“Dollie, I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
Quick to move, I stop Ambrose from leaving the bed before the psychologist can push herself up from the chair. I only encourage him to stay when I dent the mattress by plopping myself on the edge of the bed.
“You start throwing fists, and either way, I’ll lose you. I can’t lose you.”
I can’t help but notice how the psychologist monitors his reactions, her spine straightening in my peripheral vision as his eyes roam my sad face.
“You won’t.”
“I will if you go back to prison. I can’t do it again.”
Gritting his teeth, he spares one look for each bruise, his nostrils widening for his anger to travel down.
“Please, rest, just for a little while. I mean, it’s not like you can kill him now anyway. He’s not home.” I speak before thinking, not even half serious.
It doesn’t impress the psychologist. “Not appropriate.”
“Sorry,” I say. And that leads me back to Ambrose as I guide him back down onto a pillow that practically deflates below his head. “How are you feeling?”
I kick my slippers off to pull my legs up, edging in a little closer.
“Like I hate those slippers almost as much as I hate the man they belong to, Dollie.” He avoids looking at my face and all theinjuries showcased there, sad eyes pointing up at the once white ceiling.
“Well, you certainly like to moan about them. If I leave them on, at least I know you’ll talk to me.”
“I’ll talk to you anyway.”
“You went quiet last night.”
“I’m sorry. For everything.” He swallows hard.
“Don’t be, and don’t go quiet again, either.”
“Just take off anything he’s ever given you and throw it out. Don’t worry about me not talking to you, I wouldn’t allow you to be that bored when it’s just me, you, and that poodle.”
“Oh, is Bubbles still in your bad books?”
“Depends on if she still favors a dirty sock over us.”
“She doesn’t. I stole it this morning. She was trying to get me to follow her and left the room. Looking back, I actually think she knew you were in trouble. So, she gave up her sock for you.”
“Good,” he rasps. “Well, I guess for that, I like her again.”
“Still full of charm,” the doctor laughs, appearing a little more human as lines appear around her deep-set eyes. He flips her off before cracking a false side-smile. “That’s impolite, young man.”
He nods knowingly.
His hand moves back to me, knuckles kissing my cheek, touching me so tenderly I forget why he’s drawn there, only remembering when my hand covers his and grazes the wound embedded on my face.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“Don’t worry about that right now.”
“But I am worried about it.”
Leaning in close, my swollen stomach—definitely from nerves—gets in the way. But I force myself lower and tell him a secret that the eavesdropper in the room probably overhears. “And I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t change the subject, Dollie.”
