Wayward Son

Chapter 11

Ruthie watched Dean follow Monica outside. Barbed wires twisted themselves around her stomach and cinched tight. She hated the idea of Monica being alone with him.

Mike's low voice pulled her attention back. "So, do you think we could talk now?"

She looked up into the face of the man she used to love. "What is there to talk about?"

He winced. "Please."

Ruthie sighed. Nothing he could say would change a thing. Might as well let him talk. But not here. She jerked her head toward the door and led him outside, ignoring the blatant stares of several nurses nearby. She turned left at the bottom of the stairs and walked several yards along the sidewalk, stopping by a large lilac bush. She turned to him, folding her arms.

Mike looked around the parking lot, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know where to start..."

Ruthie just waited.

"You didn't tell me when your dad died," he blurted.

Heat flooded her cheeks. "Is that why you wanted to talk? To accuse me of not treating you fairly?"

He held up his hands. "No. No, I'm sorry." He lowered his face and wiped a hand across his forehead. "I've planned it out so many times, what I'd say if I ever saw you again. And now you're here, and I. . ." He trailed off, venturing a glance at her. He kept his dark eyes fixed on hers long enough to say, "Ruthie, I'm sorry." His voice faltered. He shook his head, addressing his next words to her feet. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how. . . I never meant. . ." He crossed his arms, and stared into the concrete as if trying to decipher an inscrutable code engraved there. A soft breeze rustled the lilac leaves and Ruthie's hair. He swallowed, then went on. "I think about it now, and I can't understand it. Why I did it. I never loved her." He raised repentant eyes to her face. "Only you."

Ruthie searched his eyes, their charcoal depths still so familiar after all this time. She saw only honesty there—honesty bathed in regret. Mike had always stood tall, carried himself with the confidence and purpose of a successful surgeon, comfortable in his own skin. Now, his head bowed, his shoulders stooped. He wore his guilt like a pack full of heavy stones.

Mike ran a hand through his hair. "I went to the cabin. More than once. Could never bring myself to knock on the door. I was too ashamed to face you. Then I heard about your dad. A month later." His features drooped with remorse. "That was the push I needed, I guess. Knowing you'd had to face that alone. I hated myself even more than before. I drove straight there, knocked on the door. Your truck was there, but you were gone. The back door was all boarded up; it looked like it had been broken down. I was panicked, trying to figure out what had happened to you. I must have called you twenty times."

Ruthie had ignored all those calls. Deleted the voicemails, unheard.

"I went to the police station there in Washington Mill to file a missing person's report. They told me you weren't missing, that you had left town with two men."

Ruthie swallowed. Was he about to blow their cover? "Friends I made," she said. "We road-tripped to Atlanta for my interview."

Mike nodded. "And now you're with the CDC." He paused, tilting his lowered head to one side. "And that FBI agent?"

"Yes."

The word escaped before she could catch it. It wasn't true; it wasn't even part of their cover. And yet, the memory of Dean's solid presence still warmed her side; the weight of his hand imprinted the small of her back. Tonight, the gap in his fence had widened; she could feel it. Her heart had answered the question before her mind had time to argue.

It didn't matter. Mike didn't need to know. Maybe her lie would keep him from trying to win her back.

Mike nodded again with a sad smile. "I thought so. I'm happy for you, Ruthie. You deserve to be happy. You deserve. . .everything good." His jaw worked for a moment, then he took a step closer and forced out the words. "I won't ask you to forgive me. I'll never forgive myself. Just, please, if you're ever in trouble, or need anything at all, please call me. I still—" He broke off; his voice fell to a murmur. "I'll do anything for you."

Ruthie stayed silent, not because she wanted to make him uncomfortable, but because she couldn't think what to say. She hadn't cried for Mike since she'd started her new life with Sam and Dean. She'd moved on. And here he was, treading water in a sea of guilt. Barely keeping his head above the surface, apparently.

He'd traded his future with her for a fling with a woman he didn't love, for reasons even he couldn't understand. A woman who'd tossed him aside almost immediately, just as she'd done with the others. It was all such a waste.

An unexpected wave of pity washed over her. She wasn't going to give him any false hope, but she could at least be kind. And maybe find some closure. "I am happy now, Mike. And I don't hate you." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, summoning the strength for her next words. "I forgive you."

His eyes widened. He made a small sound in his throat, and dropped his face into his hand.

Ruthie shifted her feet, resisting her instinct to put a comforting hand on his arm. Behind Mike, a tall figure came out of the funeral home—Sam. He glanced around the parking lot, then trotted down the stairs and disappeared around the corner of the building. Looking for Dean, she figured.

Where had Dean and Monica gone, anyway? Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.

After several more moments, Mike wiped his hand down his face and straightened again. "Thank you. I don't deserve it."

"Ruthie gave him a nod. "Listen, I need to get back to my team."

"Of course." He stepped aside, giving her the sidewalk. "I think I'm calling it a night." He paused, looking into her eyes once more. "It was good to see you, Ruthie."

He headed into the parking lot, one hand stuffed into his pocket, head bowed again. He looked pensive, lost inside his own head. But mostly, he looked alone.

She gave her head a little shake and turned away. Halfway down the sidewalk, the guys emerged from the shadows around the corner ahead. They seemed to be arguing. Nothing new, but knowing Dean had just been talking to Monica. . .

"Guys? Everything okay?"

Dean gave her only a shifty glance. "Yeah. We're good."

She followed him through the dim parking lot to the Impala, her insides coiling. As he drove slowly past a row of parked cars, Monica appeared on the sidewalk. Dean's attention lasered onto her. Monica smirked at him, then winked. He ogled her ass all the way up the stairs. Ruthie's stomach shrank into a rigid little ball; the back of her throat squeezed tight around a hard lump.

Neither Dean nor Ruthie saw the Suburban. If Sam hadn't shouted, they'd have plowed right into it.

Dean wore the wide, startled expression of a man who'd just been jolted from a dream. One charged beat of silence. Two. Then Dean spoke in a forced voice. "Sorry. I. . .got distracted."

His words scorched the painful knot in her throat. She tried to swallow down the fire, but it only rose and burned behind her eyes. She blinked it back.

In the slim rearview, Dean met her eyes for half a heartbeat.

It was long enough.

He looked away, rubbing the side of his neck, but she had seen. He'd reinforced his barricade. Even now, he was stacking new bricks into fresh mortar. Shutting her out.

She wanted to ask him why, beg him to stop, demand to know what Monica had said. Or done. But she'd already seen his wall. He wouldn't open up to her. She'd be wasting her breath.

She sank back into her seat and stared out the window. The ghost of his hand on her back turned cold, and faded away.

Author's Note: We're at the halfway mark, my dears! Appropriate, since I must announce a very brief intermission. Next week, I'm traveling to London (!) and won't be able to post the next chapter until Sunday, July 23. I hope you'll bear with me and stick around; I can't wait to share the second half of this story with you!