This isn't right. This... this is very wrong. He doesn't love her, she's just his nurse and God, what about Trudy? What about the fact that... that Sharona thinks he's annoying and... and strange? This is bad. Really, really bad.
"...Adrian?"
She's still holding his hand. He... he can feel her nails pressed into the back of it, her thumb sliding back and forth across his. His mouth gets very dry, his shoulders tense and thoughts come to a screeching halt in the highway of his mind as she invades it. Worry and eyes and fingers. He wonders, very vaguely, what she's thinking and, in the distance, he can hear her speaking:
"Don't worry, Adrian. Keep breathing, you're gonna be fine..."
Is he? That's a relief. But somehow he can't be entirely sure she's telling the truth. After all, he just came to a... a surprising conclusion. A conclusion that could end being "fine" forever. ...But he's not in love with her. Oh, no, he's not. Because he's Adrian and she's Sharona. Unorganized, messy, weird Sharona and he can't love her because --
"Okay, you're doing great -- and you know what? You're gonna be just fine, so don't worry."
Don't worry? Doesn't she know that's impossible for him? Especially when he can't think of a truly good reason for... for not loving her and he's going completely insane, isn't he? He must be, because that thought -- that single thought that started all of this -- keeps replaying itself:
She's beautiful. She's beautiful. She's beautiful...
He tries to tell her she should leave, but it comes out as a feverish demand to call Dr. Kroger and see if he can get in today. She doesn't complain, even though he has an appointment tomorrow. She gets up, walks over to the phone, and dials. That's Sharona, though. Most of the time, she can be very... very agreeable.
As she talks on the phone, he stares at the hand she got so attached to with several different emotions in mind. He watches the small crescent-shaped indents left on his skin that are quickly fading, feels the air around him getting cooler. It still smells like her, though. Bubblegum and... and chocolate-covered cherries.
She hangs up the phone and says, "He can fit you in right now. Let's go,"
"So, she said that people have no control over what they like and... then what happened?"
He looks across the room at Dr. Kroger, wondering why he thought this was a good idea, and says he'd really prefer not to talk about it. But that's what he came here for, isn't it? To talk about it? ...Not really. He came because it was one place where he could escape her and still have some help.
He doesn't say that, though.
"She... she held my hand." he says, feeling kind of funny about admitting it out loud. He doesn't think he's ever told anyone before.
"Did that bother you?"
"Well, kind of... but she does that sometimes and, and it's Sharona." he shrugs one shoulder. "I mean... it's Sharona."
"Interesting," Dr. Kroger says, writing something down. "What happened after that?"
"She said 'No matter how hard you try, it just keeps coming back' and... and it looked like she was thinking about something very serious."
She probably was. She likes to think about serious things when they're alone. He thinks it gives her an excuse to get out of talking, which is fine. Sometimes people don't want to talk... Like now. He doesn't want to talk. Whenever he talks, really talks, someone tells him something he doesn't like.
Dr. Kroger shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly with a look of mild curiousity on his face. He asks what happened after that, and he wants to say something but he's afraid that if he says it, it'll never go away. It'll always be there, at the back of this mind and he'll never be able to even see her again. He'll have to get a new nurse... a new, stupid nurse that doesn't know anything and drives him crazy.
That would be hell.
"Adrian, you know whatever you tell me I can't repeat to anyone else,"
He knows.
"I..." he says and stops again, reconsidering. "I... We... we were both just sitting there, so I don't know how this happened..." he pauses.
"How what happened?"
He swallows. His mouth is dry again, and he can't help but think that she's outside, waiting to drive him home. Will she know? Is she smart enough to figure it out, what he's thinking? He hopes not. He hopes not, but she probably is because she's the smartest person he's met in a long time.
"I... I think I love her."
Dr. Kroger's eyebrows shoot up and he immediately hides his eyes behind his fingers, leaning his head onto his hand and his elbow onto the arm of the chair. He can hear his psychiatrist's pen scratching along the paper furiously, noting down whatever he seems to think about this situation. Probably that it was bound to happen. Probably something along the lines of what Benjy thinks, which is that this was going to happen all along.
But was it?
"You think you love her?" he repeats.
"I don't know!" he exclaims, sounding just as exasperated as he feels. "I... I mean, I can't be in love with Sharona."
"Why not?"
"I... I just can't," he replies. "I can't. We... we work together, she likes to... to do things that annoy me, and what about Trudy?"
Silent. It's absolutely silent, and he can almost hear his own pulse underneath heavy breathing and that pen on paper noise.
Finally, Dr. Kroger looks up.
"Adrian," he says, "Trudy's dead."
He didn't say a word as she drove him home and when she walks through the door, the explosion of cheerful noise that flows out of the house is a little overwhelming. Benjy and four friends are in the living room, finishing up the very last wall as they listen to the radio. It looks pretty good, too. Nothing crazy.
She can't focus, though, on the paint and the five boys standing in her house. She's preoccupied with Adrian. He isn't supposed to be that quiet -- he's only ever been like that when very bad things have happened. She hopes nothing bad has happened... he's so heartbreaking when he's low. Wide brown eyes wondering what he could have done wrong...
"Hey, Mom," Benjy says, smiling. "How's Mr. Monk doing?"
She replies that he's fine without really thinking about it, walking into the kitchen and searching the fridge for a Diet Coke. She hopes he's okay. She really, really hopes he's okay. If he's not, that means he's cleaning and once he's done cleaning he'll start scrubbing and his hands will need bandages again and maybe she should call. Just to make sure he's alright... Just to check.
Yeah... She'll call. Just to check, because he's her responsibility. He's her job, he's her paycheck, he's her world.
She pops open the silver can and takes a drink, walking into her bedroom and snatching her cell phone from her purse. She sits on the bed and finds his number in her list, presses the significant button, and waits as the phone rings once. Twice.
"Hello?" he says, sounding kind of funny... Like he's been sleeping or at the dentist.
"Hi, Adrian," she says. "It's Sharona... Are you okay?"
"Um..." he pauses, and she can imagine him looking around the living room in thought. "Um, yeah. I'm fine."
He doesn't sound so sure, so she asks him again: "I'll come back over if you want me to... I can make you some tea?"
"That -- no, I don't think that's a good idea..."
He's never done that before.
"Adrian," she says, taking on a Warning Tone, "What are you doing?"
"Eh... I'm, er, nothing." A very small silence... "Vacuuming. But there was lint on the floor, from... from your skirt that's unravelling on the bottom."
She takes a sip of her Diet Coke and sighs, looking down at the hem of her denim offender. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"No... but I'll keep checking back with myself."
She laughs, just for his benefit, because that comment has her more worried than anything. He doesn't joke. Ever.
"Alright, I'll call back later to see how you're doing."
"Bye, Sharona."
She stares at the wall for a moment, wondering what's going on. Wondering if he's really okay, if he's actually sitting on the carpet with tweezers to try and pick out all the foreign fibers. She wouldn't put it past him... Or maybe he's got a back-up toothbrush and is scrubbing the grout between tiles in his bathroom...
Nausea descends into the pit of her stomach.
She comes back into the living room, only to find that Benjy's friends are gone and the walls are finished. Her son, meanwhile, is scooping chocolate ice cream into the blender along with malt, for shakes. So, she's alone in her living room and overwhelmed by Ice Blue Space Tears, and it matches everything perfectly. She loves it. It makes her feel special, in a weird sort of way, because one guy went to so much trouble for the paint to match her eyes. One guy who has a billion better things to do -- like solving murders.
And he's all she can think of.