Page 40 of Through the Water

8

Killian

“Yet far and away- far, far and away- the most critical number in all of baseball is 3: the three outs that define an inning. Until the third out, anything is possible; after it, nothing is.”

-Michael Lewis, Moneyball

“Hey girl, I’m real sorry about your brain.” I winced at my reflection in the mirror. “Obviously, don’t lead with that. Who says that? Sorry about your brain? Jesus, you suck at this.”

I’d been practicing the damn apology for the last hour. Well, twenty minutes of it had been spent working on making my smile appear remorseful, instead of menacing.

My speech needed to be perfect. I’d made the mistake of going off-script once before, but not again. This time there would be no talk of weather or food—nothing that could be construed as rambling.

“Hey girl, I owe you an apology. Yeah, I’m talking to you.” I put a hand on my hip and waggled my eyebrows suggestively, before sighing. “Fuck, Killian. Get ahold of yourself. Just apologize to the lady and get the hell out of her room before you mess it all up again.”

Now that was a solid plan.

It would have been even better had I gotten her name, but that could come later. Not that I was expecting there to be a later. No, I was just going to apologize and stay as far away from her as possible for the remainder of my time here.

Then again, there was always a remote chance of her name coming up in someone’s conversation and me just happening to overhear it.

What was I thinking?

Obviously, I wasn’t going to be calling her anything because this was a one-time thing.One apology. Nothing else.

Get in, get out, and move on.

“I think you’re ready,” I told the mirror with a wink, instantly realizing how off-putting and sexual the gesture seemed. I looked like the perverted uncle at a family gathering—not what I was going for when trying to apologize. “Maybe don’t do that. Ever.”

The hallway was deserted. Most of the residents were spending their Saturday with visiting family members or playing games down in the common area. Not that I minded. In fact, I almost preferred it. The last thing I needed was an audience of baby boomers, giving me suggestions in the middle of my apology.

After shifting my weight onto my right leg, I released my crutch and knocked firmly. It was a decision I’d gone back and forth on—knowing she couldn’t speak or walk—but barging in unannounced seemed like an excellent way to end up on the six o’clock news.

I perused the corkboard affixed to the girl’s door while waiting for a response, straining to hear something indicating she was inside. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the television might have been on, so I’d give her a minute.

A. James

Abigail? Anna? A—girl who won’t come to the door?

After a full minute of silence, I rolled my shoulders and brought my fist down against the wood again, wondering if it might have been better to catch her on the way to lunch.

I continued scowling at the door until, at last, it opened. The color drained from the girl’s face as she looked up at me, her hand dropping back to the arm of her chair. I gave her what I hoped was a disarming grin when she began to tremble, while everything inside of me screamed to abort the mission.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The girl blinked up at me through droopy eyes but made no move to invite me in. There was a slight chance I was giving off the pervy uncle vibe again, but without a mirror in front of me, I had no way of knowing for sure.

“So—”

She tipped forward before I could finish the thought, her eyes rolling back in her skull.

Okay—not exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for.

My crutches fell to the ground with a clatter. I swooped in, managing to catch the girl by the shoulder before her forehead hit her knees.

“Wait!” I groaned, balancing on my right leg. “Wait—non-weight bearing! Non-weight bearing!”

The belt across her lap might have kept her from falling out completely, but the momentum had sent the chair precariously close to ending my career permanently.

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