I instinctively move in the opposite direction from the son. I try not to look too long at the half of his face that is cloaked in scars.
Scars that make me want to run.
Scars that make me want to know.
I shuffle away, keeping my eyes low, trying to find my way around and out without looking at him again. Without touching him. He’s on my blind side now, so I can’t see him, but I can hear him.
I can feel him.
And it hurts.
“Hey, Dad,” he says quietly.
He sounds sad. His greeting is heavy as though it is filled with many more words he wishes he could say.
Then, he’s looking at me. “Hi.” His voice is like thunder.
Shit.
“Hi,” I reply.
Wow, that’s original.
This is why I don’t talk much. Everything I say sounds moronic. In my head, there’s too much going on. Then when it comes out, there’s nothing. Silence is better.
“She doesn’t talk,” Mr. Fitzgerald grunts.
I’m oddly relieved by Mr. Fitzgerald’s statement. I hate when people work so hard trying to get me to talk, and I have nothing to say. It’s exhausting.
“You don’t?” More thunder only he adds a smile.
And I like it. A lot. He should smile all the time.
At me.
I’m staring stupidly between the two men, plotting my escape.
“That’s not true,” he goes on, still smiling. “She just said ‘Hi’ to me.” He’s genuine, and I can’t help but appreciate the way he fills out his t-shirt. My eyes wander up his chest, his throat, the smile, and then the scars and I quickly look back down at the New Balance tennis shoes I nabbed when they cleaned out Dolores Spencer’s room last week.
We’re not supposed to trash-pick here, but when the residents pass away, the families sometimes throw away perfectly good stuff. And, I’m a budget-minded gal.
Mr. Fitzgerald grunts. “I mean, she doesn’t want to talk. She barely says two words to me when she’s in here.”
“Maybe you aren’t all that fun to talk to.” His son’s words are sharp, and I know there is history here. I’ve heard rumors.
“I’m sorry.” I blurt out. I’m not even sure why I just apologized. I’m embarrassed, and I have no idea why.
I grit my teeth, but I can’t stop my eyes from betraying me and leaving the floor again to skim him up and down. I catch an entire Mediterranean Sea of blue and green behind that rim of dark lashes. I’ve never seen eyes so haunting and glowing. I feel like I’m falling.
He takes a long stride, and he’s next to me. I can smell the outside on him as though he just walked through the woods. He’s fresh, clean and still creating a wall in-between me and the door.
It is hard to look at his face, but it’s not just the scars. It’s more. I try to force myself to meet his gaze because I know how it feels when someone looks, then suddenly you’re invisible. People don’t want to stare, but instead of being polite, they turn you into something less than human. You can feel their discomfort, and I hate that I’ve just done the same to him.
The wall of man in front of me isn’t overly friendly, but he also is not off-putting. The air still feels like it is charged around us, but something about his manner eases me a bit.
“Are you coming in? Or, did you just come to stand there and stare at her?” His father wheels forward a few feet, then he nods towards me. “My son, back from some secret mission. You keep going back. I guess that says something. You’d rather be anywhere but here. How many tours have you done now?”
“Four.” He loses the smile.
I’m thankful for the break. It forces his son to glance away from me, and I feel myself shift and breathe. His eyes are quickly back, regarding me up and down, then back to his father. I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.
I’m used to men staring.
Regarding me.
But, usually not here. Here, I’m just that spooky white-haired girl who doesn’t talk. Here, men do not usually look at me like Mr. Fitzgerald’s son is looking at me now.
“Sorry.” His head jerks back and to the side, quickly. I take note that he’s twitched his neck like that twice already. “I didn’t mean to stare. Honestly, I—” He smiles and the left side of his lip curls up, and there is a clutch in my throat.
“It’s okay.” I move to the side, trying to get him to lean in the other direction. I only need a few more inches between him and the hospital bed and I can squeeze out the door.
He’s massive. The gray t-shirt he’s wearing with the block letters “SEAL” across the front looks like it’s been ironed.