“Are having a sexual tension issue,” he finishes for her, sidling up beside me and stealing his muffin from my hand though I doubt he’ll eat it. Such a waste. “Good to see you, Rina. It’s been a while since our trio was a trio.”
I playfully jab him in the arm with my elbow. “That’s because I hate working down here despite my love of the company.”
Margot is not amused. “You don’t have to say things like that just to rile me up, Drew. And we’re not having… issues.”
“Sure we are. But we’re pretending we’re not for the sake of our friendship and work environment. As you can see it’s working remarkably well.”
“I work better in denial,” she grumbles. “Are you done? I’d like to go save some lives now, doctor, if you don’t mind, starting with the kid in three.”
She grabs onto his blue scrub top, practically dragging him along to curtain three, the two of them bickering back and forth as they go. Sexual tension indeed. I pull out my phone to text Aria and Halle that I give those two a week before they do the deed, but I already know they won’t respond immediately. Aria is not a morning person and chances are she was up late painting. Halle is likely asleep too since it’s early on a Saturday morning.
And as I stare at Aria’s name, at our open text chat, I want to write that Brecken asked me out. That he asked for one date. That he kissed me this morning after buying muffins for the nurses I work with. That I think I might like him, and I’m terrified of that because not only is he Aria’s brother and she specifically told us not to go there, but I haven’t liked a guy since Harrison.
More than six years without liking anyone.
Any guy who tried, who got close, I pushed away. Just the idea of a relationship, of opening myself up, of trusting someone brings forth a surge of panic. It’s become a reflex. But Brecken doesn’t want a relationship with me. He’s only interested in sex, despite his whole ‘I like you and let’s go on a date’ thing. He’s temporary and grows bored quickly.
I can’t quite put my finger on why he feels different. Why the reflex isn’t there this time.
And I want to talk to my friends about it. It’s what we do. It’s what we’ve always done and while I’ve been the shoulder to lean on and cry into and the ear to listen, right now, I’d like to flip the table on that.
I can’t do it though, and that brings around a new cloak of solitude. I’m used to fighting my battles internally. I’m used to bottling everything up and stuffing it down. I’m used to coping and fighting and persevering. To put on a smile and a brave face, even in moments I don’t feel it.
So why am I having so much trouble doing that?
First with Mr. Bishop, the damn letter and the fucking money. Now with Brecken—a man who should not occupy so much of my time but does.
“Rina, there you are.” Dr. Jordie, the head of the ED and a man with salt and pepper hair, glasses, and a kind smile, approaches me. “Happy to have you back even if just for today. I don’t suppose I can talk you into making it permanent again?”
“Absolutely not. I’m here under duress.”
He laughs. “Come on. I’ve got an interesting case I bet you can diagnose for me.”
“Is it cardiac?”
“It is not. See, already starting off on a happy note for you.”
I roll my eyes at him, but there is no heat behind it. There can’t be with Dr. Jordie, he’s just too awesome.
Right before we enter the patient room, I feel my phone buzzing on my hip. I’m at work. So I shouldn’t be as tempted to look as I am. I shouldn’t be hoping it’s Brecken. I shouldn’t get a rush of girlish excitement when I see that it is.
Unknown: Friday night. You. Me. Dinner. Wear warm, comfortable clothes. And Rina, I can’t wait.
19
Rina
Ice pellets slap against my windows and back patio, sending a flurry of chills up my spine to the point where I feel like no matter what, I can’t get warm. The fact that the power is out and the heat with it likely isn’t helping. In all the years I’ve lived in this house in this city, I’ve never lost power. Not once.
It’s the absolute cruelest form of irony and twist of hateful fate.
Like it’s saying you can run but you can’t hide and there is no escape. That’s how it feels. That’s exactly how it feels. I could live my life. Go about my days. But I always knew he was somewhere, lurking, waiting to strike. I existed in a permanent state of suspense. A perpetual pang of panic resided in my gut.
Today is the day and there is an ice storm.
Today is the day and it’s dark once more.
I’ve been better at this in years past. This year everything is off, thrown about and scattered around and I don’t know how to pick up the pieces and realign myself. I wish Bishop had never reached out. I wish I had never called him back. I wish Harrison Bishop had never set his sights on me.
My eyes close and I remember that night. The sound of the rain slapping against the windows of the building. The darkness of the room. The smell of his breath and sweat and tears. Of gunpowder and blood.
It was pervasive.
Still is evidently.
My brothers have been calling and texting me all day. My parents rang me from Germany, guilt and concern heavy in their voices and saturating their every word. The letter that brutally arrived today sits untouched, unopened on my coffee table and I have the strongest inclination to throw it into the fire. What can it possibly say other than destructive things?
He was a destructive man.
A brutalizing, terrorizing entity.
I shove it away and watch as the long, thin envelope teeters precariously on the edge of the coffee table before slipping off and falling to the rug close to the fireplace. Close, but not quite close enough.
Standing up, I sip at my glass of wine and set it down, staring at the letter. My fingers tap against my thigh, one, two, three, four. One, two, three—I’m cut off as my phone rings.
Ugh. “I’m fine, Oliver,” I answer. I’m not fine. I’m freaking the fuck out. Even the counting and tapping aren’t helping me tonight. But the last thing I want is for my brother to know and get it into his head that he, or another one of my brothers, needs to race over here in the middle of an ice storm.
“Rina, I know for a fact that you’re not fine. Hell, I’m not fine. It’s the anniversary of when you were kidnapped by a deranged man. His letter to you arrived today, six years after the fact. There is an ice storm taking over Boston and knocking out power. So don’t lie to me and tell me you’re fine.”
“Fine. I’m not fine. But I will be. I have a fire going and a couple of lanterns and candles glowing. I am not reading the letter. I’m actually thinking of burning it. If that doesn’t happen, I am going to read a book, finish my glass of wine, and go to bed early.”
“I’m on my way over.”
“No, you’re not. There is an ice storm, and I don’t want you driving or getting into an Uber. Seriously. I’m a big girl who can—”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Three loud consecutive knocks on my door startle me so bad I jump up, smashing my shin on the metal edge of the coffee table. Fuck, that stings. I hop around in a circle, clutching the phone between my ear and my shoulder so I can grab onto my shin.