my voice. It wasn’t her fault I was a major fuckup. “What’s been happening around here?”
“Mr. Meyers in 121 passed away last night. A new resident will fill his bed tomorrow.” She paused
to write something down and to let that news sink in. Mr. Meyers had been a very ill and immobile
patient. We’d had to change his position regularly to keep ahead of his bed sores. I knew it was only a
matter of time, but it was sad nonetheless. “And Mrs. Jackson had another TIA last night. She’s weak
and exhausted today.”
My chest tightened. “Has her family been in to see her this morning?”
“Not yet.”
I locked my grief away in a dark corner of my heart. It was the only way to get through this day. It
was a useful skill I’d developed and had always been good at it—especially at my job.
I prepped a catheter for Mrs. Alvinia, found a bedpan for Ms. Wilson, who’d just buzzed the desk,
and opened new sponges for Mr. Lewis’s bath.
When I finally made it to Mrs. Jackson’s room, her back was turned, but her eyes were open. Her
gaze was fixed on the giant maple tree outside her window, which had lost most of its leaves.
Her skin looked dry and scaly, and I figured she could use a gentle massage to help her loosen her
limbs. One of her hands was curled into a rigid ball from the stroke, and that was the one I worked on
regularly. Grabbing some therapeutic lotion from the cart, I squirted it into my hand.
I smoothed my fingers over her course black hair, and her eyes found mine. “Okay if I massage you
for a bit?”
Her head moved slightly, and I took that as affirmation. I tried to dislodge the ache from my gut
upon seeing her vacant eyes. I knew she was in some pain, but there was little to do except give her
meds and bring some comfort.
I rubbed her hand using a circular motion, and her fingers unclenched. She closed her eyes, relief
crossing her face. I was thankful I could provide her some form of respite. A stroke was debilitating on
the body, especially when muscle and motor activity were affected.
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded weak and broken. It was tough to see her that way. This, added to
hurting Bennett’s feelings that morning, made me feel lost and weepy. But I needed to hold it together.
“You’re very welcome.”
Without any prompting, she began talking about her life, much like she’d done in the past. But this
time felt different.
Patients sometimes reminisced like that at the end stage of their lives, so hearing her ramble on
made my throat close up.
“Marrying Mr. Jackson was the best decision I’ve ever made. He brought children into my life and
taught me about love. I’m so grateful for that man. Despite all our hardships, it was magic to share my
life with him.”
“Well, aren’t you talkative this afternoon?” I kept my voice light and normal, trying to engage her
in our regular banter. “What brought all of that on?”
“I’m not dense, you know. I know my time is coming, maybe sooner than later.” Her voice was
ragged from the effort. But I knew better than to tell her to save her breath. She’d only put me in my
place. “I want to make sure the people I deeply care for know exactly how I feel. I’ve already laid down
my roots; now I’m just cultivating them. Hoping the seeds carry into the wind and spread.” I kept my tears at bay. Mrs. Jackson’s message was one for me as well. And there was talk of those
damn roots again.
Before I left her room, I made sure to whisper in her ear how much she meant to me and had
influenced my life
. Just in case.
After my shift, I went straight up the elevator in my building to the fifth floor, sick with worry that
I had ruined something special. I knocked on Bennett’s door, but he didn’t answer, and the apartment
sounded empty.
So I went home, showered, and changed into pajamas. I drank a glass of white wine and then went
to bed.
I pulled out my phone one last time.
Please talk to me, Bennett. I’m sick about this.
Finally there was a response, and I wondered where exactly he was, if he wasn’t at home. I held my
breath as I read it.
Bennett: I just . . . need time.
That hurt. But I replied right away.
Me: We promised to be honest with each other when we wanted to run
away, remember? I just need to know what you’re thinking.
Bennett: Fine. I’m thinking that maybe this was all some conquest
for you. Some joke. Bag the virgin. Laugh it up with your friends.
Me: Damn it, that’s NOT TRUE. My friend Rachel is a piece of work.
She’s crude and a huge player. Sometimes it’s not worth it to have
a real conversation with her. So instead, I just agreed with her
and let it go.
Bennett: See, that’s just the thing. I wasn’t worth the effort for
you to set her straight. You didn’t protect my principles, my reputation, my heart, Avery.
Me: No, Bennett. I’m sorry, that’s not at all how it was meant.
And his last message nearly broke me.
Bennett: I believe you’re sorry. I do. And I accept your apology.
But I still need time. To think it all through. To figure out what
I really want.
***
It had been two days since that text conversation and I was miserable. I didn’t know what to do. Bennett
obviously meant something to me, and I missed him terribly.
I was the one always running from him. Never would I have thought he’d run from me. And I had
been an idiot that day with Rachel. I was too afraid to say what I really felt. That I was falling for this
amazing guy. I was immature and stupid. And I guess losing him would be a lesson learned.
All along I was protecting my own heart, never considering that I needed to defend his as well.
I changed into my sports bra and shorts for kickboxing class, despite wanting to just lie on my
couch all day and sulk.
I shut my door behind me, listening for the latch to catch. When I turned, I nearly plunged right
into Rebecca and Bennett, who were coming in the front entrance.
My stomach was in my throat.
“Hi, Avery,” Rebecca said in a way-too-cheery voice. I couldn’t get the words to form on my lips,
so I just nodded.
Bennett worried his lip between his teeth. I knew he saw the pain and sadness in my eyes . . . which
is probably what prompted him to actually speak to me. “Rebecca has an appointment with the guidance
department. So I agreed to get her there and show her around.”
“Before I make any decision to come here,” she said, “I need to see how many of my credits will actually transfer.”
“Good plan,” I said, wanting to get the hell away from her as soon as possible. “I need to get to the
gym. Good luck, Rebecca.”
Rebecca started walking to the bank of elevators, but Bennett turned and gripped my forearm. The
air was so thick between us I almost choked on the fumes.
My heart flapped and fluttered and strained against my chest.
Would Rebecca try to move in on him? Would he
let
her today?
“No,” he said, meeting my eyes. “Never.”
Had I said that out loud?
Or was he just reading my mind?
“I . . . I . . . what?”
“I know what you’re thinking.” He released his grip, and my muscle quivered from the contact.
I still couldn’t get any damn words out. “I wasn’t . . .”
“I wouldn’t do that, Avery. Even if I’m still ticked and unsure about things.” He jammed his hands
in his pockets and then clenched his jaw. “Because all day, every day, you’re still stuck in my head—in
my every
damn
thought.”
He stormed away, and my breath whooshed right out of me.
He met Rebecca at the opening elevator door and then stepped inside with her.
And still I stood there, his words washing over me like a salve.
I received a text from him the next day.
Bennett: Everything’s gone to shit with my family. Mom and Henry
got in a fight and he walked out. I’m going home for the weekend.
Just wanted you to know where I’d be.
Me:
L
I’m sorry. I’m here if you need me.
But he must not have needed me. Because I didn’t hear from him again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
By the end of the weekend I’d decided on a plan. I wasn’t sure what was happening with Bennett’s
family and whether it meant he’d have to be spending a lot of time there, or even move back home.
But I knew that I wanted to be there for him
and
fight for him.
What punctuated this truth more than anything was the phone call I received from my mother
asking me to go to the hearing with her. She was going to follow through with the restraining order and
wanted my support.
If she could start getting her act together, so could I.
I called Raw Ink and scheduled back-to-back consult and tattoo appointments with Bennett. Under
a different name. I’d decided on exactly the kind of tattoo I wanted on my hip, and only he could ink it.
And maybe while I was there, he’d actually talk to me.
I fidgeted nervously in the lobby until I heard the deep timbre of his voice in the hallway. When
Bennett saw me, he stopped dead in his tracks. He looked around for his scheduled appointment, but I
was the only one sitting there.
“So, um, you’re
Michael
?”
“Yep, Avery Michaels. Pleased to meet you.” I worked to keep my lips in a neat, straight line.
“Your, um, receptionist might have gotten my name wrong.”
A ghost of a lopsided grin splayed across his cheeks, and he looked back at Holly, who was on the
phone behind the front desk. “Avery, what are you doing here?”
“I came to get a tattoo, of course.”
We walked to his room in silence, and he closed the door behind us. He sat down at the same table
we’d used last month with Ella. He pulled out his sketch pad and was acting the consummate
professional, except for his knee jiggling a mile a minute. And I wasn’t much better. I had all but
crumpled the rock band flyer I’d picked up in the lobby.
“So.” He kept his eyes on the table. “Where do you want this tattoo?”
“On my hip.”
He inhaled sharply through his nose. “Seriously, Avery? It was only a suggestion that night.”
“One that I liked. A lot.” I tried catching his eye, but he wasn’t going for it. “So will you do it?”
He stole a glance at me. “What kind do you want?”
“Like a lopsided heart that looks like it’s planted in roots. The kind of roots that grow beneath a
tree. Thick and gnarly.”
His fingers immediately traveled across the sketch pad. The heart he drew was irregularly shaped
and crooked, kind of like all that stuff in the middle of his painting back home. When he started on the
roots, he said, “What does it mean?”
“It means that my heart is ready . . . to lay down roots,” I said. “I suppose it’s always been ready. It
just needed something . . . to finally believe in.”
He arched an eyebrow at me.
“See, it’s because of a certain beautiful boy who’s recently come into my life.” We shared a long
unblinking look that lit all the dark corners of my heart. “He made me feel things. Incredible things. And
now I know what I want—what I need—and no matter what happens, I’ll always have him to thank for
that.”
He didn’t say anything—just breathed in and out of his mouth, his eyes softening.
So I kept talking. “That’s what Mrs. Jackson calls it, anyway. Laying down roots.” “Mrs. Jackson?” he asked. “You’ve talked to her about . . . that guy?”
“Yeah, a whole bunch. She always knew from the beginning, way before I did, that this boy was
changing my life,” I said. “And she’s always spouting off about love and roots and making sure people
know how you feel before they leave you . . . for good.”
I sprang from my seat, because my own words haunted me. I checked out the art on his wall to
escape his probing eyes. “The tattoo also reminds me of this awesome poem.”
“What poem?”
“That same boy introduced me to modern poetry,” I said, still too chicken to meet his eyes.
“Anyway, I’d been searching the internet the last couple of days and this one poem I found kind of
knocked me over the head.”
“How does it go?”
“Well, it’s called ‘Forget Me Not.’” I fastened my eyes on him now, despite my shaking fingers.
“Let’s see. ‘I tried to forget, but you grew roots around my ribcage, and sprouted flowers just below my
collarbones.’”
He seemed entranced by the words. So I continued. “‘All day I pluck their petals. But I have not yet
ascertained whether you . . .
love
me or
not
.’”
He squeezed his eyes closed and shifted in his seat.
