“Why are you doing this?” I ask, trying to wiggle free from his grasp. “Why do you care what happens to me?” There’s a part of me, deep down inside that really wants him to care. Mainly because I want to know that he’s capable of feeling for something or someone other than himself.
“I just do, okay. Listen, it's not in the way you think. Not like that,” his eyes do a quick sweep from my feet up to my face and he goes on, “trust me. I'm not your type in that way.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I’m not the knight and shining armor type. I’m more like the corrupt king.”
“What makes you think I want a knight in shining armor?” I used to think that was all I wanted because Damien was that type. He’d rescue me from the burning tower and whisk me away on his white horse. But that was the old, Adelaide.
And I don’t think the new Adelaide—the new me—knows what I want yet. I think I’d like the corrupt king, if I could redeem him from his wicked ways and get him to lighten up a bit.
Dr. Watson licks his bottom lip and I have to drop my gaze the ground. Urges. Passionate urges that I haven’t experienced in a long time rise to the surface when I notice his tongue gliding across his lower lip. I exhale and stay focused on the pavement. I study the ridges in the grated concrete. Truth is, his words, I’m not your type in that way, made my heart feel like it was a brick, sinking to the bottom of a watering hole. Then I have to ask, “How do you know what my type is?”
“I know about your…your…” He runs a hand through his hair. He’s trying to figure out how to say it without hurting me.
So I say it for him, “You know about Damien.” My voice comes out so low, I wonder if he can actually hear me.
A nod. “I do.”
I can’t muster up more than one word. “How?” Then I find two more. “The cops?”
“Yes,” he says. “Look Adelaide, you need a start. I’d like to give you one.”
“Still don’t understand,” I say. “Why?
“Why, what?”
“Why do you want to give me a start? What are you interested in helping me?”
“Because,” he says, coming to a halt in front of a black, Lincoln sedan. “You remind me of myself.”
That makes no sense to me. “What?” How could I possibly remind him of himself? I am the hot to his cold. The happy to his sad. He’s always brooding and mysterious. I am nothing like him. We are opposites in every way.
He opens my car door for me and I get in. He closes the door and I fasten the seat belt, waiting for him to get into the driver's side door. Once he gets in, closes his door, and fastens his seat belt, he twists himself in my direction. His eyes centered on my face. “Don't get me wrong, Adelaide. You're a beautiful woman.” His eyes penetrate into mine and he reaches out, caressing my cheek with his forefinger. “And I've never seen eyes like yours.” Not a lot of people have. Violet eyes are hard to come by. There's only one other person I know of that has them aside from my deceased mother and she's a Hollywood film star. I heard a few of the nurses talking about her while I was recovering. I haven't had the chance to see any of her films yet, but I intend to. “And you're also a good woman with a good heart. I promise you, I can't offer you any of the things I feel you deserve. I'm not faithful. I don't get attached. I can't offer you love and devotion because I'm not sure that I have it in me.” He lets out a long winded sigh. “But for some reason, I'm drawn to you. I'm enthralled by you. And I just can't let you walk away without trying to help you in some way. I don't think I'd ever forgive myself if I did.”
My eyes wander over his eye cheekbones and a new question comes to mind. “Did you pay for me?”
“What?”
“Did you pay my bill?”
He starts the car and backs out of the diner parking lot without another glance in my direction. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you might be short on money. I want to make sure you’re taken care of. And…” He hesitates for a moment. It’s like he’s trying to regurgitate he words. “I own that diner. I actually own all of those buildings in that little village. So I knew it wouldn’t be a big deal. I eat there almost every day. I just told Peg to put it on my tab.”
“I thought you were a doctor?” There’s confusion in my tone. I give him an odd look.
“I am. I am, “ he insists with a wave of his hand. “It’s too complicated to explain right now.”
I take that as my cue to keep quiet so I look out the window, watching the colors whirl around me. All the greens, whites, and browns from the outdoor scenery fill my gaze. I think of Dr. Watson’s earlier explanation. Most people would think that his explanation would just be a nice way of him rejecting me so that I wouldn't feel bad. But I know better. I have deep dark, colorful secrets from my past too. And I know Dr. Watson doesn’t know all of them. Or does he? Whether he knows all of my secrets or not, I know his long, drawn out explanation of wanting g to help me is just his way of keeping his secrets covered up.
Hidden.
Locked away in some black closet so I'll never find them.
So as he drives down a long stretch of highway and everything starts to blur together I ask in a small voice, “What happened to you?” I’m hoping that maybe he’ll give me something. Anything. So that maybe…just maybe I can admit to myself that I am right about him. That all he needs is a little coaxing and he’ll open right up.
He replies with, “I thought we went over this. That's not something I like to talk about.”
And I hate the sinking feeling in my gut when I have to admit to myself that I am wrong.