"I know." I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. It was a nightmare, and now I'm babbling--"
"It was a nightmare," he said. "Not a vision. I wouldn't do that."
"I know."
"Anytime you need me, I'm here. If you call, I'll come."
"I know."
A surreal moment of silence followed, both of us still dazed with sleep, the barriers down as we looked at each other.
I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't.
I pushed up, swinging my legs out of the bed. "I'm going to take the couch."
His frown deepened. "Why?"
"I think I should."
"Why?"
He kept looking at me, confusion in his eyes. Innocent confusion. He seemed so young then. A boy who didn't understand what was going on, why he was in trouble, what he'd done wrong.
He put me here to be thoughtful. Because I fell asleep on his floor, and I've had a difficult day, so he's being kind. That's all it is. All it's ever going to be. Kind and thoughtful, which is as close as I'll ever get to him, and it's closer than anyone else gets, so I need to take it and be grateful and say, "It's enough."
And if I can't?
Then that's my problem, and I need to do something about it--starting with stepping back over that line, with getting the hell out of his bed.
I set my feet on the floor and stood. "I shouldn't take your room."
"But I put you here."
"It's yours. I'll take the couch."
"Why?"
He kept giving me that look, the confusion deepening to something like disappointment, like hurt, as if he'd tried to be kind and thoughtful, and I was rejecting it, and he didn't know why. That little boy, reaching out and being pushed away.
Goddamn it, Gabriel. Don't look at me like that. Wake up. Snap out of it, pull that wall back up and retreat behind it. For once, that's what I want, because when you look at me like that, it makes me think that there could be more, that I could--
I swallowed hard and stepped toward him. "I need to leave."
"What?" He blinked. "Why? Did I do something?"
Snap out of it, Gabriel. Please, please, please, snap out of it.
"I just want to go for a walk," I said. "I need some air."
He rubbed his hands over his face, harder now, raking his fingers through his hair, and when he spoke again, his voice was more his own, though still younger, less formal. "Okay. Can I go with you?" Another rub over his face, his shoulders straightening, voice deepening another octave. "I should go with you."
"I . . ."
I looked at him. The boy was gone, the man back, but the wall stayed down, the confusion lingering, not sure why I needed to leave, still feeling as if he'd done something wrong, like me in the dream, rejected and lost and not understanding why.
"I'll walk behind you, Olivia. I would simply prefer you weren't out alone at this hour." His voice dropped. "Whatever you saw, it was only a nightmare. I'm not going anywhere."
I nodded.
"Could it have been connected to the vision?" he asked. "From the park? We still haven't discussed that. I know you were going to talk to Rose first, but I would prefer . . ." He raked back his hair again, rolling his shoulders, as if still searching for equilibrium. "It might help if you talked about it. Perhaps that is upsetting you."
I'm so lost right now. My parents . . . I think they . . . I'm sure they . . . And you and Ricky . . . So lost and so confused. Except I'm not confused at all. I know what I feel--for you--and I want to blame it on the visions, to tell myself I'm just reliving a role. But I'm not. What I feel for you . . .
Oh God, what I feel for you. I don't want that. I want Ricky, and only Ricky, and no confusion, because he doesn't deserve confusion. Neither of you do.
I want to run. Get the hell out of here and run to Ricky, and tell myself I never felt like this--that I was upset about my parents and half asleep and caught in that nightmare, and I got mixed up. I just got mixed up.
But I look at you, and I know I can't run. Because you won't understand. You let yourself reach out, and I cannot reject that. I cannot let you feel rejected. You need someone, now more than ever, and I desperately want to be that someone, even if it's never going to be more than talking in front of your window and falling asleep and waking in your bed--alone.
"I'd like to talk about it," I said. "I know it's the middle of the night . . ."
"I'll make coffee."
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It wasn't the middle of the night after all. It was nearly five in the morning. After I explained the vision, I tried to get him to go back to bed, but he wouldn't listen, so I curled up on his sofa, and we drank coffee and talked and watched the sun come up, and whatever I'd felt earlier passed.
No, I'm lying. It didn't pass. What I felt for Gabriel wasn't a chimera of anxiety and exhaustion. What passed was that panic, that sense of needing to escape.
I had breakfast with Ricky. Actually, I picked up breakfast--by cab--and surprised him at his place. He'd been in bed. Which led to a cold breakfast. But it also did an excellent job of banishing any traces of last night's mood and fears. It wasn't just the sex. Okay, yes, sex with Ricky was pretty much guaranteed to banish anything. But more than that, it was just being with him; alone with him, I was happy, and any other longings seemed like madness.
"I haven't quit the diner yet," I said. I was nibbling my toast, thinking how much I missed Larry's rye bread.
"Yep. You need to make a decision there. Which I think you already have, but you should let Larry know what it is."
"I know." I sighed. "I'm not going back, which I should have told him a week ago."
"I'm sure he figured it out. It's just tough to cut that tie. Throwing yourself financially at Gabriel's mercy."
I spread extra jam on my toast. "It's more than that. I don't think I can even wait on the elders again."
"I get that, and I'd agree." He rolled out of bed and headed for the front room. I watched him go. I watched him come back. Both views were equally fine.
He saw me watching and chuckled. "I'd be a lot more flattered by that look if I didn't suspect you were hoping to distract me from insisting you make this call." He waggled my phone. "If you still want to jump me afterward, I'll be here. And if you don't? That's fine, too, but just remember that every time I see that look in future, I'll think you're only trying to avoid something. It'll do irreparable damage to my ego."
"I wouldn't want that."
"No, you would not. My ego is a fragile thing." He handed me the phone. "Now call Larry, tell him you'll come by later to talk, and then you can have me."
"Should I hang up first?"
"Larry would probably prefer that."
I laughed, took the phone, and flipped onto my stomach. As I dialed, Ricky hopped back in bed, sending crumbs and plates jumping. He settled in, his head resting on the small of my back as he checked messages on his own phone.
After we talked, Larry said, "Doc Webster would like to speak to you, as well. She came by asking if I'd seen you. I know the Clarks said you'd been having fevers. Not to pry, but I'm guessing that's related to why you needed some time off?"
"In a way."
"You should call Doc Webster. I think she's concerned, but she probably doesn't want to seem pushy and follow up if you're seeing a doctor in the city."
"I'll call her." We talked for another minute before I hung up.
"Better get that call to the doc over with, too," Ricky said. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but Larry's one of those guys who thinks he's talking on a tin can instead of a shining example of modern technology."
I chuckled. "True."
"Call the doctor. Tell her you're fine so she doesn't worry."
He was right. I also had a niggling feeling I shouldn't put it off. Just to get it over with, I suppose. So I phoned and I told her I was doing all right, no ill effects after the fever.
"Are you seeing someone in Chicago?" she asked. "A doctor, I mean."
&n
bsp; "No, I'm not sure what my plans are right now, but if I decide to stay in Cainsville, I'll be transferring to you, if that's all right."
"It is. I'll just need your medical files." When I hesitated, she said, "No rush, of course. If you decide to transfer, you can provide me with your doctor's information and I'll arrange everything. We'll need your express permission, but I can handle the rest."
I said yes, that would be fine, thanked her, and hung up. Then I lay there, staring at the phone, deep in thought.
After my first "breakup" with Gabriel, he'd apologized by obtaining my pre-adoption medical files for me. Except there had been a mix-up, and the files my former doctor sent had belonged to a girl with spina bifida. His office was still hunting for my proper records.
"Everything okay?" Ricky asked.
As he sat up, he set his phone on the bed. On the screen, I saw what looked like an artist's rendition of the sun and moon from my boar's tusk.
I reached for his phone. "Is that the tattoo--?"
He plucked it from my hand and turned the screen off. "Later. What happened with the doctor?"
"It's not important. Let's see that art."
He held the phone behind his back. "It's not going to help you forget whatever's bugging you. And whatever's bugging you is important. So we're going to talk about that."
I looked at him. "You always do the right thing, don't you?"
"I'm pretty sure I spend most of my life not doing the right thing."
"That isn't what I mean." I shifted onto my knees, my face rising to his. "With me. You know the right thing to do. Always."
"That's because I know you. Always."
I leaned forward and kissed him, and when our lips met, I smelled forest and rain, I felt the delicious chill of a night wind and heard the pounding of hooves. I felt a boy lifting me onto a horse, swinging me up behind him, me huddling against his back, basking in the warmth of him, hearing his laugh and grinning in return, holding him tight, never wanting to let go. Feeling loved and understood and at peace, that perfect bond with someone who knew me, always.
I kissed Ricky, and I whispered, "I love you," and he said, "That's all I want," and in my mind I heard All I ever wanted as he lowered me onto the bed.
--
Afterward, lying in bed, catching our breath, I told Ricky about the medical records mix-up.
"Okay," he said. "Excuse my ignorance, because it's not a condition I'm familiar with, but there's no way you could have been this girl, right? That you got adopted by your parents and, with their money, they were able to get it fixed? Maybe quietly, so no one knew you ever had it?"
"According to the doctor, no. I'm not familiar with spina bifida, either, so . . ."
He already had his phone in hand, searching on a browser.
"So, I could have done that," I said.
"No reason to at the time," he said. "But now it seems like you want to know more."
He skimmed the page, then passed it to me. It said that spina bifida is a congenital defect in which the neural tube covering the spinal cord doesn't fully form in utero. The girl with my alleged medical records had a severe form, which would have led to lifelong mobility issues. If I were that girl, I'd be in a wheelchair.
Something twigged in the back of my brain, something someone had said a few weeks ago, but the thought wouldn't take form.
"No amount of money would have cured it," I said. "Not today, and definitely not twenty years ago."
"Okay, so you're thinking--" He stopped short and rolled from the bed. "Time for a field trip."
"Um, no, pretty sure that wasn't what I was thinking."
"But it's what we're doing." He went into the next room, scooping up my clothing. "You know what you're thinking. I know it, too--and I know to keep my mouth shut until we have proof."
"Uh-huh. Well, while this mind-reading thing is very sweet--and hot--most of the time, there are times when it could become . . ."
"Creepy and annoying? Yep. Which is why I'm not doing it now. I know my limits, and I'd like to stick to the sweet and hot side." He tossed me my clothing. "Although, if you can work in badass, I'd appreciate it."
I grinned. "Mad, bad, and dangerous to know?"
"Exactly. I'm the Lord Byron of bikers. Except, being a biker, naturally I don't write poetry. Or read it. In fact, for the record, I have no idea who this Byron guy is."
"Gotcha." I pulled on my shirt. "So where exactly is this field trip taking us?"
"The doctor's office. Which I know you hate, on principle, but I'll be there for moral support. And to make sure you get all the answers to your questions, whether you'll admit you have questions or not."
"Okay, but Gabriel is expecting me to work--"
Ricky was already on the phone. "Hey, Gabriel. It's Ricky. I'm stealing Liv for a couple of hours to follow up on some questions regarding the Larsen case. In other words, completely job-related." He paused, and I heard the faint rumble of a reply. "No, we've got this. I don't have classes until this afternoon. I'll make sure she gets her car back and send her your way after lunch. Sound good?"
I could swear I didn't hear an answer, but it may have just been too low to pick up.
"We're off, then," Ricky said. "Talk to you later." He hung up and turned to me. "Your absenteeism note has been delivered. Let me get dressed and we'll go."
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I hated doctors. Let me rephrase that. I didn't hate them--I hated the places where they practice, like offices and hospitals. Admittedly, even the sight of a white coat and stethoscope was enough to send me running the other way. I refused to date three otherwise great guys because one was a med student, one an intern, and one a lab worker. So, yes, I may have had a problem with the profession, but it wasn't personal. I thought doctors were lovely people. I just didn't want to make out with one.
Why did I have such a problem with hospitals and doctors? I had spent my life wondering that. I was so damned healthy I rarely got a cold. I had never stayed in a hospital. Or so I thought, until I discovered there were two and a half years of my life unaccounted for.
Naturally, I'd asked Pamela. She said I'd spent one night in a hospital, for a fever, actually. Todd wasn't allowed to stay in my room, so he'd slept in the waiting area and woken to me screaming, alone and terrified. That could explain my phobia, but I felt like there should have been more.
Dr. Escoda was the daughter of my former physician, who'd passed away a few years ago. Her office was packed. It didn't matter. Give Ricky two minutes with the middle-aged receptionist and we didn't just get a promise that we could see the doctor between appointments, we were shown into an exam room immediately to "protect my privacy."
Dr. Escoda showed up less than five minutes later, and as she scurried in, I smelled terror wafting from her body like bad cologne. She shook my hand, her damp fingers enveloping mine.
"Ms. Taylor-Jones," she said. "I'm so glad you stopped by."
The sweat trickling down her hairline called her a liar.
Back when we first discovered my file had been lost, Gabriel had mentioned the possibility of pursuing it as a legal matter. I hadn't ruled it out.
"We're still looking for your file," she said. "I deeply apologize for the distress it must cause you. I doubt there's anything important in those records--"
"That's not the point, is it?"
Ricky's voice was low and steady, but there was a note in it that I hadn't heard since James's funeral. Charming Ricky had disappeared in the waiting room. The guy beside me held his face impassive, his lips tight, not a hint of a smile in his eyes. His leather jacket lay over his knee, the patch clear. He leaned toward the doctor, forearms on his thighs, tattooed biceps straining his T-shirt sleeves, as he watched her like a hawk. No, more like a raven. Zero predatory interest, but a cold, calculating appraisal.
Ricky continued. "The point is not whether Olivia is healthy now, but whether there is anything in her past she should be aware of. Has she ever had chicken
pox? Broken a bone? Minor issues, yes, but she has the right to know them."
"Of course." Dr. Escoda looked at me. "Your friend here--"
"Boyfriend," Ricky corrected.
"Your boyfriend is right. Getting those records is important--"
"How often does this happen?" Ricky asked, controlling the conversation, intentionally cutting her short. "How many records mix-ups have you had in your own career?"
"None, but--"
"And your father's? How many others have you discovered since he passed?"
"None, which is why--"
"So this appears to be an anomaly. An unprecedented situation."
She hesitated before answering. "I will admit that mix-ups do happen, when records are misfiled or the wrong one is picked up, but that is both rare and temporary. We discover the mistake quickly, and it is rectified and--"
"Temporary mix-ups aren't our concern. We mean situations like this. You're saying there have been none at all."
She straightened like a witness on the stand. "Yes. None."
"And you have been unable to find Olivia's records? Despite a thorough search?"
"Yes, Olivia's--"
"Ms. Taylor-Jones."
She bristled but didn't wrest back control of the conversation. She didn't seem to know how.
Ricky continued. "So you've searched--thoroughly--and been unable to find them. Have you turned up any records of children that could have been her? I'm presuming you've looked at that angle--other girls Olivia's age?"
"My father had two other female patients within a year of Ms. Taylor-Jones's age. Both continued with him throughout their childhoods, and there is no chance that their records are hers--or that their records are the ones mislabeled as hers."
"Because of the spina bifida? It's a rare-enough condition that it would be remembered, correct? Likely by anyone who worked with the child in those records."
She didn't answer.
"Dr. Escoda?" Ricky said. "Am I right? Anyone employed at that time would recall the girl with that condition."
"It--it's been twenty years. My father wasn't a young man even then, and his employees weren't young, either, and--"
"You've spoken to them. You've asked about the girl in the file."
"My father ran a very small practice. He believed in absolute patient-doctor confidentiality, so--"