Maybe my rash escape from Oakhill wasn't that smart at all.
My thoughts come to a halt when my door opens and Dr. Watson enters. My body tenses immediately and my eyes are centered on his. But like usual he won't look at me. His eyes are cast downward. As he takes my pulse, I keep my gaze steady, willing him to look me in the eye, but he doesn't.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Carmichael,” he greets me formally, but without an ounce of friendliness in his tone.
The rejection stings.
Throbs.
Consumes me like a dull, throbbing ache in my side.
I'm not even good enough for him to make eye contact with me. That thought reminds me of living all those years with Daddy all over again. In Daddy's eyes I was never good enough, nothing I ever did was good enough, and I could never try hard enough. The memory of slaps to the face, kicks to the gut, and the malicious words spit out at my expense brings tears to my eyes.
I hastily wipe the tears away as they roll down my cheeks before Dr. Watson can notice. Not that he would anyway. Like I said before, he hasn't looked me in the eye in weeks.
I don't understand what the big deal is. I don't understand why he disregards the need for assertiveness. I haven't asked him anything inappropriate or even tried to get personal. The least he can do is be friendly. I've only had two friends my entire life, Aurora and Damien. I think it would be nice to have another.
I decide not to return the greeting. Not because I want to be rude or because I'm angry, but because I feel indifferent about the way he treats me. Part of me is curious about him and I wonder if there's more to him than his chilly disposition and alarmingly handsome features. Perhaps there's a disturbed part of him, he'd like to keep other from seeing. Or perhaps he's painfully shy. The sound of his beautiful baritone voice cuts into my wandering thoughts. “What will you do with your new freedom, Adelaide?”
My mouth hangs open, so surprised that he's actually making conversation and now I can't even answer him. “I, I—” I just can't get the words out.
“You have no plans, then?” I lift my head and notice him staring at me. Heat rises to my cheeks because of the intensity in his stare. His eyes are vibrant today. A wild bronze color. I'm captivated and a volt of excitement pumps though me because he's looking at me—no—he's staring at me like I’m the only girl he's ever seen before. I can't find words. This happens a lot when he's around me. Sometimes it feels like he reaches inside of my throat and snatches the words from my voice box.
I know my behavior around him is mostly my nerves getting the best of me, but still. I wasn't ever this nervous around D—no, I scold myself for almost saying his name. I can't say it anymore. I can't think about it anymore. I can't think about him anymore. At least not right now. I'm already emotional. It will be too much.
I know myself.
I won't be able to handle it.
What I want to tell Dr. Watson is about everything I had planned when I escaped. I want to tell him about swimming in the ocean, riding a horse, leaning to drive, but I don't mention any of that. Instead I mumble, “I'm not sure.”
“Not sure, he repeats, but the words come out shaky. Uncertain. “What do you mean by that?”
I break my eyes away from his and stare at my fingers. “I mean I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I leave here.”
Dr. Watson takes me by the hand and eases me to a lying down position. His touch scorches my skin and I inhale a deep breath and hold it. The scorch from his fingertips climbs up my arms and trails down my legs. I feel warm everywhere. “You mean you didn't have a plan when you broke out of the Oakhill Institution?”
“Did the police tell you that?” I ask, glancing up, eagerly awaiting his answer.
But he skips over his answer and changes the subject. “Your vitals are good--”
“I know,” I tell him, interrupting. “And let me guess, I'll be out of here in a few weeks.”
A half-smile curls on his lips and he runs his fingers along his jaw line. Amusement flashes in his eyes and then they shift back and forth across my face before narrowing. “Are you mocking me, Ms. Carmichael?”
“No,” I say. But in a way I kind of was. Sometimes I wonder if he's aware of the way he comes off. All broody, rigid, and mysterious. Then I wonder about what it might be like to see him laugh. Or beam radiantly. In my mind I imagine that his whole face illuminates when he radiates a genuine smile and thinking about it makes my insides jumpy. The beauty of it, even the pretend image of Dr. Watson beaming in my mind, is breathtaking. “And don't call me Ms. Carmichael.” His eyes steel at my attempt in being bold. “I prefer Adelaide or—” I suck the nickname back into my throat before I can spit it out. There are only two people who ever called me, Addy. Both of them are now deceased, and their deaths' tore my heart in half.
Sent me into a world of pain and deep, dark despair.
Drove to me to insanity.
That nickname will always remind me of the worst time in my life. So I decide I'll be completely okay with never having anyone call me Addy ever again. I continue with, “Adelaide is fine.”
Dr. Watson nods attentively. “Very well then, Adelaide.” He pivots quickly and walks to the door. His long fingers skim the metal handle and he looks at me one last time before making his exit. “For a second, I thought you were going to tell me address you by some silly nickname.”
I almost gasp, but contain myself and say, “No. I wasn't.”
“Good.” His voice drops a level. “I'm not fond of using nicknames.”