Page 43 of Deeply Examined

We park and walk to the front entrance with me tottering slightly in my high heels. Right before we enter, West reaches out and clutches my hand. If I mentioned it, he would say it was just for appearances, but I know the truth. I work with kids every day. I can sense when they need the comfort of touch. When they crave a hug or a squeeze on the shoulder.

He may be a grown man, but I’m realizing more and more that there’s the hint of a child in him, underdeveloped and potentially neglected. Why else would he have been on his own by fifteen?

Tall signs labeled “special event” point the way to the conservatory. I come to a standstill when we walk into the room. It’s huge, with soaring ceilings made of repeating triangular panels of glass that come together to form a dome over our heads, the center of which is a large piece of stained glass, ruby red and faceted like a jewel.

It’s a true conservatory, filled along the perimeter with plants, including tall palm trees—a complete juxtaposition to the blowing snowstorm that we drove through to get here. Along with the palm trees, there are spiky ferns and tropical flowers, including hibiscus and bird of paradise. The air has a faintly humid feeling to it, like they pump moisture into the room to keep the plants healthy. I reach up to confirm it’s making the curls at the base of my neck spring up into even tighter spirals.

Round tables with red tablecloths and gold chairs are placed around the space, all oriented toward a large, raised stage with a microphone on a stand.

Using our joined hands, I point to it. “That’s where they’re going to sell you off like cattle, huh?”

West doesn’t laugh at that. He just looks grim and with a resigned sigh says, “Yeah. That’s it. They’ll do it during dinner. When everyone is sitting down to eat. That way the audience gets food, and I guess I’m their entertainment.”

Hoping to lighten him up a bit, I suggest we get a drink. We move through the growing crowd to the bar, where, as promised, there’s free alcohol. I choose a glass of red wine and West gets a gin and tonic. He’s just stuffed a couple of bills into the tip jar when the big-chested nurse from his office breezes up to us.

“Why, hello,” she purrs, her eyes bright and locked on me. “I know you from the clinic. What’s the name again? Jennifer? Jasmine?”

I open my mouth to answer, but West beats me to it.

“Jessica,” he tells her. “Jessica Jones.” His hand once again finds mine, maybe more for my sake this time. The woman reminds me of a shark, calculating and predatory. She stares with fascination at our intertwined fingers.

Gesturing to the woman, West tells me, “This is Tracy Jensen, one of our nurses and the wife of my partner, Jeremy.”

Wife! I don’t have to worry about her after all.

“Ah! Yes, Jessica. So nice to see you again.” Without hiding it, she looks me up and down. “What a pretty dress and your shoes go with it so well.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, tracking her hand, which has landed on West’s arm.

She squeezes it and tells him, “Jeremy wants to speak with you. Something about the Surgery Center merger.”

West frowns. Dismissively, he says, “I’ll talk to him about it later.”

“He said for you to come now. Dr. Barnet is speaking with him about it, and you know how hard it is to pin that guy down.” She squeezes harder.

West shakes her off with an irritated scowl. “Fine.”

“You can leave your pretty new friend with me,” she says to him. “I’ll take care of her until you get back.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but Tracy cuts him off.

“It’ll be fine. I promise not to bite her. Now hurry before Barnet takes off.” She makes a shooing gesture with her hands.

There’s indecision in his face as he glances from her to me and back again.

It’s petty, but I can’t stop myself from touching his arm—just to prove that I can. “It’s okay. You go. I’ll be fine,” I reassure him.

“Are you sure?” He’s frowning again, his brow so low it shades his eyes.

“Of course.” I give him a small shove away. “I can handle it.”

Right before he leaves, West leans forward and whispers, “She’s the wizard.”

His lips brush the shell of my ear when he says that, and I shiver, a tremor that rolls though my entire body. Tracy observes the interaction closely.

It’s impossible to miss how the crowd parts as West walks away. How the women, and even a lot of the men, stare at him admiringly. I stare too, until I can’t see him anymore. There’s a small ache in my chest with his absence.

“Almost two decades I’ve known West.” Tracy shakes her head, again looking me over. “Never seen him with anyone. No friends. No dates.”

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