We’re quiet as we drive the rest of the way, and still quiet as we walk the sterile halls of the hospital, our Chucks squeaking on the waxed floors.
“I’ll meet you back out here in an hour,” Finn tells me casually, as though he’s going shopping instead of going to talk about his mental illness with other mentally ill people. Like always, Finn carries his cross like a champion.
I nod. “I’ll be here.”
Because I always am.
He walks away without looking back, disappearing into a therapy room. As I watch him go, I can’t help but think, for the millioneth time, that it could’ve just as easily been me born with SAD. It’s a thought that makes me feel panicky and guilty at the same time. Panicky, because sometimes I still worry that I might get it, that it might show up out of the blue. And guilty, because it should’ve been me in the first place. Finn is a better person than I am.
I’m the one who was born first, the one born bigger, the one born stronger…regardless of the fact that Finn really is better. He’s funny and witty and smart, and his soul is as gentle as they come. He’s the one who deserved to be healthy.
Not me. I’m the snarky, sarcastic one.
Mother Nature is a bitch sometimes.
I find a nearby bench in the sky-lit atrium, and curl up beneath an abstract bird painting, pulling out a book to read. Having my nose buried in a book accomplishes two things.
1. It lets people know I’m not in the mood to be talked to. Honestly, I seldom am. And 2. It kills the boredom while I wait.
The sounds of the hospital fade into a buzzing backdrop, while I immerse myself in blissful fiction. Fiction is best served alone. It’s how I survived my school years, reading through lunches and awkward classes when no one talked to me, and fiction is how I survive waiting for Finn during long hours in the hospital psych wing. It’s how I can ignore the shrill, multi-pitched yells that drift down the hallways. Because honestly, I don’t want to know what they’re yelling about.
I stay suspended in my pretend world for God knows how long, until I feel someone staring at me.
When I say feel, I literally feel it, just like someone is reaching out and touching my face with their fingers.
Glancing up, I suck my breath in when I find dark eyes connected to mine, eyes so dark they’re almost black, and the energy in them is enough to freeze me in place.
A boy is attached to the dark gaze.
A man.
He’s probably no more
than twenty or twenty-one, but everything about him screams man. There’s no boy in him. That part of him is very clearly gone. I see it in his eyes, in the way he holds himself, in the perceptive way he takes in his surroundings, then stares at me with singular focus, like we’re somehow connected by a tether. He’s got a million contradictions in his eyes….aloofness, warmth, mystery, charm, and something else I can’t define.
He’s muscular, tall, and wearing a tattered black sweatshirt that says Irony is lost on you in orange letters. His dark jeans are belted with black leather, and a silver band encircles his middle finger.
Dark hair tumbles into his face and a hand with long fingers impatiently brushes it back, all the while his eyes are still connected with mine. His jaw is strong and masculine, with the barest hint of stubble.
His gaze is still connected to mine, like a livewire, or a lightning bolt. I can feel the charge of it racing along my skin, like a million tiny fingers, flushing my cheeks. My lungs flutter and I swallow hard.
And then, he smiles at me.
At me.
Because I don’t know him and he doesn’t know better.
“Cal? You ready?”
Finn’s voice breaks my concentration, and with it, the moment. I glance up at my brother, almost in confusion, to find that he’s waiting for me. The hour has already passed and I didn’t even realize it. I scramble to get up, feeling for all the world like I’m rattled, but don’t know why.
Although I do know.
As I walk away with Finn, I glance over my shoulder.
The sexy stranger with the dark, dark gaze is gone.
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