Dexter
In the beginning, I was a boy given a second chance.
Some part of me, this large and wholly mistaken part, thought that because it was meant, it would be easy. That it would be effortless and everything would fall into place.
And that thinking showed me I wasn’t as far from the boy I’d been as I thought I was.
Would I ever get it right?
I thought I knew what I wanted, that I could handle it. I begged for the very situation I was sitting in. In this hospital waiting room, I didn’t know what else there was. I didn’t know what would happen next.
So, I got up and headed toward the section of the hallway I’d been haunting since Noa was admitted.
I couldn’t do anything but pace outside the door, my drying dress shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Fear pumped through me, from the center of my chest, out toward my extremities. I flexed my fingers before bunching them back into tight fists.
But who could I fight?
Myself?
The Angel of Death?
The woman in that room?
I shook my head as the questions battered my desire to remain calm.
I shucked my suit jacket somewhere but details like that didn’t matter. I hated the way my shirt felt against my skin—crusted with the river’s dirt and salt—but I remembered what jumping in had meant at that moment.
I looked at the door I was standing outside, its unremarkable oak mocking me. Behind that door was my future.
I didn’t like hospitals. Every memory I had involving them was sour. I thought back to the days Noa and I would volunteer and, although those memories had been sweet, they were now filled with the regret that was triggered every time I thought of her. And I thought of her more often than I would have liked to admit.
I’d been notified she was awake, and that the baby was okay. But once she was able to speak for herself, the doctors wouldn’t speak to me, despite my insistence.
I went back to the waiting room, loitering, knowing full well she wouldn’t see me, but hanging around in case she changed her mind. Or on the off chance she’d walk out of there and be all right. It wasn’t fair, but I hoped if Noa saw me, she’d give in. I just wanted to know she was all right.
No, I wanted more than that.
I wanted to…I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Andrews?”
I heard the female clipped tone and I turned, meeting those pursed red lips and eyes that were always evaluating.
“I can’t leave, Miranda. You know I can’t do that.” I got up from the plastic chair and ran my fingers through my hair. The remains of the river lived there too, salting my scalp. But I supposed I deserved every discomfort.
“You’ve done it before. Why switch your routine now?” She lifted a brow, daring me to deny it.
Miranda’s eyes told me she knew about us—the tragic saga of Noa and Dexter. She knew the shitty way I’d handled things. Noa had played a part in all of this, but I hadn’t done right by her. Not the first time, not the second time. I likely would never be just right, but I only needed one more chance.
God, I needed one more chance.
Was I ready?
I couldn’t be certain.
“You think I don’t know that I have rights?” I turned my head to watch her eyes widen. “That’s my child in there.” My hand was up, my finger jabbing toward the door I so badly wanted to enter.
Miranda’s face remained tight and unmoving, but her eyes swirled with disdain. She held the Styrofoam coffee cup in her hands and, I had to give it to her, she didn’t shake or spill any of it. Part of me was afraid she’d toss it on me. But I’d take a second-degree burn if it meant I’d get to see Noa.
“You have no idea what you’ve done to her, Mr. Andrews. But don’t worry, I can fill you in. I met Noa Cruz when she was eighteen, selling her paintings on the street for not even a fraction of their worth. I found her, and I saved her. And when we found out she was pregnant, we were ecstatic. Then, through no fault of her own, Anna…” Her eyes watered, and then, “She didn’t come. We have dealt with that tragedy. Was she wrong for not telling you? Yes. But you have always been the bad guy, Mr. Andrews, because you are the fool who left a woman who loved you more than her own life—twice.”
She left the seating area without another word, the click of her heels matching the heavy beat of my heart. When she stepped into the room I was desperate to be in, offering a last glance in my direction before shutting the door behind her, I felt that tickle of sad envy.
It was hard to hear, even harder than the items I’d seen in the box. Because Miranda had been there. Not me.
It made me angry. I hadn’t been given the chance to prove myself. But circles…round and round we went. Our mistakes had this disastrous domino effect, toppling tiles until we changed. We loved each other so much, we hated each other.
How was it that all my adoration and disdain lived inside of one being? My dreams and nightmares, wrapped in a beautiful package.
There were very few times in my life that I could say knocked me flat on my ass; but finding out that—all along—Noa was the truest deceiver of all, definitely did.
I still loved her through my silence and anger.
I yearned for her, for my match. But, while part of me called for her, another part of me stopped myself from reaching out to her.
I stood and looked in the direction of Noa’s room.
She wouldn’t let me in there. Certainly not today. But there was always tomorrow.
For now, I had something that needed to be handled.
Dexter
I was in my senior year of college whenI’d gotten a call from Greg Sr. telling me Molly had been diagnosed with leukemia.
So, on my final winter break, I went home to visit. All through college, we’d kept in touch. And as much as I wondered if they kept in contact to have some sort of connection to their lost son, I knew our interactions soothed a deeper part of me.
The thought of losing Molly was something I couldn’t come to terms with, something I avoided thinking about until I was no longer able to. Not when she lost her hair and the little bit of roundness she’d had in her cheeks.
And I wondered if I preferred it this way: to lose her slowly, in a way I was forced to acknowledge. Instead of all at once—the way I lost Noa. In a way that pressed haunting questions and nostalgic thoughts into my head more often than not.
On my way back to Tracey’s from the hospital, I stopped at the nearest coffee shop. Fatigue weighed down my body and I didn’t know how to smile in my aunt’s face without her seeing the sadness behind it.
Hot tea had a way of coaxing the calm out and easing it into my mind.
It was while I was mulling over my warm mug that I noticed a familiar-looking woman, with red hair that’d gotten longer. She’d grown up in the time since I’d last seen her, but there she was—her shoulders slumped and the back of her hand brushing against her cheek.
Rachel—formerly known as Mouse—was sitting across the room, mulling over her own beverage. Except she was crying.
I hadn’t seen her since graduation and had barely gotten to know her in the time I’d had before college. Once I left home, I left everyone on the fringes of this life behind. So, yes, we were essentially strangers, but it felt wrong to leave her alone with her tears.