Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
He was in the cafeteria, eating cereal when I found him. I sat down opposite, laying my clipboard on the table. He took one look at my damp hair and set his spoon down.
“It’s raining?” he guessed.
I nodded. “It’s not my lucky day.”
“They couldn’t give you a day off after yesterday?”
I shook my head, “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Will you at least get overtime?” He was acting more like my boyfriend than my client, arguing on my behalf.
“I will,” I said. “They’ve rescheduled our exit interview. I have time to talk now.”
“Okay.” He finished the cereal by tilting the bowl up to his mouth. I wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips, so recently blessed by the milk and sugar.
We moved to an interview room, a small space with a window that consumed most of one wall. A table and three chairs populated the area, and Porter and I each selected one. This room had a door that I was able to close to give us some semblance of privacy. We were effectively alone, if you didn’t consider the cameras in the corners. I knew I would have to be very careful in this situation.
In fact, I wanted to communicate the gravity to Porter so that there would be no familiar comments. “This conversation is being recorded,” I told him, searching his eyes for understanding.
He nodded, not smiling, not winking, not giving any indication that there was something between us that demanded hiding. Good. I drew a breath to continue, reading off my clipboard. We went over his support network, the people he had identified and the resources in Singer’s Ridge. There was an active twelve-step program that he had been involved with before. He was going to start going to meetings again. Our social worker would be checking in with him every day. He was going to hit the ground running. He was on the work schedule tomorrow and every day this week. He was going to clean his room, throwing out every empty bottle and piece of drug paraphernalia he owned, and look for an apartment where he wouldn’t be surrounded by potential pitfalls.
We went over a few of the logistics, how to get his car out of the parking lot and how we were going to bill the insurance company. There were forms to fill out and contracts to sign. I finished up with the hospital’s mission and vision statement and how we hoped that he had received the best care possible. There was a number I had to give him to register any complaints about his stay.
He listened to the whole presentation with respect and rapt attention. I suspected he was fantasizing about scrambling across the table to kiss me. I knew I was. I could practically feel the solid metal beneath my bottom as I reached for his collar, dragging him toward me. His lips would be sweet from his breakfast and warm from his body temperature. I would claim his mouth, sliding my tongue deep inside as he raked his fingers down my back.
“Thank you,” he said, snapping me out of my trance.
I nodded, and we stood up together, leaving the room just the way we had found it. Outside, I forced myself to remain professional, proceeding him down the hall to the nurses’ station. I fetched his personal items, his clothes, phone, keys, and wallet from the cubby where outgoing patient belongings were kept. He accepted them with a smile, still silent, still playing the part of a respectful patient. I walked him through the locked door into the visitors’ lobby. From here, he would be able to leave on his own.
We couldn’t kiss or hug each other goodbye. My heart felt like it was breaking. I didn’t want to see him go. Who would tease me about Evil and ask me about my day? Who would ever make me look forward to “Mondays” again? But it wasn’t fair to him. He had his own life to get back to, and this brief hiatus in a locked ward wasn’t meant to be permanent.
“Can I have your phone number?” he asked, maintaining his distance and yet giving up some of our subterfuge.
I shook my head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His eyes lit with something like frustration, or was it anger? I could see that I had hurt him, but what choice did I have? He nodded briefly, then turned to find the men’s room. I waited while he changed. If I were really a disinterested nurse, if he were any other patient, I would have resumed my rounds. But it was Porter, so I hung around.
He emerged from the bathroom in his street clothes, jeans and a button-down shirt. He looked every bit the lumberjack, like he had walked off the cover of a country album. I almost changed my mind, almost narrowed the distance between us while rattling off my digits. But I held myself fast. My job was on the line. Even though we were outside the treatment center and he was technically a free man, I didn’t think my reputation could survive an illicit romantic encounter so soon.