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Meddling - Robin 2
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I told Patrick that I would look for him once I was done putting Noah on the transplant list and scheduling their tests, but I just can't right now. I need a few moments to myself. I close the lab door behind, not bothering to turn on the lights. I am glad to have this place to myself. My assistants aren't here today as I haven't called them back after the quarantine yet. Like everyone else who worked through this crisis they deserve a few days off to rest and recover. I know they were busy even before I took ill myself.
My hands are shaking more than they were when I was talking to Noah and I hid that with distracting hand movements or behind my back. Or perhaps I didn't hide it at all. Noah is pretty sharp and though I was getting through to him, there was something in his look that told me he was seeing just as deeply inside me. That is why I need a few minutes in the dark to myself. I feel like I have been cut open and if I don't repair the damage my guts are going to spill out all over the floor.
I don't have the energy to find an appropriate place in the lab to lick my wounds, but just sink down onto the floor against the wall right next to the door. It's so quiet, only in the middle of the night is it normally this quiet even down here in the labs basement. It's a stark contrast to the inner turmoil I am trying, and failing, to manage. I put my hands on my chest and pull them away. I am half expecting to see blood on my hands, the pain so tangible I feel like I have been stabbed.
My father isn't dead. He lied. He never cared enough to come back. He didn't care enough to stay.
There's no miracle surgery that is going to give him a heart or repair the faith that has been shattered and strewn at my feet.
I'm distantly aware of a keening sound filling the room and I know it's from me. I can't muster the strength to tamp it down and ignore it anymore. There is no immediate crisis, no illness to distract me. And somewhere in the past hour Patrick's pain seems to have intensified my own. I want my mommy.
I tried to call her over the past week, but she's off on some mission and hasn't called me back yet. I don't even think she knows that her so-called husband is back or that I was ill. She's going to feel so guilty about not being here with me for this. No quarantine and no amount of armed guards would have kept her away if she had known.
My hands are crossed over my chest and I'm leaning forward letting my tears land on the spotless floor in front of my crossed legs. It feels like the sobs will never stop coming. I can't remember being in such pain, but then that's the small blessing of time. I know I've been avoiding being hurt all these years, but I forgot just how it pierces the body and soul when it's fresh.
Like when I finally, mistakenly, believed my parents were dead.
When Stone slipped away.
The moment I told AJ Michael was really his and I saw Jason's rejection ahead of me with a certainty.
When Sonny had me led out of his penthouse and his life and broke his promise to Stone.
When I believed Brenda was dead.
When I saw my father again and realized the belief that he loved me above all else was a lie.
But the sobs eventually do subside and I fall weakly back against the wall. I press my hands to my face, they are cold and my face is warm. I can feel my entire body aching and I know that I've probably exerted myself more than I should have my first day out of the hospital. I'm a bit dizzy.
Patrick won't be happy with me, but I told you so's are the least of my worries right now. I've kissed him. I've asked him to dinner. I've fallen in love with him. Every instinct inside of me is telling me to run. Go back to Paris, move to Rome as Brenda invites weekly. The pain that is still fresh in my body is screaming that it'll be back eventually and it will be when Patrick Drake leaves me too.
Uncle Mac didn't leave, I tell the instinct. Stone didn't leave me voluntarily. Jason and I would never have worked out anyway. I said so myself to Patrick during that impromptu meal.
I scrub at the tears on my face wincing at the probability that the make up I piled on this morning to hide my post-illness paleness is now smeared all over my hands and face. My best hope is that I find the power to make my legs work and I get to the locker room all before Patrick gets done talking to Noah.
Not likely. I close my eyes and rest my head back against the wall. I need to sit here just a bit longer. Then I'll go wash my face and get back to work. I'll go find Patrick and Noah. The pieces will all be back in place then.