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Dexter
In the beginning,I was a boy given a second chance.
Some part of me, this large and wholly mistaken part, thought that because it wasmeant, it would be easy. That it would be effortless and everything would fall into place.
And that thinking showed me I wasn’t as far from the boy I’d been as I thought I was.
Would I ever get it right?
I thought I knew what I wanted, that I could handle it. I begged for the very situation I was sitting in. In this hospital waiting room, I didn’t know what else there was. I didn’t know what would happen next.
So, I got up and headed toward the section of the hallway I’d been haunting since Noa was admitted.
I couldn’t do anything but pace outside the door, my drying dress shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Fear pumped through me, from the center of my chest, out toward my extremities. I flexed my fingers before bunching them back into tight fists.
But who could I fight?
Myself?
The Angel of Death?
The woman in that room?
I shook my head as the questions battered my desire to remain calm.
I shucked my suit jacket somewhere but details like that didn’t matter. I hated the way my shirt felt against my skin—crusted with the river’s dirt and salt—but I remembered what jumping in had meant at that moment.
I looked at the door I was standing outside, its unremarkable oak mocking me. Behind that door was my future.
I didn’t like hospitals. Every memory I had involving them was sour. I thought back to the days Noa and I would volunteer and, although those memories had been sweet, they were now filled with the regret that was triggered every time I thought of her. And I thought of her more often than I would have liked to admit.
I’d been notified she was awake, and that the baby was okay. But once she was able to speak for herself, the doctors wouldn’t speak to me, despite my insistence.
I went back to the waiting room, loitering, knowing full well she wouldn’t see me, but hanging around in case she changed her mind. Or on the off chance she’d walk out of there and be all right. It wasn’t fair, but I hoped if Noa saw me, she’d give in. I just wanted to know she was all right.
No, I wanted more than that.
I wanted to…I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Andrews?”
I heard the female clipped tone and I turned, meeting those pursed red lips and eyes that were always evaluating.
“I can’t leave, Miranda. You know I can’t do that.” I got up from the plastic chair and ran my fingers through my hair. The remains of the river lived there too, salting my scalp. But I supposed I deserved every discomfort.
“You’ve done it before. Why switch your routine now?” She lifted a brow, daring me to deny it.
Miranda’s eyes told me she knew about us—the tragic saga of Noa and Dexter. She knew the shitty way I’d handled things. Noa had played a part in all of this, but I hadn’t done right by her. Not the first time, not the second time. I likely would never be just right, but I only needed one more chance.
God, I needed one more chance.
Was I ready?
I couldn’t be certain.
“You think I don’t know that I have rights?” I turned my head to watch her eyes widen. “That’s my child in there.” My hand was up, my finger jabbing toward the door I so badly wanted to enter.
Miranda’s face remained tight and unmoving, but her eyes swirled with disdain. She held the Styrofoam coffee cup in her hands and, I had to give it to her, she didn’t shake or spill any of it. Part of me was afraid she’d toss it on me. But I’d take a second-degree burn if it meant I’d get to see Noa.
