Woodrow took a step forward, frustration and anger twisting his handsome facial features.
I'd have rubbed his back, a soothing attempt to calm him down, but the need to know why Olivier didn't get me out sooner—after all the times I begged for help—prevented me from doing so. He had Woodrow here, and he knew I pined for him.
Olivier raised his hands in surrender. “Easy, Woodrow. An outburst will only get you separated. She's not ready for another hellish day.”
“Why didn't you bring me here sooner?” I had to know.
“Multiple reasons. One being, I couldn't risk Woodrow's health. His mental health isn't great. The cancer was hard for him to deal with, and the guilt over what happened to his sister and you is still heavy. I don't want him in an institution for the rest of his life. . . and Hell is around a lot these days. I didn't want to put more strain on him. And before you ask if that was at your expense, it wasn't. I would never have let them send you away again. And I did all I could to keep people from you. It wasn’t always possible, but I tried. I befriended you, partly, to help you get through your days, but also because I actually care for you. If I could have delayed it another few weeks, I probably would have, for his sake. But you couldn't do a few more weeks. You were giving up. And that changed things.”
Woodrow was still fuming, the heat of his anger radiating through my fingertips. My hands now moved, subconsciously, rubbing away at the anger.
I nodded, understanding.
“Thankyou, for finally doing it, and for bringing me back to him.” I showed gratitude to rid the tension around Olivier's eyes.
“Why don't you two go catch up? I'll clean the mess.” Ollie's head angled back to the spilled cereal and the sticky milk that wasn't chocolate-flavored.
Woodrow was about to take us to his room, his weight shifting from one foot to another.
“I have one more question.”
Woodrow stopped in his tracks, letting me gather the information I needed.
“You never told me he was alive.”
“I didn't. Ten years ago, I found him injured. It was the night I found you. When I got out of the truck, he was rushing for the stream. He was on fire. He needed help. He had no one, so I waited with him. I made him a promise to find you, and at the time, I thought it would be as simple as heading back to base and you being there. I was hoping to get you out and make out that you escaped, but they moved you to another facility and the details were kept under lock. I didn't have privileges back then, and I was also looking for someone else. I couldn't risk getting kicked out or killed before I found her.
“I could have told you Woodrow was alive when you arrived back, but I thought it would have only made you desperate. I never mentioned him to you. I never mentioned him in front of you, not while you were awake, at least. I’ll admit, I made calls from my cell to Remi.” Olivier motioned to the man behind us, giving him a name. “I’d asked how he was, as recently, despite many tests saying otherwise, Hell grew paranoid that the cancer was back. There were lots of things going on at the facility. I couldn't leave, but I was worried. And then, when I listened in on your daydreams, and he was there, in them all, dying of the same very illness, I was sure you'd heard me. That's why I asked why he never makes it. I thought you heard something. Maybe you did. Maybe your subconscious picked something up.”
“Maybe,” was my only thought on what he'd said about the situation, but as Woodrow edged away again, my words stopped him once more.
“Did you ever find the other girl?” I asked, staring at Ollieover Woodrow’s shoulder.
Woodrow turned to Ollie, his expression softening because he knew what this person meant to his friend.
Ollie swallowed hard. “Not yet. But I won't give up. I'll find my girl.”
“I hope you do. She’s probably praying for you.” I probably shouldn’t have said that last part, even if I meant it in a nice way.
Woodrow squeezed me again. His eyes asked if I was ready for some alone time, and I blinked twice and nodded, needing the peace he could hopefully still bring me behind closed doors.
He opened the door to a room, bright and airy. Pastel blue curtains parted perfectly to let in the morning sunlight. He sat on the bed, keeping me on top of him as I looked around the space.
The biggest smile lit up my face as I took in the lack of the color green, even if there was no pink. His walls were white, the wooden floor, too. A blue rug sat in the center, a perfect square, in a perfectly square room.
He turned his neck fully for the first time ever—in front of me, at least. He plucked a small flashlight-looking device from a bedside table that categorically matched this pure space.
Looking back at me, he tested me with his gaze, holding up the device to see if I was ready to see it in action.
And I gave him the acceptance I always had.
He took a moment, not bringing it to his throat as he mouthed the words,I missed you. I never stopped thinking about you. It broke my heart so many times.
“Mine, too. I hated thinking you were dead. I've relived that painful moment in so many daydreams because my mind knew I couldn’t really keep you. It was the worst thing I've ever been through. Losing you, day after day, grieving every single night. I love you so much. Too much. Always.”
He pressed the device to his throat and a metallic voice sounded the words, “You can keep me now. I'm not going anywhere.”
A sob burst out of me, a thousand tears of joy.
