Within These Walls

by J. L. Berg

  He rolled his eyes, his grin widening, and he pivoted on his heels. Turning around, he walked the few steps to the door and walked out.

  Oh no!

  Did I upset him? Is sarcasm not socially acceptable?

  Just as I was about to chew off the entirety of my pink thumbnail, the door opened back up, and he reappeared—along with a wheelchair.

  My first thought was, Yay, he’s back! I didn’t scare him away!

  My second thought was, Ugh, stupid wheelchair.

  Considering I’d spent the morning cursing the clock and the fates that had brought me to this place, at that moment, I would gladly go anywhere in a wheelchair as long as it was out of this hospital room and with Jude.

  “So, where are we going?” I asked, sitting myself down into the wheelchair.

  When I bent over to push down the footrests, I saw Jude moving forward to help, but I shooed him away with a wave of my hand. He wasn’t working, and I definitely was not as frail as I appeared.

  “Nope,” he answered, taking a step behind me. His hands brushed the skin of my shoulder as he moved to grip the handlebars.

  He took a step forward, and he propelled me down the hall.

  “What do you mean, nope?”

  “As in, nope, not telling you.”

  I muttered a curse and heard him let out a small laugh as we passed by the nurses’ station. He stopped briefly to let them know that he was taking me for a while. He leaned against the counter as he spoke in low whispers, telling the nurses of our secret destination. His arms bulged against the weight of his upper body, and I eyed several of his dark tribal-looking tattoos that covered his left arm, as I listened to the sound of his low voice.

  I noticed several of the single young nurses curiously watching me as he spoke. I suddenly grew uncomfortable under the attention. Having never attended school or social events with my peers, I didn’t know how to react to this kind of scrutiny. The desire to run and hide was growing with every passing second.

  What is he saying to make them look at me like that?

  Grace, who was just returning from down the hall, took one look at me and must have seen my distress. She briskly walked behind the nurses’ station before glancing in my direction and giving me a quick wink.

  “Have y’all seen my ring yet?” she said loud enough for me to hear.

  Girlish squeals followed.

  I chuckled, knowing she’d purposely diverted the unwanted attention away from me.

  I truly love that woman.

  Luckily, Jude had mostly finished at the nurses’ station before the squeals erupted, and we made it to the elevator without any other inquisitive sets of eyes following us. He pressed the button, and we waited in slightly awkward silence.

  “So, are you going to tell me now?” I finally said.

  “Nope.”

  I folded my arms against my chest and made an exasperated sigh.

  He chuckled behind me. The elevator dinged, and the doors parted. He wheeled me around and backed both of us in, so we were facing forward.

  “You have the patience of a gnat,” he said.

  The door closed, and we headed downward.

  “I have a great deal of patience.”

  “Well, not today,” he said.

  Then, I felt his hot breath against my ear as he bent down behind me.

  “Or maybe it’s just me who ruffles those feathers of yours.”

  “Um—“

  I had no witty comeback, nothing to say that would equal what he’d just said, because he’d just rendered me speechless. I tried to compose myself, but all that came out was word garbage. His breath against my earlobe alone had reduced me to a mumbling mess of letters and syllables.

  Why does his presence affect me so?

  I’d grown up in the hospital. I’d spent my teenage years—the most vulnerable time of a young girl’s life—being poked, prodded, and exposed to countless people, including several men.

  But no one had ever made my skin flush and my heart flutter the way he did.

  It was something I’d never felt before—and also something I needed to forget.

  Jude wasn’t for me.

  He couldn’t possibly want a mess like me.

  Besides, a life outside these hospital walls wasn’t something I could think about right now. Hope was an emotion that could give the smallest man the strength to move mountains. But if a man was given too much hope in a dire situation, that four letter word would suddenly crush him, weighing him down by the impossible belief that things would somehow get better when there was no chance in hell they ever possibly could.

  Until I knew more about my transplant probability, I was staying far away from the idea of hope.

  “I don’t have feathers,” I finally answered, finding my voice again.

  “What?” he asked.

  The elevator once again dinged, and the door opened. He pushed the wheelchair forward, and I took a look around, but all I saw was the same boring hallway that covered every floor. That wasn’t much of a clue.

  “You said my feathers were ruffled. I don’t have wings. I’m not a bird,” I pointed out.

  He pushed the wheelchair to a set of glass doors. I looked in and saw people in scrubs and regular clothes walking around, carrying trays.

  We’re at the cafeteria? Is he buying me lunch?

  I looked up and found green eyes staring down at me.

  “Every angel has wings, Lailah,” he answered.

  He pushed me through the double doors, and rather than finding a spot in the line with the rest of the folks waiting to grab a bite to eat, he took a turn toward the kitchen.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “Relax! We’re almost there,” he said from behind me with an amused tone. “Hey, beautiful,” Jude said, greeting someone.

  My head flew up to see who he was addressing

  Is he introducing me to his girlfriend? That would not be my idea of a fun afternoon.

  An older woman, probably in her late sixties, with long silver hair twisted up into a complicated bun, looked up from the cash register and batted her eyelashes at Jude. “Hey, Puddin’,” she answered. “This your girl?” She glanced down at me with a wrinkled warm smile that reminded me of my late grandmother.

  “This is Lailah,” he simply answered.

  “Well, your stuff is all back there and ready to go. Take as much time as you need, hon.”

  His large hand went to her tiny shoulder and squeezed it for a moment. “Thank you for this,” he said before pushing the wheelchair forward once again.

  Another set of doors and a few seconds later, we were in the cafeteria kitchen.

  I took a look around, noticing the huge stainless steel commercial refrigerators, ovens, and countertops. Everything gleamed and shined under the fluorescent lights. On the counter located in the center were several shopping bags from a local grocery store my mother and I would pass on the way home from the hospital. Next to the bags were stacks of produce, different types of meats and cheeses, and a chocolate cake.

  “What are we doing in here?” I asked as my gaze continued to wander around the large space.

  “We are cooking lunch,” he said.

  My expression must have shifted to extreme surprise or maybe fear because a loud, booming laugh came tumbling out of him. It was the first real laugh I’d heard from him, and it was beautiful. So many other times I’d caught him laughing, it had been timid and apprehensive, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed the pleasure of doing so. Hearing this laugh felt real, like I was finally seeing and hearing his soul.

  “You look mortified,” he finally said, still chuckling.

  “Maybe slightly, but I’m more surprised. We’re cooking? Really?”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I can’t take you to the beach—you know, without busting you out of the hospital and getting fired. So, I figured I’d do this. It’s not much—”

  “It’s perfect,” I said, interrupti
ng him.

  “Good,” he replied. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Before we start, I do have one quick question,” I said, looking down at my current seating arrangement. “Do I have to sit in this thing all day? You know, I can walk.”

  “Oh! Sorry. I was just trying to stick to hospital policy. Yeah, you can stand up. Just no treadmills.”

  “What?” I asked, completely thrown off by his comment.

  He grinned, moving forward to offer me a hand, as I stood. I’d normally decline. I liked being able to do things by myself, but the idea of touching him again was too tempting.

  Just because I know he isn’t for me doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be.

  A girl can dream.

  When his hand slid into mine, I felt that same sizzle I’d felt when his breath caressed my ear. Feeling instant heat, my stomach clenched, and my pulse started to race.

  And it had nothing to do with heart failure.

  Our eyes met as he helped me up.

  “Nothing. Sorry. Lame joke,” he mumbled quickly. “Let’s make some lunch. I’m starving.” He let go of my hand and turned to the counter. He began pulling things out of the bags and started setting them out.

  “So, what are we making?”

  “I thought we’d do something simple since it’s your first time in a kitchen, and I’m a terrible cook.”

  I made a snorting sound before bringing my hand to my mouth. “You are supposed to be teaching me how to cook a meal, and you don’t know how to cook?” I asked, still holding back laughter.

  He folded up the reusable grocery bag, set it on the counter, and turned to me. His expression was once again light and amused. The awkwardness he’d been carrying moments earlier when our hands touched had seemed to dissipate.

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t cook. I just said I was a terrible cook. There’s a difference.”

  “Oh, okay. So, what terrible food are we having today?” I asked, peeking around at the various things lined up on the steel counter.

  “I thought we’d go easy and make pizza. How badly could we mess up pizza?”

  “That sounds like a challenge.” I laughed.

  “Well, let’s at least try for edible. I had some help. Abigail’s grandfather, Nash, gave me some pointers, so I’m pumped.” He shook his hands out and stretched out his neck like he was preparing for a fight. “Yeah, we can do this.”

  I giggled. “Okay, let’s go for it.”

  He’d thankfully bought prepared dough, and all we had to do was roll it out.

  It was easier said than done.

  “Don’t you just roll it with a rolling pin?” I asked, looking around for one.

  “I thought you threw it up in the air?”

  “Only if you have a twisty handlebar mustache and happened to be named Luigi. I think beginners roll it out.”

  We searched high and low for a rolling pin and managed to finally find one on the back of a corner shelf.

  Jude pulled the sticky dough out of the bag and plopped it down on the clean counter. “We need flour.” Half of the dough was still stuck to his palm.

  I went on another mission to find flour, and luckily, that didn’t take nearly as long. Pulling out a large handful from the canister, I coated the dough and the counter, and then I sprinkled some on his hands.

  “Help me get the rest of this off,” he said, holding up his fingers still covered in dough.

  Making sure my hands were properly floured, I started moving my hands over his, taking off bits of dough as I went. Our fingers brushed and wove together while not a word was said. He watched me as I did this, his eyes taking in every movement like he was studying it.

  “All done,” I said softly.

  He seemed to come out of his trance. “Good. Okay, I’ll roll it out.”

  With the addition of flour, we managed to roll out the dough without too much fuss. It wasn’t round like delivery pizza, but it was flat and didn’t have any holes.

  “What about sauce chef?” I asked, admiring our oddly shaped pizza.

  Digging around in one of the shopping bags, Jude held up a bright green and red jar a moments later.

  “Nash recommended this expensive pasta sauce. He said it would be better than anything we attempted. I didn’t argue.” He popped the lid, and we spread a little over our budding masterpiece.

  “So, how does a grown man in his twenties not know how to cook?” I dug around the remaining ingredients and found the cheese.

  “Same way as most, I guess—laziness and the invention of ramen.”

  “I seriously doubt that—at least, the laziness part. No, there must be some other reason,” I said, ripping open the bag of shredded mozzarella.

  I dipped my hand into the cold bag and started sprinkling the cheese on the pizza. It looked like large pieces of snow falling—or at least, I thought it did, but I wasn’t sure since I’d never seen snow.

  “Well, I can tell you, I’m in good company. I can guarantee you that most men in their twenties who aren’t married or involved usually live off of take-out menus and anything that can be made in the microwave.”

  The only thing I heard in that entire explanation was the fact that he was single. What I should have focused on was the fact that he was dodging any sort of real answer, but the female side of me—the one that never had a chance to crush on a boy in homeroom or dance with a boyfriend at the homecoming dance—didn’t notice any of that.

  It shouldn’t matter that he was single. I should have ignored it, but my stomach did a flip-flop the instant the words left his mouth.

  Jude was single, and he was here—with me.

  No, it doesn’t matter.

  It doesn’t change anything. Of course, it couldn’t.

  Denial was something I always excelled in.

  After the pizza was properly covered in a good coating of cheese, we moved on to toppings.

  “So, what do you like on your pizza?” He grabbed the bags and began pulling out more toppings than one pizza could possibly hold. There were mushrooms, artichoke hearts, olives, pepperoni, ham, green peppers, onions, and about a dozen other things.

  “Um…whatever you like is fine,” I answered, glancing around at everything.

  His eyebrows went up in amusement. “Lailah, I might not know you very well yet, but I can tell when you’re lying. You’re not very good at it. Right now, you’re looking at half of these things like they’re going to jump up and attack you. Just tell me what you don’t like, and I won’t add it.”

  “Okay, but don’t laugh.”

  He schooled his face, trying to keep the grin that was threatening to take over his face. “No promises.”

  “I hate mushrooms,” I started, looking down at the counter rather than up at him. “They’re weird-looking. And bell peppers taste funny. They’re never quite cooked but not quite raw either. Like, why is that? Also, you’re so sweet, but half of these things I can’t have because they’re too high in salt, and I’m on a low-salt diet because of my heart. Do you hate me yet?”

  I risked a glance up and found him smiling a lopsided warm smile that stole my breath.

  “How about cheese?” he asked.

  “Love it.”

  “Good. We’ll have plain cheese then.” He scooped the pizza up, balancing it with one hand on the pizza tray we’d found on one of our many search-and-rescue missions around the kitchen, and he paused in front of me. Grabbing my chin, he looked at me with those celadon green eyes. “And no, I definitely don’t hate you.”

  OUR FIRST ATTEMPT at making a pizza actually turned out quite well despite several false starts and roadblocks. As I pulled the pizza out of the oven, noticing the perfectly baked crust and the browned cheese, I realized something startling. Lailah and I made a great team.

  I’d never expected that from this little adventure. I’d planned this afternoon as a way of payment. I owed the woman standing in front of me a debt. She might not understand or realize that, but I did, and I
was going to do everything in my power to make sure that her life was better from now on.

  What I hadn’t planned on was enjoying the time I spent with her so much. Ever since I’d spied her licking chocolate off her fingers, laughing like no one was watching her, I’d been intrigued by this girl with pale blue eyes and hair the color of wheat. The more time I spent with her, the more my fascination turned into something genuine.

  She wasn’t just a debt or an obligation. I genuinely enjoyed being around her.

  It was as if I’d been underground for years, locked away in a dungeon of my own making and unable to break free. After meeting Lailah, I felt as if my chains had melted away, and I had finally crawled up to the surface to catch my first blinding glimpse of the sun.

  Lailah was the sun, and I was dazzled by her soothing, pure presence.

  I knew it was selfish of me to crave her companionship just to fill a void in the remnants of my heart, but for the first time in three years, I felt a flicker of hope in my life. After everything that had happened with Megan and her family, I was sure my life was over, and I’d be nothing but an empty shell wandering these halls for eternity. But if hope still lived inside of me, then perhaps a friendship with Lailah was exactly what I needed.

  Always seeming to be one step ahead of me, Lailah rummaged through the drawers of the massive kitchen and found a pizza cutter. She held it up with the intent to do harm to our cheesy masterpiece.

  “Whoa there, Chucky. Why don’t you give me the sharp object, and I’ll cut the pizza? I’d rather not return you to Dr. Marcus with a missing appendage.”

  Her brow rose in defiance, but she handed over the spinning wheel of death easily. Her arms folded across her chest, pushing her breasts together under her dark blue sweater. Locked in a trance, my breath suddenly faltered. My fists tightened at my side, and I quickly looked away.

  What the hell was that?

  Choosing to ignore my body’s obvious confusion, I devoted my attention to cutting our pizza. Moments later, I plated each of us a slice. At the counter, she sat back down in the wheelchair, and I made a chair from a step stool.

  “It’s perfect,” she said after taking the first bite. She looked casual and comfortable, leaned back in the wheelchair with her legs propped up against the edge of my step stool. It was the most relaxed I’d ever seen her—at least around me.