Didi
How’s Lieutenant Walker?” my mom asks as I drive her into the center in the morning.
I glance her way, panic-stricken, my gut clenching. Does she know? Has she somehow read something on my face? Did I say his name without realizing it?
“Um, he’s . . . fine. I think.” My mind flits back to last night, to Walker kissing me. My skin still tingles from his touch almost twelve hours later. Every time I think back to last night my stomach flips over on itself.
“How are you finding it?”
“What?” I ask, alarmed.
“Keeping an emotional distance. From the patients.”
I swallow and focus on driving. “Um . . . it has its challenges,” I say.
“All relationships do. Some more than others. But particularly doctor–patient ones.”
What are we talking about here? I cast another glance in her direction. She’s putting lipstick on, holding a compact mirror in one hand. She pauses and looks across at me. “That’s a lovely bracelet. Is it new?”
Oh shit. I forgot to take it off. “Um, yeah, Jessa gave it to me for my birthday.”
I stare straight ahead at the road. I’m the worst liar, and my mom is trained in reading body language. I can feel the heat rising up my neck. Last time I lied to her I was fifteen and told her I had absolutely no idea what had happened to the peach schnapps in the living room cabinet when I knew full well I’d just regurgitated most of it into the toilet.
“Did you have a good time with her last night?” she asks.
The heat scores across my face. I told her and my dad that I was going out with Jessa to celebrate my birthday. Which technically means that the last time I lied to her was last night and not when I was fifteen. “Um, yeah, it was fun,” I say. Images of Walker pinning me to the bed are graffitied on my mind.
“What’s that?” my mom suddenly exclaims, snapping her compact shut. “Is that”—she leans toward me across the handbrake—“a hicky?”
My hand flies to my neck. “What? No!” Oh God. Is it?
My mom arches a thinly plucked eyebrow at me. “Bernadette Monroe,” she says.
I cringe at the use of my full name.
“I know a hicky when I see one.” She smiles wickedly and I almost veer across a lane. “Just so long as you’re having fun and no one is going to get hurt,” she says.
Does she know?
“Are you in control?” she asks.
Once again I think back to Walker holding me down last night and taking the lead. “Um . . .” I say, frowning.
“Because I don’t want you to get hurt,” my mom says, zipping up her makeup bag.
I indicate and pull into the base, my heart hammering. She knows. Has she told my dad? Or am I being paranoid? Maybe she doesn’t know a thing. If this was a game of poker I’d tell myself to hold my cards close to my chest until I knew the other player’s hand, so I say nothing.
We get out of the car. My mom walks around to my side and slips her arm through mine. We start walking toward the entrance of the center. I’m still rattled and trying desperately not to show it.
“It’s a lot to take on, Didi,” my mom says gently as we approach the door. “Go into this with your eyes open.”
I almost trip over. I turn to look at her.
“One of you has to,” she says before patting my arm and walking off.
• • •
I mull over my mom’s words all day. She knows, but why isn’t she telling me off? I know she doesn’t believe in interfering, and she’s never judgmental about other people’s choices, but her reaction is so tame compared with the reprimand from my dad.
I’m so distracted that I blunder straight into the art therapy teacher by the elevators.
“Did you hear?” she says, eyes bright as I help her collect the paint tubes she’s dropped.
Oh God, I think to myself as we straighten up, does she know too? Are there any secrets in this place?
“About Callum.”
Dodds? I shake my head perplexed.
“Some fancy art gallery in Palm Beach wants to represent him!”
“Really?” I ask.
She nods, beaming happily.
“Wow.”
“It was Lieutenant Walker’s brother that arranged it. I’ve been on the phone to him this morning.”
“Dodds must be so happy,” I say.
“I was just on my way to find him to let him know.”
I go with her, eager to see Dodds’s face when he hears the news. We find him in his room staring out the window. His breakfast tray sits untouched on the table beside him.
“Hi!” the art teacher says.
Dodds looks over his shoulder blankly, then goes back to staring out the window. He doesn’t say hi.
“I have news,” the teacher says, bustling forward.
Dodds turns around again, still stony-faced. Undeterred, the teacher proceeds to tell him about the exhibition and slowly Dodds’s blank expression gives way to a frown, and then, once she’s finished talking, to utter bemusement.
“For real?” he asks, looking at me for confirmation that she’s not joking.
We both nod. The teacher nods so hard it looks like her head is about to fall off. I think she’s seeing Dodds as her protégé and her excitement is contagious. At least to me. Dodds, however, appears to be immune.
“So can I tell them yes?” she asks, clapping her hands together. “That you’re happy for them to represent you?”
The half of his face that works scrunches up. I’m not sure he fully understands what she’s talking about.
“It means they’ll sell your work on your behalf and take a small cut of the sales price,” I explain.
Dodds nods thoughtfully, then shrugs. “Sure. I guess. Why not?”
The teacher beams some more and hurries past me, probably to make the call to Isaac.
“Congratulations,” I say to Dodds.
Dodds gives me a tight smile in response.
“I guess you don’t need that brochure about careers anymore then,” I laugh. “I mean, now that you’re going to be a famous artist.”
He gives a bitter snort and turns back to the window. “Yeah.”
I frown at his back. He isn’t as happy as I thought he would be.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Is he being sarcastic? His empty pant legs seem to taunt me. I think about saying something more, trying to gauge what his real thoughts are, but it’s clear he’s not wanting to talk. I turn to leave. I’m due to see a patient with my dad anyway.
“Hey, Didi?”
I turn back. Dodds is wheeling himself over to his nightstand. He roots through the drawer and then wheels himself over to me. “Here,” he says, handing me his pack of playing cards. They’re military issue ones, the ones we played poker with a few weeks ago. They have the faces of wanted Afghan and Iraqi terror suspects on them. “These are for you,” he says.
I frown at the cards. “Um, thanks,” I say, not sure what to make of the gift.
“Think of it as a late birthday present,” he explains, giving me a wry smile. “They’re my lucky cards.” He pulls a face. “Well, they were until you beat me with them. Figure you should have ’em now.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking him in the eye. “You know, I really hope your paintings do well.”
He nods. “Yeah. Maybe I could, I don’t know, donate some of the money to, like, charity or something.” His face reddens. “You know, if they actually sell.”
“Didi?”
I turn around. José is standing in the hallway holding a huge bunch of red roses. He raises his eyebrows at me over the top of them. “These just arrived for you,” he smirks.
My heart lifts and a smile bursts on my face.
I take the proffered flowers from José, glancing at Walker’s half-open door and grinning.
“There’s no card,” José tells me, “but no guessing who they’re from.” He tips his head toward Walker’s room. “On the outside he’s a tough marine, on the inside he’s a marshmallow,” José calls to my back as I head toward Walker’s room.
I knock and push the door open. Walker’s sitting on the bed, scowling toward the window, and I stop abruptly, struck immediately by the powerful storm front in the room. Something’s up.
“Hi,” I stammer, my heart starting to thud heavily.
Walker turns his head slowly toward me. Gone is the look of longing, the glint of desire I saw in his eyes last night. Gone too is the lightness I’ve seen in him over the last few weeks. He looks just like he did the very first time I met him: glowering, unapproachable, completely untouchable. My heart drops.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I hear myself say. “You didn’t need to—”
“I didn’t,” Walker cuts in.
“What?”
“They’re not from me.” He stares at me stonily.
I look down at the flowers, realization dawning. They’re the exact same flowers I received before, even down to the black silk ribbon binding them and the name of the florist written on it in gold font.
They’re from Zac.