Southern Heat

by Natasha Madison

  You can see that she is fighting the sleep that will take her soon. I just stand here and watch. Shirley takes the containers off the bed, putting them back into the brown bag, but keeping out the blueberry one. She stays in the room, not leaving her side until she falls asleep.

  She walks out of the room, coming to my side in front of the window that looks in. “I guess it was too much excitement for her,” she says, looking at her watch. “It’s the longest she’s been up.” I nod, looking at her chest rising and falling. “She’s out for a couple of hours. I just gave her another dose of pain medication.”

  “How much pain was she in?” I look over at Shirley. “And she didn’t say anything?” I watch her face as she talks, seeing if she’ll hide anything from me.

  “Everyone has their own threshold for pain,” she says matter-of-factly. “We all handle it differently.” She stands in front of me, her eyes not giving away anything. I turn back and watch Willow. “Why don’t you take off for a couple of hours?” I side-eye her. “It might be what you need. Get out of here and get a good night’s sleep. She isn’t going anywhere,” she says, and I just shake my head.

  “That woman”—she points at Willow—“has been through more than we will ever know. More than she will ever admit to anyone.” She swallows down the lump in her throat. “I want you to keep that in mind when you talk to her.” I ignore the beating of my own heart, and the way my stomach sinks at her words.

  “They need to come and get an official statement from her tomorrow afternoon,” I say, and she shakes her head.

  “That is going to be interesting,” she says. “Will you be in the room?”

  “What do you think?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I don’t think that is a good idea,” she answers honestly. I just look over at her. “I don’t know you, Quinn,” she starts, looking at me over her glasses that sit on the tip of her nose, “but from what I can tell, I don’t think you can listen to her story without losing your shit.” I almost roll my eyes at her. “Think about that before tomorrow. She is going to need someone on her side.” She takes a deep breath. “And I don’t think anyone has ever been on her side.”

  I don’t answer because she turns around and walks away from me to the nurses’ desk. She sits there and writes in the folder. I walk back into the room and go to sit in the chair beside Willow’s bed. Shirley’s words replay in my head. “And I don’t think anyone has ever been on her side.”

  I watch her sleep, and she whimpers. I scoot forward and hold her hand in mine, the casted arm in the sling. Her eyes open halfway. “I’m here,” I tell her as she blinks, trying to stay awake.

  “Does it hurt?” I whisper.

  She licks her lips. “Not really.” She closes her eyes.

  “I’m sorry about before,” I say, not sure if she is awake or not. “I should have held your hand while you went through all of that.” Her eyes flutter open just for a second before closing again.

  Her eyes open again. “You don’t have to be sorry,” she says softly. “You didn’t do anything to hurt me.” Her voice trails off, and then she closes them again, this time not opening them as she slips back to sleep.

  “Tomorrow is going to be tough,” I say when the sun goes down, the hallway gets dark, and she still hasn’t woken up. I put her small hand in mine as I trail my finger on the top of her hand. “But I’m going to be here,” I say. She mumbles as her fingers twitch in my hand. “I’m going to be here, and I’m going to be by your side.”

  Chapter 10

  Willow

  “I’m going to be by your side.” I hear his soft voice, and I fight to open my eyes, I feel the softness on my hand, but the heaviness stops me as I sink into sleep again. I want to force my eyes open again to talk to him.

  I’m in the dark forest as I hear his voice over and over again. “You will never be free of me,” he says as I run away from the voice. Running as fast as I can, I fall over the rocks. The pain rips through me, and I scream, my eyes flying open, and I look around the dark room.

  I blink a couple of times, this time getting my eyes adjusted, the lights from the nurses’ station coming in just a bit. Enough for me to see around the room just a touch. The room is unchanged from the last time, the containers of pie still sitting uneaten on the shelf.

  My body aches suddenly. I have been sore before in my life, but nothing like this. My whole body screams out every single time I try to move.

  My arm presses down on my chest. The sling is tied tightly around my waist. The pain in my shoulder is just a fraction of what it was yesterday.

  My hand warms as I look down and see Quinn with his head on the bed, right next to his hand on top of mine. I think about moving my hand, but I don’t want to wake him.

  When the doctor came into the room yesterday to tell me that my clavicle was broken, the first thing I did was look over at Quinn, whose face went from a smile to rage. I tried not to watch him walk out of the room. I tried to pretend it didn’t bother me. I pretended I didn’t care. I shouldn’t care, I kept reminding myself.

  I look down at this man who I don’t think has slept since I came here. I have never seen him with his guard down, but I get to look at him for once, without him looking back at me. I get to see the softness of his face. I get to see the way his hair falls softly on his forehead. I wonder if his hair feels like silk.

  Who the hell is this man? I have so many questions about him and no way to find out. The only way I can find out is if he tells me, and I’m not going to ask him. Because I know if I ask him the question, I have to be ready to answer his questions, and I don’t know how to do that without baring my whole fucking soul.

  He must sense I’m watching him because his eyes blink open for a second and then close again, only for a couple of seconds before he blinks again as he looks up at me staring at him.

  He gets up, groaning when he rolls his neck. “Did I wake you?” he asks softly.

  “What are you still doing here?” I ask, and he looks at me with a confused look. “Who are you really?”

  His voice comes out almost in a whisper. “I can ask you the same,” he says, and I swallow down the lump in my throat that comes out.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I say and avoid his eyes. “I’m no one.” I blink away the tears that threaten to fall. I blink as fast as I can to fight them away.

  “You are not no one,” he says, his eyes hard. “I don’t know your story, and I’m not sure you’ll actually tell me, but one thing I know for sure is that you are not no one.” He looks down at his hand on top of mine, and he slowly moves it off. The cold air hits my hand as soon as it’s free from his. He sits back in the chair. “Do you want water?” he asks as if he just didn’t stop my heart in my throat.

  He walks out of the room, and only then do I let a tear escape, wiping it away as soon as I feel it on my cheek. “He didn’t mean it,” I tell myself. “He doesn’t know you.”

  He comes back into the room with a cup in his hand. “Do you want me to open the shades?” He holds the cup in his hand and holds it for me. “The sun is almost set to rise.”

  The cold water feels refreshing when I take a couple of sips. “I take it you’re a morning person?”

  He smiles and chuckles. “You can say that.” He puts the cup down, walks over to the shades, and opens them. The sky is still dark, but you can see that the sun is about to rise.

  “Do you watch the sun rise every day?” I don’t know why I’m asking him.

  “Pretty much,” he says, looking out the window. “I get up at around five.”

  “Why?” I say before I can stop myself.

  “I guess my body is just used to it,” he says, and I want to know why. “My mother said I was the worst sleeper out of all of us.”

  “All of you?” I ask, intrigued by his statement.

  “I have a brother, Reed, who is two years younger than me, and my sister, Harlow, who is five years younger than me.” His whole face
lights up when he talks about his family. “Do you have any siblings?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head, and I don’t add the thank God.

  I don’t say anything else because he looks back out of the window. For the first time in my life, I watch the sun rise without having the fear that I don’t know where I will be that night. For the first time, I don’t have to wonder if he is going to be in a good mood or not. For the first time, I watch the sun rise without hating the fact that I’m alive.

  The yellow sun slowly takes over the whole sky, and for the first time in my life, I wish I was outside to feel the heat on my face. I close my eyes as the sun shines in the window. “Maybe soon,” Quinn says. “We can see if we can watch the sunrise outside.”

  “Why do you like watching it?” I ask him.

  “It’s almost therapeutic.” With a smirk, he grabs a container of pie and comes over to me. “It’s like a restart.”

  “That makes no sense.” I shake my head.

  He smiles at me. “It makes all the sense in the world.” He opens the container of pie. “Let’s say today is one of the worst days you’ve ever had.” He starts to talk. “And the only thing you can think of is I can’t wait for this day to be over. You ever have those days?”

  I laugh. “I was left for dead. So chances are, I’ve had more than a few of those days.” I try to make a joke of it, but I can see his eyes go dark. I see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows.

  “The sunrise shows you that today is another day. It shows you that you have a reset.” He smiles and puts the pie in my lap, and I look down, seeing it’s blueberry.

  I look down at the pie, my mouth watering. “You ever see the glass half empty?” I ask him, my hand itching to grab the plastic spoon he holds in his hand.

  “Do you ever see the glass half full?” he counters and extends his hand with the spoon. “You just have to have a bit of faith.”

  I hold up my hand and reach for the spoon. “In my life …” He holds on to the spoon. “I learned early on that faith wasn’t on my side.” His eyes are on mine. “I learned that in my life when I thought the glass was half full, it was quickly shown to me that not only was it not half full but it was, in fact, empty. A figment of my imagination at times.” I look at the spoon in my hand and then the pie. “See this pie.” I put the spoon down on my lap and pick up the container. “What do you see?”

  “I see a piece of pie,” he says, and I look down and blink away the tears that are fighting to be let out.

  “I see a piece of pie also,” I tell him, smiling and then looking back at the pie. “But I also see something that will give me a little bit of joy because it’s my favorite. But then I see something that can be used to make me feel disappointment.” His mouth opens. “You see, if I show even a bit of emotion toward this piece of pie, it gives someone, anyone, the chance to use it against me.” I try to shrug my shoulders. “It’s the way the world works for me.”

  I watch him as he takes in the words I’ve just said. I watch him as he struggles with not flying off the handle. I watch his hands clench into fists on his legs and then I see them open as he rubs up and down his upper thighs. “Eat the pie,” he says through clenched teeth.

  “I can’t eat much,” I say. “I haven’t eaten in eight days,” I say, and he looks at me.

  “You mean six days,” he corrects me.

  I shake my head. “No, I mean eight days.” His jaw goes tight. “And experience reminds me that if I eat this whole thing, it’ll be wasted because my stomach will most likely throw most of it up.” I pick up the spoon. “So I’m going to have two bites.” I cut a piece and bring it to my lips. “It smells so good,” I say.

  “When you get out of here,” he says, getting up and smiling at me, “I’m going to take you to my grandmother’s house.” My heart speeds up in my chest. “She’s going to bake it in front of you, and then, Willow,” he whispers, “you are going to eat the whole fucking pie.” He walks away from my bed. “I’m going to tell them you’re awake.”

  I don’t say anything to him as I watch him walk out of the room and then look down at the pie with the tears I lost the battle against. They roll down my cheeks as I try not to sob out. I take a bite of the pie and let the sweetness sit on my tongue. My whole mouth waters at the same time as I chew the little bite. After the second bite, I put the spoon down. Looking out at the nurses’ station, I see him with his head down and his arms outstretched to his sides; hands that look so strong. Hands that look like they will hold you up instead of push you down.

  “You will never be good enough for anyone.” I hear the voice in the back of my head. The voice so many times, hurting me more and more. “The sooner you admit it to yourself.” I hear her voice again. “The better it will be for everyone.”

  I close my eyes, trying not to make her words hurt me. She is nothing to you. All I can do is hear her laughing in the background just like she always does. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  My eyes fly open as I try to run away from her voice, my heart speeding up as I push her back in the black box I buried her in. “I hope you are rotting in hell,” I mumble. “Burning in hell.”

  Chapter 11

  Quinn

  I stand in front of the nurses' station with my hands by my sides, trying to make the burning in my stomach go away. I made a note that she is going to have blueberry fucking pie every single day that I’m here. Every fucking day that I’m around her.

  “Good morning,” Shirley says, coming out from another room. “Is she up?”

  “She is,” I say. “She is going to have two bites of pie.”

  “I’ll see if we have something for her for breakfast,” she says, “and she is expected to go for tests this morning.” I look at her, and the worry must show all over my face. “Routine tests. We need to see if the swelling in her head has gone down.”

  “Okay,” I say quietly and turn to walk back into the room. I see her with her eyes closed as one tear rolls down her cheek. “Are you okay?”

  “Who are you, Quinn?” She opens her eyes, and I see they are filled with tears. “I can’t pinpoint who you are.” My heart speeds up as I walk over to the chair and sit down next to her bed. I want to get closer to the bed and hold her hand in mine. “My head keeps going around and around in circles as I think about who you really are.”

  “Who do you think I am?” I ask, trying to get her to talk to me and open up a bit more. My hands get clammy as I ask her the loaded question.

  “That is the problem,” she says, and I notice that her index finger taps the bed. Something she does when she’s nervous. “It’s a toss-up.” We stare at each other, both of us unwilling to look away. “Between a cop or a therapist.”

  My laughter fills the room. “Why do you think I’m a cop?” I lean back in the chair, putting my hands on my stomach as I watch her.

  “For one, the way you ask me questions indirectly,” she says right away. “You dance around a lot, trying to get me to say something without you saying it.”

  “Is that because you have been arrested or questioned in the past that you know that?” I watch her eyes get just a touch darker.

  “Not that it’s on the record,” she admits and waits for me to answer her.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “I’m not a cop. But,” I say, putting up my index finger, “my uncle Jacob is a sheriff, and well, he’s been my role model since I can remember. I spent a lot of summers trailing him. Much to my mother’s begging.”

  “She didn’t want you to be a sheriff?” she asks, and I chuckle.

  “She didn’t want her child to be hurt,” I say, and her next words slice me through the heart.

  “Be happy. Not all mothers are like that.” She swallows. “Trust me, I know.” I want to ask her what she means, but I know for her to open up to me, she has to trust me, and talking to her will help. “So you’re a therapist, then?” she asks, and I shake my head.

  “Not exactly,” I sa
y, not sure I should be happy she guessed it. “But close.”

  “What does that mean?” she asks me, confused.

  “I run Barnes Therapy Program,” I say, smiling.

  “What is that?” she asks, her eyes waiting for my answer.

  “It’s an equine therapy farm,” I say and see her eyebrows pinch together. “It’s horse therapy.” She opens her mouth. “I started it when I turned twenty,” I say, describing my baby to her. “With two horses. Initially, it started with soldiers who would come home with PTSD symptoms. They would come by every day and do a couple of hours with the horse. Then we expanded it to women who come from abusive homes.” I see the flicker in her eyes. “It’s a different approach to healing.”

  “So they ride the horses?” she asks.

  “Oh, there are a lot of things to do before you ride the horse.” She tilts her head. “You have to gain the horse’s trust. But yes, eventually, you work your way up to that,” I say. “I started with two horses, and I’m up to twenty, and I have a waiting list a mile long.” I don’t tell her that I have three centers, and one is about to become a rehab for soldiers who come back home.

  “It helps?” she asks, and I can see she wants to ask me more questions.

  “It helps because you have to be calm and relaxed with the horse. Most of my horses are also rescue horses.”

  “So you just like to save everything and anyone that is broken?” She laughs.

  “Not everything,” I say. “But I definitely relate more to horses than I do to people.”

  “I mean, your bedside manner,” she says, “could use some help.” She laughs, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in my whole life.