Fragile

by Shiloh Walker

  But now, nearly an hour after Ellie had skipped out of the courtroom holding her parents’ hands, Devon couldn’t keep herself from thinking about him, wondering yet again if she’d made a mistake.

  She’d only asked herself that ten thousand times since Saturday morning, and she was no closer to an answer now than she had been then.

  Brooding, she gathered up her things and got ready to leave. Caution had her slowing down as she reached the main entrance, and when Ronnie offered to walk her to her car, she jumped at his offer with relief.

  The parking lot was still full, people coming out in small groups of two or three. Surrounded by people, she felt it ripple down her spine, that certainty that somebody was watching her.

  Somebody. But who?

  Surreptitiously, she glanced around, tried to see who it could be, but she saw nothing. All around her, she heard laughs, good-natured complaints, and some not so good-natured as a lawyer griped about a cop he’d had on the stand, but it all fell on unhearing ears.

  It was background noise and nothing else as Devon fought to pinpoint where it was coming from. She’d been fighting this bizarre, paranoid sense of being watched, being followed, for weeks, and she’d yet to actually see anybody. A blue car every once in a while—and how many blue cars where there in Lexington? A ton. It was a college town, and half the people here probably bled blue.

  But it was strange. Although she could feel eyes on her, she didn’t have that overwhelming sense of fear. Preoccupied, when Ronnie touched her shoulder, she jumped. Feeling like an idiot, she blushed when she realized they’d passed her car.

  “Sheesh. Sorry, Ronnie.” She gave him a sheepish grin as she backtracked.

  He just smiled. “Everything okay? You’ve been so quiet since . . .” His voice trailed off, and he winced. “I’m sorry, Ms. Manning.”

  “Devon,” she corrected automatically. She’d been telling him that for the past two years and knew she’d be doing the same in another ten years. “It’s okay, Ronnie. And yes, I know I’ve been quiet. Just—I don’t know, trying to get my head back together.”

  Ronnie was quiet as she opened the driver’s door and slid inside, but before she could shut it, he reached out and laid a hand along the top. Pausing, she looked up at him. In a soft, almost hesitant voice, he said, “Maybe you came back just a little too soon, Ms. Manning. Awful thing that happened. Taking a little more time . . .”

  But Devon shook her head. “Time isn’t going to help what’s going on right now. Right now, I just need to get my head together, and taking off from work isn’t going to accomplish that.” With a bitter smile, she added, “Right now, work is the only thing keeping me halfway sane.”

  But just barely.

  Closing the door, she gave him a wave before she started the car. Ronnie waited until she pulled out before he headed back inside.

  His words echoed the sentiments of Noelle; her boss, Dawson; and the few casual friends that had been concerned enough to approach her about it. Everybody thought she’d come back to work too soon, including Luke. She couldn’t tell any of them how much worse it was when she sat home by herself.

  Memories of her miserable weekend still loomed large in her mind, and she knew no amount of time spent at home was going to help her. Not one bit.

  She had hopes that the upcoming session with Lydia might help a little, that she might find some as-yet-undiscovered answers, but she wasn’t going to hold her breath.

  Exhaustion pulled at her, and if nothing else, she knew the session would leave her feeling emotionally and physically drained. Hopefully, by the time she got home, she’d be so tired, thoughts and fears wouldn’t have room to intrude.

  Wishful thinking.

  The session with Lydia was every bit as exhausting as Devon had expected, but it also left her twitchy, edgy, and filled with adrenaline that was probably going to keep her awake half the night.

  Trying to work some of it off, she shoved out of her chair and began to pace Lydia’s office. The therapist watched her with calm, unreadable eyes. Devon really hated that expression, hated the professional calm that therapists projected, and she hated that she couldn’t find any semblance of calm within herself.

  “How did you feel after he left?”

  Shooting Lydia a dark look, she said sourly, “How do you think I felt? I went dancing.” Groaning in frustration, she turned away. Abruptly, she reached up and pulled the clip out of her hair. The weight of it fell down her back, and her scalp had that weird, tingly pain. Running her hand through her hair, she finger-combed out some of the tangles and stared off into the distance. “I was miserable, Lydia. I wanted to call him, tell him to come back. I still do.”

  Shrugging, she said softly, “I don’t know what I want, other than to stop feeling so scared. And him. I want Luke back with me.”

  “Then perhaps you should call him. Having him leave, did it help you at all?”

  She gave up fiddling with her hair and wrapped her arms around her middle. Unconsciously, she rocked herself back and forth. Inside, she was miserable, aching, and so heartsick, her chest hurt with it. Desolate, she replied, “Him leaving didn’t help at all. But . . .” Devon closed her eyes. “I’m a mess right now. How fair is it for me to expect him to hang around while I try to get my head on straight? I keep doing things, saying things that hurt him. That isn’t fair.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Devon. And you need to answer honestly. Do you believe that he loves you?”

  She opened her eyes and turned around, staring at Lydia. “Yes.” Plain and simply, yes. She didn’t just believe Luke loved her; she knew it. Right down to her bones, she knew it.

  “Then reverse the situations. If he was the one dealing with some inner turmoil, wouldn’t you want to be there and help him through it?”

  Scrubbing her hands over her face, Devon whispered, “It’s not that simple.”

  “But it is.” Lydia leaned forward, and for once, the look on her face wasn’t one of calm professionalism or nonjudgmental understanding. It was earnest concern, more the kind a friend would give a friend than that of a therapist to patient. “It is that simple, Devon. If the two of you are going to have any chance together, you need to accept that you don’t have to work through things on your own anymore. You don’t have to handle every hurdle, every obstacle alone. That’s part of being in a relationship.”

  Settling back in her chair, Lydia sighed. “Devon, we both work in a field where we see some of the shittiest people imaginable.” She gave Devon a wry smile and added, “Friend to friend here for a few minutes, Devon. Friend to friend. I’ve always admired you for your professionalism, the way you are with kids, the way you can relate to some of the older kids, the ones a lot of your coworkers have already written off. You connect with them, and you’ve helped so many. But with jobs like ours, it’s hard to be an island. You need an escape from it, somebody to lean on after you’ve had a particularly bad day, kids to remind you that not every child is neglected, abused, or unloved. Hobbies, friends . . . something. But you shut yourself off and trudge along on your own. There’s nothing wrong with strength, Devon. But standing on your own two feet isn’t going to keep you warm at night. It’s not going to make you laugh, and it’s not going to help ease the pain and the heartbreak we encounter in our professional lives.”

  Lydia looked down, and Devon watched as she touched a finger to the ring on her left hand. The diamond caught the light and sparkled. When Lydia looked up, she had a smile on her face that had an ugly knot of envy forming in Devon’s chest. “I love my job, Devon. I love knowing that I can help people. I love knowing that some of the people I see here eventually go on to live stronger, better, happier lives and that I had some small part in it. But there are days when I know I’m not getting through, when I know that nothing I’ve done or said will make a whit of difference—and there’re some days when I realize that I failed. That a battered woman goes back to her abuser, and then I get a phone call that she�
�ll never have the chance to find that safe, happy life, because she’s dead. On days like that, I wonder if I’ll have the strength to keep doing this—and then, I go home. I see Alan at the stove making lousy spaghetti while our kids are at the table doing their homework. I see them, and I realize that I do have the strength. They give it to me.”

  Devon turned away, unable to stare at the happy, content look that was even harder to face than the calm, professional mask. Staring back out the window, she said softly, “I know I’m stronger with him in my life. I could feel it. The heartbreaks in the job didn’t weigh down on me as heavily; they still hurt, and I don’t want to get to the point where those heartbreaks don’t hurt. I stopped expecting them to break me, though. But . . .” She closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her brow against the icy glass. “I’m not going to put him through hell just because some hidden part of me blames him. I need to get past that.”

  “Hmm. Well, Devon, tell me, do you honestly think he’s not going through hell now?”

  When she left Lydia’s office, instead of going home, she found herself driving toward Luke’s condo. She didn’t even know if that was where he was staying. A couple of weeks ago, he’d made an offhand mention that he might try subletting it out. For all she knew, he wasn’t even there.

  What if he decided to leave?

  It was a nasty, ugly fear. When she drove through the parking lot and found the reserved space in front of his condo empty, Devon grabbed her phone to call him.

  Staring down at the black RAZR, she muttered, “What in the hell are you going to say? ‘Luke, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t leaving town. Just in case, well, you know, I can decide not to be a total basket case.’ Shit, Devon.”

  Tossing the phone back down on the seat, she pulled out of the parking lot. Dread curdled inside her as she headed home. Dread, fear, and paranoia that once more started to work on convincing her that she had no right to resume a relationship when she was falling off the deep end. Working to get a handle on it, she tried to battle all those fears into submission. It even felt like she was making some headway.

  Then she saw that damn car again. Just a flash, as it turned onto Nicholasville Road and fell into place a few cars back. The thick flow of traffic made it impossible for her to look for the car and still drive without having a wreck.

  She bypassed the road she usually took to get home, going the back way, a trip that took a good twenty minutes longer. The entire time, she kept an eye on her rearview mirror, and every time a pair of headlights drew close, she braced herself, certain she’d see that blue sedan one more time.

  Her skin crawled, and she knew, just knew, it was back there. Her imagination kicked into overdrive, and she imagined a car that was piloting itself, following her to and from work, shadows that moved on their own and lights that went on and off of their own volition.

  But during that drive home, not once did she see the car again, and when she turned down her street, there wasn’t another car coming from any direction.

  Nobody had followed her. Nobody had been following her. Her hands shook as she turned off the ignition and climbed out of the car. Her gaze jumped all around, searching the shadows, eying the corners of the house as though they hid some hideous monster. A voice whispered, “You’re losing it . . .”

  But for the life of her, Devon couldn’t tell if it was her own voice or somebody else’s.

  THE nights had gone and gotten long on him.

  Luke lay in bed, staring up at the skylight overhead. He’d kicked the sheets and blankets down to the foot of the bed, hot and irritable, but even the cool air dancing over his flesh aggravated the hell out of him.

  Physically, he was tired. The full moon was affecting people early or something, because it seemed half the crazy people in town had descended upon the emergency department at Rudding Memorial, and it seemed like half of them ended up getting referred up to Psych for evaluation—or admitted.

  Luke had been forced to physically restrain three patients, and one of them had managed to sucker punch him. All the combat training in the world wasn’t enough to prepare a person for a face-off with a schizophrenic who was convinced the medicine the nurses held was actually acid.

  But as exhausting as the day had been, as heavy as his eyes were, he couldn’t sleep.

  It had been four days—come nine, it would be five days—since he’d seen Devon. Oh, he’d swung by her work Monday and Tuesday, and if he hadn’t been scheduled to work, he would have gone by her work Wednesday afternoon as well.

  He was pulling days the rest of the week, and he wouldn’t have another off day until Saturday. He had to work the seven a.m. to seven p.m. shift Sunday through Wednesday of the following week, so he wouldn’t be able to park himself in the lot by her office and hope he could catch a glimpse of her on the way to her job. Oh, he’d swing by her house on the way home, but usually by that time, she was settled inside, unless she’d been called out for one of her kids. Little chance of seeing her then.

  He needed to see her, though. Wanted to hear her voice, talk to her . . . just to make sure she was okay.

  Rubbing a hand over his face, he muttered, “Of course she’s okay. Devon’s a big girl; she doesn’t need you.”

  Hell, she’d made that more than clear when she kicked him out. He’d called Monday while she was working and left a message that he’d come by Tuesday to get his stuff . . . unless she didn’t want him to. All night, he’d waited for a call that he didn’t need to, that it wasn’t necessary, but the call didn’t come.

  He took that to mean she wanted his stuff out of there, and as long as she didn’t have to see him, she didn’t care when he came and got it.

  But when Tuesday rolled around, instead of going to get his stuff, he left a message that something had come up. He’d just wait until he heard from her before he did anything—okay? Even as he left the message, he felt like a fool. But at least he was still a fool who could cling to a few illusions. For a little while longer.

  And when she didn’t call, Luke let those illusions grow.

  Deep inside, though, Luke knew he was deluding himself.

  Her words from months earlier came back to haunt him. “But I’m a mess. You need to know that. I can’t do casual, but I don’t know if I can handle not casual, either.” No way he could say she hadn’t warned him, but he hadn’t expected it to end quite like this.

  He hadn’t been expecting the attack on Devon, either, and he hadn’t counted on his abysmal failure to take care of her. Looking back at all of that, was it any wonder she needed to get away from him?

  There was a logical voice left inside him, one that patiently reminded him that she hadn’t dumped him, hadn’t told him she didn’t love him. She just needed a little bit of room. If he could have found it in himself to be objective, maybe he could have even understood it a little.

  But objectivity, something that had always been easy for him, totally eluded him. He couldn’t be objective, and he couldn’t convince himself that he needed to give Devon some space, and maybe, after some time passed, they could try this again.

  Hell, who knows . . . maybe it wasn’t over. Maybe.

  That was what the logical part of him kept trying to tell him.

  But if that hated, logical, rational, calm voice didn’t shut the fuck up, Luke was going to strangle it. How he’d strangle the voice of his conscience, he didn’t know, but he’d figure it out.

  When his cell phone rang, he almost ignored it. Even if he hadn’t recognized the ring, he knew who it would be. Not too many people would call at this time of night. He wasn’t on call, his dad wasn’t much for phone calls, especially not late-night ones, and it wasn’t like he’d have a girlfriend calling him who would just want to hear his voice, right? Self-pity had an ugly, bitter taste to it, but Luke was just fine wallowing in it.

  Talking to Quinn wasn’t what he wanted or needed at the minute. After three rings, the phone stopped ringing, automatically going to v
oice mail, and Luke closed his eyes, told himself Quinn was better off not talking to Luke right now anyway. His mood was lethal.

  But then the phone started to ring again. Snarling, he grabbed it and flipped it open, and growled into the mouthpiece, “It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m in a shitty mood, Quinn. Call back some other time.”

  Quinn’s voice came back over the line, oddly raspy. “A shitty mood. Yeah, I can tell.”

  His twin’s bitterness, always simmering just below the surface, seemed a little less hidden. Not that Luke gave a flying fuck at the moment; he had his own anger to deal with. Luke pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out a harsh breath. “Trust me, Quinn. I’m not safe for public consumption right now.”

  “Your brother ain’t exactly public consumption,” Quinn drawled. His voice was slow, lazy, and Quinn’s characteristic sarcasm was there, but still . . . something was—strange.

  Strange enough that it managed to penetrate Luke’s fog of anger, loneliness, and self-pity and jerk him back into awareness. So what if it felt like he was bleeding to death inside, his heart oozing out something black and bitter?

  “No. No, you’re not.” Slowly, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the floor and resting his elbows on his knees. Forcing thoughts of Devon, self-disgust, and self-pity out of his head, he focused on his twin, focused on their weird, tenuous connection. Tenuous but strong. Luke might not be as attuned to it as Quinn, but when he reached out, when he focused, Luke could home in on Quinn. Usually.

  Quinn did a good job keeping Luke from picking up random things here and there, much better than Luke could do. It was how Quinn always seemed to know when Luke was pissed, moody, miserable, and why Luke couldn’t quite pick up on the same things from Quinn.

  But when Luke focused, it was a different story. He wouldn’t ever read Quinn as easily as Quinn could read him. He didn’t need to go deep to feel his twin’s inner turmoil, though.