Page 53 of Paging Dr. Hart
That quiet stretches out until finally it breaks. Ethan steps over to me and takes my hand, not the one on the handle but the one that dangles down by my side. He tugs it, pulling me into his arms. I’m enveloped by his body, solid and warm. It’s impossible not to melt into that embrace.
I tip my head up to find him peering down at me, a serious, almost painful, expression on his handsome face, like he wants to say things to me, too. Like there are a thousand words all crowding his mouth, seeking a way out.
He searches my face, and I can’t hide that I’m scared, terrified of my feelings for him. Frightened that I’ll disappoint him and lose him. I thought I was ready for this, but now that he’s standing in front of me, my courage vanishes.
He must see my fear, because he swallows down whatever he wanted to say. Instead, he presses a soft kiss to my forehead. He bends so that his lips are right next to my ear and whispers, “Good night, Sleeping Beauty. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he lets me go, swipes his keycard, and opens his door.He stands in his doorway, looking back at me. “You go in first. I want to make sure you get in safe.”
Safe.
He’s always keeping me safe.
Ethan’s still standing there when my door swings shut, blocking him from view. I press my hand and then my forehead against the closed door, as if I can feel him through it. I stay that way for a long time.
After I’ve showered and brushed my teeth, I climb into bed and pull the soft white duvet over my body. Traveling this morning and then spending the rest of the day and evening in the park has left me thoroughly depleted, but sleep evades me.
As I shift, the bedsheets tangling beneath me, I wonder, is it strength or weakness to need another person? When my mother died, and everything else happened in Las Vegas, I’d been devastated. My agony seemed like a weakness to me then. If I hadn’t depended so much on Mom and others, I could have avoided all that grief. I became convinced it was better not to form attachments with other people. Better to be alone. A philosophy I’ve clung to for years.
Until Ethan.
Until Melanie.
Now, I’m not so sure. Which is truly the braver thing? To force people away? Or to pull them close?
Around and around, my mind goes like a hamster on a wheel. The more I think about it, the more my need for Ethan grows. It’s torture, knowing he’s a short hallway away from me. So close, yet a world away. I crave him, want badly to go to him, to sleep next to him like we did in Cleveland.
Trying not to overthink it, I fling off the covers, grab my hotel keycard, and cross the hallway.
I’m not running from my nightmares this time.
I’m running to him.
Ethan answers my knock immediately, like he was standing on the other side of the door.
“Can I…can I sleep with you?” I stutter, my heart fluttering as fast as ahummingbird’s wings. It’s frightening to be this vulnerable. To show him my glass heart, so easily shattered.
“I mean, just sleep,” I clarify. “Okay? No funny business, no—what did you call it?—ravishing?”
My desire for Ethan screams at me in protest, but I tramp it down. This is all I can handle right now. I’ve already given up my pride by coming to his room. I’m not ready to give up my body, not yet.
He nods, understanding, and steps aside to let me in.
I climb into his bed, noting it’s still mostly made, like it hasn’t been slept in. I’m guessing I wasn’t the only one having a hard time going to sleep tonight. Ethan lays down next to me, and, after a brief hesitation, I slide closer and place my head on his shoulder. There’s a hollow there, a dip, that fits me perfectly. As we lie together, his hand rises and he slowly runs his fingers through my hair, scalp to tip, over and over again. There’s something comforting about the gesture, something familiar.
Ethan’s lips are on my forehead. Not kissing, but brushing lightly across my skin. His touch sends a shiver of desire dancing down my spine. “I’m glad you knocked on my door. You belong over here.”
Minutes later, I’m almost asleep, in that twilight on the threshold to oblivion, when I hear him whisper, “You belong with me.”
44
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 17
Late one night, when I’m walking back to the car with Shelly, we pass three men lounging against the wall of the Starlight. I don’t pay them much attention, too distracted thinking about a trigonometry test I have the next day.
I live a double life—the dutiful daughter at home and the vixen on the Strip.
Both roles are exhausting.
When I finally register the scuffing sounds of the men’s footsteps behind us, a tingle of icy fear runs like cold water down my back. I shake off my distraction and focus on my surroundings. Shelly and I are on the edge of the darkened Starlight parking lot, alone with the men. The muted lights and noises from the Strip are far behind us. It’s so quiet that the crunch of footsteps on the pavement and loose gravel is amplified, echoing in the night.
