Wayward Son

Chapter 14

Dean walked the street aimlessly, hands stuffed into his pockets. He'd been a pro at self-loathing for a long time, but this was a new level, even for him.

Hadn't he sworn to himself just weeks ago that he'd never hurt Ruthie again? But he'd seen her face in the elevator. She knew. He didn't know how, but she knew. Pain carved into her face as though she were some tragic sculpture. As though he'd etched it there himself with a hammer and chisel.

Dean took a hard right into an alley. He felt dirty and exposed. He didn't want to face anyone, not even strangers on the street.

What was he going to say to her? What could he say? He could sleep on a sofa bed every night for the rest of his life and it wouldn't make a difference. Not now.

Surely he'd used up her forgiveness quota in Reeds Spring. Since then, he'd tried so hard not to screw up. Not to give in to the vision Sam had planted in his head: Him and Ruthie, coming out of his room in the mornings, together. Happy. It had been harder than he'd expected. How many times had he caught her looking at him, and fought off the urge to kiss her? How many times had he lain awake at night, talking himself out of knocking on her door?

He'd worked so hard to keep things how they were, so he wouldn't screw it up. So he wouldn't hurt her. So she'd stay. Up until now he'd been winning the battle.

Now he'd lost the whole damn war. He'd hurt her in a way even she couldn't forgive.

He paced back and forth beside an overflowing dumpster. The one thought he didn't want to face was the one he couldn't escape. He was going back to Monica. He knew it. Since that night in the garden, he hadn't been able to get her out of his head. He knew what she'd done to Ruthie, knew she was trash. He hated her. But he couldn't ignore this compulsion, or whatever it was. He'd gone back to the hospital every time he'd had the chance. Talking to HR, finding out who Brandon had been seeing: they were just excuses to see her. He hadn't made out with her, hadn't so much as kissed her. They'd barely even talked. She'd just smile at him, stretch up toward him like she was going to whisper in his ear. Press close to him, breathe against his neck. That was all. It was nothing. It was everything. She made him feel completely calm. Checked out. Not a care in the world.

Pretty much the opposite of how he was feeling now. The moment he walked away from her, the clock began ticking. The pleasant fog started to thin. Already, his body and brain were whispering to him, urging him back to the hospital. Back to her. He'd learned the pattern. At midnight, their voices would be a constant chant, ordering him to obey. By morning, he'd barely be able to hide the tremors while his head pounded with his body's cries.

He couldn't understand it. But whatever this was between him and Monica, he wasn't strong enough to fight it. Even though he knew he should. He was weak. Weak and screwed up and totally undeserving of Ruthie. He could still see her eyes, wide and terrified, the thin strip of red appearing on her skin beneath his blade. He'd falsely accused her. He'd almost killed her. The guilt of it still stained his soul—a soul already damaged and broken, beyond repair. He'd thought there was no way he could cut her deeper than that. He'd been wrong. So damn wrong. He clenched his fists. Ruthie's hand, cool and clammy on his arm in the elevator, her lips pale, voice strained. "Anyone but her." She couldn't have looked more shocked and wounded if he'd taken his knife and stabbed her in the heart.

The weight of his failures crashed down on him with physical force. He doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees. He sucked in lungfuls of stinking air through his dry throat.

The case didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was somehow protecting Ruthie from his betrayal. The way she'd looked at him in the elevator—he couldn't bear for her to look at him like that ever again.