlier, the supermarket was cool and quiet. “Demons” by Imagine Dragons was playing over the loudspeaker. I wandered over to the freezer section. No chocolate peanut butter ice cream. I was checking out the frozen pancakes when the lyrics made me stop dead in my tracks.

Damian had been way too insistent—the clinic, my finger, his stitches. Any excuse for us to separate.

Maybe we should split up.

The f*cker! He was letting me go.

As soon as it’s safe, I’m dropping you off at the mainland.

Don’t forget this. He made sure I didn’t leave the seashell necklace behind.

I ran back across the street, not caring that two cars narrowly missed me. The drivers honked and cursed at me, but all I could see was the door to the clinic. I flung it open and froze. There he was, seated on one of the plastic chairs, shopping bags at his feet, flipping through a magazine.

I backed out slowly, not wanting him to see how panicked I was, how the thought of being cut off from him again was so painful, I could barely breathe. I closed my eyes and breathed.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . .

Again.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . .

Then I went back into the supermarket. For a while, I wandered around, still feeling overwhelmed by the sense of emptiness that had gripped me. I was in love with Damian, completely, utterly, desolately. I had told myself that as long as I stayed with him, he had leverage, a bartering chip to negotiate his safety. Without me, he was an open target. But the truth was, I wanted to stay with him for me, because he had always, always been a part of me. I wanted to stay with him so I could put together all the dented, shattered parts of him, because I could never be whole where he was broken.

I found myself standing before the strawberries. Plump, flame-red strawberries with bright, green caps. I thought of the trampled cake Damian had never gotten to eat and decided I was going to buy all of them. I was going to feed him strawberries and he was going to fall in love with me.

Yes. I loved when I came up with a brilliant, foolproof plan.

I waited inside until the store started closing for the day. When the lights turned off, I headed to the clinic, carrying a shit load of strawberries. Damian wasn’t there. No one was seated in the waiting room.

“Is anyone in with the doctor?” I asked the receptionist.

“No, but we’re done for the day. Sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

I stumbled back outside, lugging the strawberries behind me.

He’d left me. It had been his plan all along—drop me off at the clinic, have them call it in.

We think it’s the same girl. She came in with a severed finger. That’s what tipped us off. It’s been all over the news, how her father received a piece of it. Gruesome stuff. No sign of the guy.

When that hadn’t worked, he’d made up an excuse to go in himself. Maybe he did get his stitches removed. Maybe he came out, saw me waiting with two bags full of strawberries and decided that leaving me was the best thing he could do. For both of us. And yes, that made sense. I should find the nearest police station and contact my father. I could be back in La Jolla tomorrow, in my sweet room that was twice the size of Damian’s island house, being fussed over and pampered and catered to. That made sense. Not this. Not me running down the streets that led to the harbor, hailing a cab in the mad hope that I could still catch him, clutching on to cartons of strawberries as they spilled all over the seats.

“Stop! Right here!” I threw some bills at the driver, recognizing the dock where we’d anchored, and got out before he came to a full stop.