Page 30 of Claiming Sarah

“Anger is good. Feeling something is better than not feeling anything, or—” he cocks a brow, “pretending not to feel anything. Now, tell me honestly. This is all for a woman?” His eyes see too much. They always did. Angling my body away from him, throat swallowing several times, I nod.

She is unhappy, dark circles shadowing emerald eyes. Dr. Baker insists it takes four to six weeks to see results from the new medication he’s started me on. Until then, I watch my raven from the shadows, witnessing her returning home later and, later, working longer shifts each day. It’s a slow death, watching the light drain out of her.

“She’s everything,” I whisper, lips barely moving. Already two interviews laughed me out the door, only allowing me entry as a favor to Dr. Shaw. Each time, blood would fall from the sky, staining my hair, skin, and clothing. Returning to my guest bedroom in Dr. Shaw’s home, I’d watch the walls shift, breathing in and out, hands stretching for me through the aged wallpaper.

“The medicine can’t fix me,” I tell him, fear clutching my chest. It’s a fear I’ve avoided voicing until now.

“It’s not supposed to,” he says. My head snaps to him, eyebrows rising to my hairline.

“Because there’s nothing to fix, Zaiden. You’re not broken, just different.” Groaning, he pushes himself to his feet, locking eyes with me, young to old.

“Let’s go again. And this time, tell me the name of every doctor or healthcare professional that’s failed you. Purge them from your mind, Zaiden. You’ll be better for it and,” his hand gestures beyond the walls, “so will that woman of yours. Come on. Hit me again.”

He shuffles to the middle of the room, and I dutifully follow him, a duckling following in the steps of its elder.

“We can do one more round before your interview at Mercy Hospital. This one will hire you. I’m sure of it. They need strapping young men to clean floors.”

Barking a laugh and feeling everything but young or strapping, I shift into a defensive stance with Dr. Barker’s name teasing the edge of my tongue.

SARAH

Creamy liquid mocha swirls in the black coffee, promising sweetness. It didn’t deliver on cup one or two, but I stir the straw for cup three with false optimism. Ms. Cynthia started contractions an hour after I contacted Dr. Scott. Baby hasn’t arrived by hour four, and I’m doubling down on caffeine for the long haul.

Bringing the cup to my lips, I hear footsteps before a throat clears.

“I’m on Dr. Scott’s team. If you need help to lift a patient, can you grab someone else? I need to be free in case Ms. Cynthia is ready to push.” Exhaustion and a mild dose of irritation taint my voice, but I’m too tired to care, running on fumes. Keeping my back to the newcomer, I take my first sip of mediocre coffee. It goes down like sludge, causing an all-body shudder.

“I’m actually looking for you, Sarah,” a familiar voice rasps behind me. My heart seizes, and I whirl around, nearly spilling my coffee.

Dayton’s lips curl up in a nervous smile. With flowers clutched in his hands, he shuffles in the doorway when I don’t immediately respond. My mouth can’t make words; too dumbfounded to see him in my workplace.

He prowls closer, keeping the flowers in front of him like a shield. I run my eyes all over him, heart squeezing tighter at the dated suit hugging his muscular frame and the haircut he didn’t have a week ago. He’d cut it short and shaved the sides, with a long fringe in the front sweeping his forehead.

Tears blur my vision. I actually love the damn haircut. Lips trembling, my free hand comes to my mouth, holding back sobs. How dare he!

“I’m sorry for leaving, little raven,” he starts, gesturing the flowers at me. I don’t take them, waiting to hear more. He swallows. “I had to take care of something.” His voice dips into a whisper. “I burned the house,” he admits.

“My coworkers?” A tendril of fear skates through me. He nods, lids lowering to shield his eyes.

“I won’t do it again. Not unless someone hurts you or you’re pregnant and need—” I launch myself at him, clutching my cup of coffee between us, inhaling deeply of his scent, and letting my tears fall freely.

His arms wrap around me, the bundle of flowers pressing into my back.

“I missed you, but I needed to get better, to be better. You deserve better.” I shake my head against his neck. I’d never asked him to change, even though the clinician in me knew he needed psychiatric help, more than I could provide.

He pulls back, and I’m tempted to cling to him, but let him gently push me back so he can look into my eyes.

“I did a job interview here a few hours ago for an environmental service position. They hired me on the spot, and I wanted to surprise you.” My lips drop open, forming an O.He got a job?

“I also had an appointment earlier in the week and got prescribed antipsychotics.” He gives me a wary look, waiting for my reaction. I have none, silent tears streaking down my face. All of this. It’s so much more than I expected.

He continues, “I can’t promise I’ll keep taking them or worry they’ll make me feel less like me, but—” I turn my back, place my cup of coffee down, and throw myself back at this sweet, sweet man.

His mouth crashes into mine, our tongues meeting like long-lost friends. Him. I want him. I pull away to say just that.

“I’m much too old for you?—”

“You’re fucking perfect, Sarah,” he growls against my mouth, dampening my panties.

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